marasmulti

In your train of thought, you didn’t realize you had just run into something you really shouldn’t have. A group of kids, young and dumb, were trying to rob a store with bats, knifes and audacity. You stayed still as you watched them notice you, look at each other before one of the pointed a knife to you. You rolled your eyes, put your hands up and walked closer to them.

“I’m not a snitch.”

“We didn’t fucking ask you.” Wow. Mean. Sounds meaner when it comes from people who had reached puberty a couple years ago. The taller one grabbed you by the shoulder and pressed a blade into your arm, uncovered because you were a moron and picked a strappy top. It wasn’t much sharp or intimidating, but you still knew that any move would cut you and ruin your pale blue heels with blood. You looked up at the sky as you heard a big swoosh, eyebrows rising as something, or someone, fell onto the pavement in front of you and scared the shit out of everyone, causing the boy’s hand to shake and the blade to pierce you like you were an unbaked sourdough.

“Oh my God, ma’am, I am so sorry.” The kid reacted as soon as he saw what he had done, dropping the knife and putting his hands up in surrender. Superman was here; nothing could be done. The owner of the store walked back inside and locked the door like it was all over and the other kids ran. Superman. Right. You had heard about the mythical creature before, Metropolis saviours. The handsome bachelor with a heart of gold and fists of steel. Right now, he didn’t look like a mythical creature, though. He was someone you knew all too well.

“Kid, you know better. Look, this is what happens when you play with fire. Someone gets burned.” Superman’s voice rang loud and clear as he looked down at the boy who nodded and gulped, realizing it had gone too far and waited for Superman to give him the go ahead. Superman looked at your bleeding arm before your face. When he was checking the wound and how bad it was, he squinted as if the simple vision of your skin colour, the singular freckle on your hand had transported him somewhere else. His breath hitched and he looked up at you. It was you, the same frown and disappointed look you had always had. You still had your father’s eyes and your mother’s nose. The same lips that kissed him for the first time ever under the bleachers after a football game. The same chin he’d hold softly between his fingers and wipe because you always got paint on it somehow. It was the same hand that he’d hold while walking you home, sometimes while doing chores and you giggled as he tickled your palm while picking up hay.

And you knew those eyes, that fallen curl on his forehead. That nervous look like when you’d ask him how the fuck he got here so fast or stare at him like you knew he was hiding something. The Adam’s apple you kissed so many times trying to get him to relax and let you in. The neck you held when you let him in for the first time, so painful and magical you would’ve never known you two would break up in two days. It was Clark fucking Kent. It was as clear as day.

“Uh- m’am, are you okay?” The kid asked you, still shaking in fear. You turned to him and nodded.

“Just… make better decisions and go.” He nodded and ran in the direction his friends had just minutes before. Clark, or Superman, was still quiet and fearful like he’d seen a ghost. Like you were gonna bite. You would have a couple of years ago, when you were still so mad at him. It took you a very long time and some sessions a therapist, but it was just something you tried to make peace with. Between other relationships you’d realized humans were too complex and not always meaning to harm, even if they still did. You tried to understand why Clark swore he loved you but still refused to stop hiding from you. Why he didn’t show up to your art show senior year and swore he had a really good excuse but refused to tell you what it was. How he swore he was breaking up with you just because he loved you and could see you weren’t happy with him, you didn’t trust him. You gave him your virginity two days prior. How could he say that? You agreed to break up though because he was still sort of right, you didn’t trust him, you weren’t happy. He was still nice afterwards. If he was getting with other girls, you never found out. He said he’d always be there for you and he was, he was at the mass of your mother’s passing two-year commemoration. He gifted you a beautiful necklace for your eighteenth birthday. He went to say goodbye to your house the day he left for college.

But here he was, happy and well and with another identity where he had superpowers. Fuck, that explained a lot, actually. How he didn’t bruise, how insistent his parents were about him ‘controlling himself’ (you thought it was about sexual urges and were confused they bought it up because Clark was almost too much of a gentleman). How he was always hiding, acting like he was battling something he wouldn’t tell you.  

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier. There was traffic.”

“In the sky?” He chuckled once, putting his hands at his hips.

“There was a traffic jam because of a pothole and I fixed it.” You nodded, still confused. Was he going to pretend you couldn’t tell?

“Are you okay? It’s sort of bleeding a lot but it’s pretty superficial. There’s an emergency room not too-“

“I’m fine. Just ruined my shoes. I’ll take care of it.”

“Are you sure, miss?” Miss. So this is what it was going to be.

“Yeah, thanks, uh-“

“Superman.” He responded like that was his name, a hand on his chest.

“That’s what your parents named you?” You asked, still holding the wound pressed hard to avoid any more bleeding.

“Uh, no, m’am. That just kind of caught on. I’m Kal-el.” You nodded, somehow surprised he was being sort of honest. That’s what you had read his name was.

“Do you need any help?” He motioned to your hands, and you sighed.

“Yes, can you just grab my phone out of my bag and help me get my address on google maps?” He nodded and did as told, picking up your phone and letting you unlock it with your face. He looked the background picture; it was your mother holding you and your brother when she wasn’t sick and was still full of life. He remembered her like that, cheery and so kind. He remembered everything from those months too, your father’s numbness, your brother’s confusion, you taking care of everything. Clark shook the thoughts away, opened google maps and pressed the ‘home’ button, quickly mapping out that you were indeed not too far. Just somehow on the other way from where you started.

“Do you want me to walk with you? You never know… they could come back.”

“I don’t think they will, you scared the living shit out of them. But yes, that’s fine.” He nodded with a laugh and led the way to your apartment.

“So, are you new around here?” Superman asked, watching you out of the corner of his eye and inevitably smiled. It felt weird to see you. He had spent so much time just looking at old pictures and holding onto memories. He had great memory, so it wasn’t a problem. But he’d searched for you on social media, asked his parents and no one seemed to know much. You didn’t have an Instagram and weren’t seen around town since your brother went off to college.

“Yeah, just moved here a month ago.” You didn’t look up, you couldn’t look at him anymore without being so confused at the fact he thought you didn’t know.

“Oh, and how are you liking it?”

“Well, it had been fine till I sort of got stabbed.” You motioned to the arm you were still pressing to avoid getting more blood all over yourself, it seemed like it had stopped though, so you removed your palm. You looked down at your bloodied palm, resisting the urge to wipe it against yourself.

“Here, sorry.” Superman offered his cape to help you get rid of mini puddle on your hand. You sighed and wiped it as you held onto it carefully, looking at the soft confection and wondering why the hell he landed on a cape. You let it go when your hand felt usable again and noticed your apartment building, fast enough for you to feel like an utter buffoon for getting lost.

“Okay, thank you, uh Superman, Kal-el.”

“I didn’t do anything much, miss.” He said, looking at you with an indescribable look. His head twisted to the side just a little, you barely noticed, as he looked into your eyes trying to decipher what you were thinking. What you were feeling. What he was feeling. You gulped nervously, antsy under his stare.

“I’m gonna head up.”

“Right, yes, absolutely. Have a good evening, take care of that. And yourself.” He pointed his finger to your arm and then a circle around all your body like giving instructions. You nodded and turned around quickly before you fainted from the way your heart was beating and your face was burning. Not only was it a weird night in general, but seeing Clark in person when he had existed as a figment of your imagination for so long was completely uprooting. He lived in your head; you didn’t mention him other than when people asked how many boyfriends you’d had or shared a funny story that included him. Like when you had driven the tractor over his foot when he was teaching you how to use it or when his parents almost caught you in his room real late at night and you jumped out of the window with your bra in your hands and hid behind a cow when Johnathan came out to inspect the weird noise they heard. You mentioned him as your high school boyfriend, but his name never came out. It didn’t even come out tonight, but it sort of wasn’t supposed to be him. He thought you didn’t know and you allowed it.

As you put your hair up with a pen and kept hammering the nail, your mind drifted to what happened four days ago again. Clark was Superman, he was Kal-el. And he thought you couldn’t tell. He thought you could mistake his eyes for someone else’s. You didn’t know if its offensive or Clark was too naïve. Your headphones were on, the gallery was closed for lunch break, but you took the time to fix a falling decoration because you were your own handyman, your father was a farm man who taught you the same things as your brother.  You weren’t noticing the outside world, didn’t hear the shatter of the glass on the gallery and didn’t feel the sudden gust of wind of someone with a stupid bowl cut crashing right into the space. You just placed the following nail between your lips and turned around to see some creature-pseudo machine. You yelped, held onto the hammer with more strength and threw it bullseyes into the creature’s chest, the claw landing and logged into the insides, creating a short circuit. It fell back onto the floor, the man who had crashed into the building standing up.

“Lady, what the hell?” He yelled and you finally removed your headphones amongst the noise.

“What?”

“How didn’t you hear? How did you do that?” He was out of breath; you immediately moved towards the window.

“You broke the glass! Do you know how much effort the pieces inside here take and you could’ve damaged them. What even is this?” You yelled, kicking off your heels to step closer to the mess made without tumbling on them. You inspected the big sculpture at the entrance and checked for damage.

“Guy! All good?” Someone flew into the gallery through the broken window, head turning towards you the second he arrived. You were too pissed to look up, frowning as you took your sweater off to wipe away the shards that were on top of it.

“Yeah. I- landed here and this lady threw a hammer at it. It worked.” You finally looked up, seeing Clark-no, Kal-el, standing in front of you looking confused. Guy walked towards you too, watching you standing on your tiptoes to avoid stepping on the glass.

“What- hi, are you alright?”

“Fine. Your friend broke my glass. He could’ve ruined this piece.” You said, too mad to react at the fact that you had somehow summoned Clark by thinking of him, in the worst possible way. He nodded, lips pursed together.

“I’m sorry, okay? Not on purpose. How did you aim that?” Green lantern questioned you again, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Was an axe thrower in high school.” You mumbled, mainly at Guy because Clark knew you were an axe thrower in high school, he had to lock himself into the house to not run towards you and pull you out of the way every time it bounced back while you learned. He watched from the window with a clenched jaw, letting your little brother practice boxing on him meanwhile. He was terrified of showing you his powers, but even more of you getting hurt so he knew when it came to it there was nothing that could stop him. You never did though, always moved in time even when wearing the stupidest outfit while doing it, jean shorts and sinful white blouses, another reason Clark had to cage himself in. You joked you would die pretty if you fucked up, making him roll his eyes and do an x-ray into your head to check if you were actually insane.

“I’m sorry about the mess, ma’am. Is the piece okay?” Superman asked, carefully stepping towards you. You nodded with a frown, watching him move closer to you and wrap one hand around your waist to pull you up from the mess. You said nothing, let his hand basically scorn the skin. You hadn’t felt his touch in ages, it didn’t feel any different, though. It was still gentle with a little too much strength, his hands were still warm and jagged. He put you down where there were no glass shards on the floor.

“Seems you can handle yourself, miss. So, I’m going to take this and go.” Guy said, removing your hammer from the machine and handing it back to you. He took the machine and dragged it out your gallery.

“He sucks.”

“Yeah, he’s… not the best.” Kal-el responded, hands on his hips like he needed them steady somewhere. He wasn’t expecting to see you again, not after the had mapped out the area around your apartment and kept a watchful eye on it but had not seen you around. He had been shocked and quiet the rest of that evening, never expecting to see you in Metropolis. You always said big cities made you sick, too many people and trash. You were also never keen on being far from your family.

“Um, I can help you clean this up and I’m sure you’ll need insurance, I can like keep an eye on it at night.” There was your mumbling, eager to please Clark. Who offered teachers help, who did the dishes without being told to do so. The man you first loved had kept himself a secret for who knows how long, you didn’t know why or how. But there were things that were real. His kindness was one of those.

“It’s fine, I’ll just call the owner. We have great insurance and it’s early, he’ll get someone here by the end of the day.” You sighed, ready to call up your co-workers from their lunch break to get help cleaning this up.

“Okay, yeah. Sorry again. How’s your arm?” He pointed to the place where the cut had been, now mostly healed.

“It’s fine. Didn’t think you’d remember.” You glanced at him as you put your heels back on, looking for your phone on the counter and fully taking off the headphones.

“I remember everything.” Superman said in a voice too low to be his regular regal and professional tone. Because he was sort of saying it to himself too. He did. He remembered every second with you, from the time they first met in middle school, to the last time he saw you, around Christmas of your freshman year of college. You both came home and he went by to your house to drop of a present, a brand-new set of really fancy watercolours he got in Metropolis. You were cordial and polite; you hugged longer than you had since you’d broken up. He never saw you again.

You glanced up at him from your phone, wondering if he was going to fess up. To admit that he knew you. He gulped, fear in his eyes and looked away. So, no.

“I’m just going to call my boss, Kal-el. You can go. Wasn’t your fault.”

“Right, I’ll get out of your way, miss-“ He waited for you to say your name, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. You said it and he repeated it back with a smile, like he was relieved to be able to call you by it now.

If you just… wiggled your hand out, it wouldn’t hurt more. No, that wouldn’t work. It was really wedged in there. You had dropped your sketching pen in the drain next to the bench you were sitting in and thought you could surely grab it with your nails on the small holes of the system. You were wrong, so terribly wrong. You could not and it was now stuck in there. To add insult to injury, you had chosen a pretty secluded place in the park and saw no one who could help you. The dog was looking at you like you were an idiot and you could not fight him on it. You supposed you had done it to yourself; you wanted to know how good Superman sense of danger was and wondered if you screamed his name, he’d come. Would Clark recognize your voice? You were about to try it when you dropped the pen and thought maybe Superman would come for a citizen with her hand in the sewer. You had not counted on getting stuck. Your fingers were numb already when you broke and yelled a loud ‘fuck’ echoing the surroundings. Anyone would do right now.

“We have got to stop meeting like this.” A voice said from behind you. It had worked. Clark crouched down in front of you, and you knew you looked like a moron, on all fours with your hand full of graphite and hair in your face. You weren’t even wearing the leggings that looked good, they were the old, grey type.

“How’d you know it was me?” You questioned, glancing at him who held a proud smirk on his face.

“Your smell.”

“Creepy.”

“Don’t call the man who’s going to save you from amputation creepy.” You huffed, shaking you head with a small grin.

“I’m sorry.”

“Atta girl. C’mon.”  He snuck his finger into the railing right next to yours and without breaking a sweat, he lifted the metal and bent it, effectively freeing your hand. You moaned relief, your dog finally hearing the commotion and running up to you, licking your face like you hadn’t seen him in weeks.

“Suppose you were reaching for this?” Clark grabbed the pen and put his hand out in front of you, the sudden movement scaring the animal into defence. He stood defensively between you two and groaned.

“Oh, okay. He’s feisty. Just gonna put it down here.” You watched as you rubbed your hand and tried to bring it back to life, Superman placed the pen the bench.

“Of course he is, I’m a woman living alone. He knows the odds.” You defended your puppy, petting him to get him to calm down. Clark put the railing back into place and wiped his hands clean, offering you his hand to get you to stand up. You took it, trying to ignore the weird electricity that coursed through your veins at the simple touch. His hand was rougher, maybe even bigger than before. It was just as comforting, though.

“That’s good, he’s your protector.” Superman said and you nodded, straightening your body and sighing.

“Yep. Thanks, uh- Superman. Kal-el.” You said, not knowing how to refer to him

“You can call me Kal-el. Superman’s pretty formal.” He said and you nodded, sitting back down on the bench and pulling your knees to your chest. Even if somehow your initial attempt was to summon him, now that he was here you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know why you wanted him here, you were just thinking of him.

“Can I sit?” He pointed to the spot besides you and you nodded, picking up your sketch pad to give the space. He sat down with a sigh, like a man who carried the world on his shoulders. It did fit him right.

“Are you an artist?” Kal-el motioned to your art supplies, you grabbed them tighter to you as if you wanted to hide them.

“Uh, as a hobby.”

“But you work in a gallery.”

“Yeah, but I manage it. It’s close enough, though. And sometimes the Metropolis art museum calls me for a restoration project. Well, they’ve done it once. But I’m on the roster.” You explained, not knowing how you felt about how your life had turned out. You never had a specific dream, not like he did. You found restoration fascinating, you liked painting and drawing, you wanted to learn more. That was about it. He had his life planned out at sixteen. And it seems like he did it all. Help everyone. Write in a big newspaper. Be able to help his parents. You used to be part of those plans, only in whispers when you’d lay on the field and he’d run his fingers down your arm and ask if you’d like a house or an apartment, a dog or a cat, vacations at the beach or at the mountains. You never gave a serious answer, asked for a Komodo dragon or a treehouse. It was scary to tie yourself to a man who had bigger dreams than you and secrets he wouldn’t tell.

“That’s really cool. Is it what you always wanted to do?”

“Uh, I like it. It’s enough. Never had my life planned out. But I like my job, like supporting artists and bossing people around. It pays well.” You shrugged, looking at him and resting your face on your knees. He was looking at your dog jumping around with another one, already feeling protective over the pup. He nodded, looking back at you.

“What about you? This your dream job?”

“This doesn’t pay. No paid time off or 401k. But I love it, it was sort of my dream.” You smiled, nodding softly. You could tell he loved it, you saw it in the way he the relief took over his face after a job well done, the way he conducted himself in the interviews (he was interviewing himself, made you break into laughter when you first read that), the pictures and the news segments with soft smiles that would make anyone swoon.

“So you have a 9-5…. A wife and kids in the suburbs?”

“A 9-5 and an apartment where I don’t spend enough time.” He responded and you were relieved there wasn’t a wife and kids, it would’ve been a knockout to find his life had turned better without you. That you leaving his life wouldn’t have shifted him even a little. Not that you wanted him to be unhappy, of course not, but you still wanted some type of consequence for giving up on you.

“Ah, you did well for yourself, Kal-el.”

“Thank you.” Clark couldn’t bring himself to ask more about you without seeming suspicious or without it breaking his heart. It would kill him to know if you had struggled, if your family was fine, if men had been nice to you, if you’d made good friends. He should’ve been around for all of that, he wanted to. But he promised, he said he’d do right by you. Even if it meant letting you go.

“Clark.” He looked up from the book on his left hand, his right still over your shoulders as you slept soundly next to him, bundled against his side with your face still tacky from the tears. It had become a routine, you sat beside her and inevitably ended up weeping, Clark taking over the reeding. Your mother turned around to look at him, having interrupted the reading of The house of spirits when he finished the chapter and was licking his thumb to turn the page. “Yes?” “You’ll take care of her, right?” Clark’s mouth went dry, closing the book and looking down at your sleeping figure. You’d be furious with your mother if you heard her asking a man to take care of you. “I’m not- I know you’re kids. I’m not asking you to be with her forever. But while you can, just… help her out? Y ’know she’s all brave and strong but I know my little girl. And I just want someone to keep an eye on her. You love her?” He nodded instantly, his hold on you not having faded a single second even when his hand went numb and he knew he should’ve been home for dinner. “I- I know I’m young but if this isn’t love, I really don’t know what else it could be. You know that quote from Jane Eyre? We read it a couple months ago in AP English.” “Which one? Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own?” “Yeah… I feel that.” “Jesus, kid.” Your mother laughed slightly, looking at Clark who was all blue eyes and charm. He smiled softly, like he was embarrassed of feeling so deeply so young. Feeling like this when she didn’t even know who he was. “Okay, good. When I’m gone, which will probably be soon, I want her to have people who love her. Your mama raised you well, Martha’s lovely and I want her to have that.” “Of course, ma’am. I’ll be here as long as she’ll have me.” “That’s the thing, too. She’s loyal as a dog, so she won’t leave easy. If at any point you think you two don’t fit into each other’s lives, if whatever it is that your hiding starts getting in the way” Clark looked down embarrassed, he didn’t realize so many people could notice, “you’ll have to be the strong one. I know you will be.” He sighed and heard her rearrange herself on the bed, sitting up with difficulty but he didn’t run to help her because she hated it and it risked waking you up. She reached for Clark’s hand, it was cold and wrinkly, but he looked up at her. The thought of you two breaking up hadn’t ever occurred to him, he sort of thought this was it. No more searching. After a you agreed to be his girlfriend, the girl in his class that smelled like roses and made him laugh so hard during lunch he squirted milk from his nose, that was enough. This was going to be the rest of his life. And he was ecstatic about it. “Okay? I’m not asking the world of you, right?” “No, ma’am. I can do that. I will.”

That was the reason why when he couldn’t get a smile out of you, he needed to make the decision. Because he couldn’t tell you, it would freak you out. You’d be in danger; he was as illegal as it could get. If he decided to use his powers for good, you’d be at risk. He couldn’t tell you. After you had sex for the first time, he was so enamoured he forgot for a whole day that you didn’t know who he truly was. Then the guilt started to eat him up, turning into a discussion of whether to tell you or not where his parents were no help. That was the night of your art showcase and the following morning you were over.

“I’m heading home. What about you, Kal-el? Those spidey senses tingling?”

“Wrong superhero.”

“Ah, you all look alike. Very well, I’ll see you around. Say bye, honey.” You cooed as you leashed up the dog and he looked at Superman, starting to walk away. You chuckled, looking back at him with a grin. The grin of mischievous charm you’d had since 13. The one he saw when you sneaked him into your room on late nights, when you wrote small compliments on pieces of paper and passed it to him in class to make him blush. It was in his composition to smile back, giving you the dimples that used to stop you in your tracks. It did again, your tote falling from your shoulder.

“Tough crowd. Take care of yourself. Really.” You nodded, smiling at him and waving while he watched you walk away.

“Don’t I tell you to take care of yourself?” Superman said, looking down at you with a smirk. He was all cape, a vision of strength and righteousness. You wished you had a photograph, if you hadn’t just not so accidentally fallen down on the street, soft enough that he had had to be close to you to notice it.

“I tripped; I didn’t get shot.” He rolled his eyes, using his two hands to pull you up by your arms in a grip that felt like he was holding back to not hurt you. He was.

“This little man didn’t help, huh?” Beetle’s tail shook while Clark looked down at him, already growing fond of the man since last time he had seen him when he ‘ran’ into you while walking him and he accompanied you home. He melted himself against his palm and Clark remembered how cool normal dogs who couldn’t drop kick you or ruin your apartment in two seconds were.

“Slut.” You told your dog as you watched him leave hair all over Superman’s leg.

“Who made your suit?”

“My ma.” You guessed that. Martha had shown you how to do basic sewing when you were younger and she fixed some of your mother’s clothes to wanted to keep, to fit you better. You saw the inklings of the love she poured into everything, specially her only son, on the inches of his suit. Remembered how she used to stitch Clark’s initials into the insides.

“And do you think she knew you would look double cheeked up in it?” You wiped your legs as you glanced up at him to see if he still blushed up to his ears and got the shy blinking thing.

“What did you just say?”

“You know, your ass looks huge.” He choked on his own saliva and there it was, the blush and blinking thing. It was still the same dork as always. You sort of forgot after all these years of forceful forgetting and hating him that you used to love him. He used to be the last thing you thought about at night and the first thing in the morning. You had spent years running from him. From the smell of his laundry, his humming when he studied, the way he had made you feel like he was in it for the long haul and you believed him. Everything that rang through your brain when it was quiet. You spooked it away, dreamt of him so much he slowly lost his reality. But he was still real and you had to go back to wondering why he suddenly didn’t want you anymore. Or why he lied. It was terrifying to slide back into it, but you couldn’t help it. Clark was still intoxicating.

“No… I don’t think she previewed that.” You laughed at his response, walking alongside him towards your apartment. This has happened a few times now, you run into a little bit of trouble (sometimes on purpose) and Superman appears from behind you like he was summoned from breathless ‘fuck’ from your mouth.

“Just a happy accident, then. What were you doing on this fine Sunday night before duty called?”

“Not much, polishing my boots.”

“Are you serious?”

“You’ll never know.” You huffed, shaking your head as he chuckled. He wasn’t going to lie, he was sort of hoping you’d appear. Seeing you again had shaken his world upside down, an odd mixture of guilt, regret and excitement filled his nerves when he heard you call (or struggle). But mostly, he was so happy to see you. See what had changed, what had stayed the same. How you still filed your nails the same way but never braided your hair like before. How you talked to your dog the same way you talked to the baby goats the farm had one spring. How you still saved all your loose change to give to people in need. But you didn’t wear gold hoops all the time anymore and it seemed like you had retired the Kansas accent mostly (he had too).

“How’s curating going?” Kal-el asked, referencing the second job you had been picked for now.

“It’s mostly just q-tips and alcohol right now, it was recovered from an abandoned hospital towards the outskirts of Gotham, all dirty and dusty. But oddly enough, even that I love. It’s like when you scratch a lottery card and start revealing the image behind it.”

“I get that. Sounds great.” You nodded, wiping your face as a leaf flew on you and Clark bit his tongue to avoid not reaching out to wipe it himself.

“What about your day job?” He waved at a kid who looked at him from across the sidewalk and watched him erupt in hysterics, turning to his mother to celebrate. You watched too with a grin.

“Good. Sort of slow. My co-workers are trying to do an unofficial retreat to a cabin which I’m sure would end in murder.”

“You’d be there to stop it, though.” You pointed out, looking up at him.

“Well, what if I’m the one committing it?”

“Ah, isn’t there some intergalactic oath that says thou shall not kill in cliché ways? Like in a cabin, so unoriginal.” Superman laughed, shaking his head.

“Not really.”

“At least go full horror movie and get a chainsaw.”

“What horror movies are you watching?”

“None at all. I’m more of a Chef’s Table kind of gal.”

“What’s Chef’s table?” He didn’t get a response as you turned the corner of your block and a little girl with two pig tails came barrelling down the street at the sight of you.

“Hi, Beetle! I missed you.” She yelled, coming to a halt in front of you and letting the dog sniff her hand first before petting him lovingly, getting face licks that turned her into a fit of giggles.

“Hi, Tiana. I’m here too.” You teased her, making her smile up at you.

“I’m more excited to see him.” She still had her arms around the dog, hadn’t even noticed Big Blue next to you covering what was left of the sun. You let out an offended gasp that made the little girl laugh even more. A man jogged towards you two, same smile as the little girl. He was tall, dark and magazine handsome and he had a confused grin as he looked at the man besides you.

“Hi, Wes.”

“Yeah, hi. Uhm, Superman. A pleasure to meet you. I’m Winston. Big fan.” He didn’t even glance at you, offering his hand to Clark who shook it with a grin.

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

“Overshadowed by men. I should have killed your plants.” You joked, rolling your eyes teasingly. Winston glanced at you finally, a softer smile taking over.

“Sorry. Hi, sunshine. Had a hard time watering them?” He said, leaning over his daughter to kiss your cheek. Clark’s eye twitched involuntarily at the display of affection, which didn’t have to mean anything, but it could. And he had avoided completely thinking about the fact that you may be taken, you didn’t seem like you were. He could have ignored the signs for his mental health, though.

“Nope. Your basil’s still perfect and I found a packet of Oreos on the counter that looked real lonely. I may have kept it company.” You crouched down to look at the little girl, Tiana, and squinted at her.

“I was letting them get soft.”

“I like them stale too.” The little girl’s mouth dropped, looking up at her dad like she couldn’t believe you had dared. Maybe you had, you loved Oreos dearly your whole life. Clark rarely looked at one without thinking of you.

“Daddy, I’m gonna go look if she took them. I’m taking Beetle.” She grabbed your leash from you and skipped with the dog into the building.

“I didn’t, by the way.” You said as you looked at both men, continuing to walk towards the building and follow Tiana inside.

“Didn’t think you had.” Both men responded at the same time. Your eyes opened wide, looking between them with a small smirk.

“I’m so predictable. Okay, I need to save my dog before Tiana puts make-up on him. See you around, Supes?” You looked up at Kal-el, he nodded and put his arms to his sides to avoid leaning in to touch you. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. You smiled and reached over to squeeze his arm affectionately, letting go quickly before jogging up to your apartment.

“Great to meet you, man.” Winston said before following you, leaving Clark standing outside and thinking how the hell he was going to find out if you were dating without grossly abusing his powers and your privacy. He didn’t have any right to know; he was still hiding from you in all things considered. But he was green and confused, what you had here was fragile and strange and friendly, so he didn’t have the right to even feel anything. He was still a coward.

“What are you doing?” Lois asked, effectively spooking the man of steel who jumped and changed the tab on his computer immediately. He put his head on his arm and turned around, smiling unsuspectedly.

“Just… research.”

“You’re researching… pretty girls?”

“I’m researching art galleries. The pretty girl is a coincidence.” Lois squinted at him, crossing her arms in front of her.

“Aha. Well, let’s see the pretty girl’s art gallery.” She motioned towards his computer, making him switch back to the website of the gallery that featured pictures of the staff.  And there you were, professional and still casual and so, so sweet and pretty. He had been looking at the picture like a creep for a while now until Lois noticed.

“And what’s so interesting about this gallery?” Lois asked, coming closer to him and taking his mouse to look around the page.

“Uhm, they have some pieces from around the globe and have like videos where they show the artists like showcasing their work. They have like agents around the world who get them real unknown people.”

“Huh, sounds neat. Were you planning on taking a crack at it?”

“I don’t think I have the vision.” Sounded much better than ‘I was actually just stalking my ex’.

“Okay, maybe I will. Need a break from seedy politicians. Thank, Smallville.” Lois slapped him on the back and grabbed her phone, snapping a picture of the address and you. Clark winced, not wanting her to get mixed up in his personal problem but too afraid to tell her what was going on.

“Hi, you said you wanted to speak to me?” You were wiping your hands as you walked to the reception area, a lady in a purple sweater and beautiful dark hair with her back turned towards you was said to be asking to talk to the manager, ‘not in Karen way’ she said, made your co-worker laugh.

She turned around and smiled at you, you thought there was surely someone blowing on her hair and flashing some overhead light. She was ethereal, pale skin and bright blue eyes and she was looking for you.

“Yes, hi, I’m Lois Lane. Nice to meet you.” She said, following with your full name and you nodded with a confused smile.

“You’re- you look beautiful. Wow. Great hair.” You responded, shyly wiping your hands on your apron as she had caught you in the middle of fixing an artist’s piece that got damaged in transport. Lois laughed, pulling her hair back and uncrossing her arms.

“You’re too kind. I’m from a newspaper and I was interested in doing a piece about the gallery. I tried to get into contact with the owner, but he told me to talk to you.” She explained and you sighed, you weren’t a great talker, but the owner was a worse one, so you’d guess it’d be a better bet. Plus, why would a newspaper want to know about this gallery in Midtown?

“Oh, alright. Yeah, do you wanna come to the back and we can sit down?” She nodded and you motioned her to follow you, walking to the back and into the employee lounge where they painted and did all sorts of things. You took off the apron and sat, watching her sit down in front of you.

“So, this gallery was recently brought to my attention, and I thought it could be a good arts and culture piece. Let people in on this secret. I just wanna get some background, ask about the method, favourite pieces. I won’t take up too much of your time. Does that sound good to you?” Lois said, pulling out a notepad and a tape recorder. You sighed and nodded, straightening your back to look more professional. Lois’s questions were straight forward and instigative, she got you talking and explaining about the owner’s ideas and how you treated sales of pieces so personal and from around the world. Towards the end, the questions turned silly and gossipy.

“Silliest sale story?”

“Someone tried to buy my spirit level. If I was a funnier person, I would have but instead I just directed them to Ikea.” Lois laughed, note pad left behind.

“Where are you from?”

“Smallville, Kansas. Home of the meteor.” You responded, Lois sitting up straight. She suspected Clark was being deceitful about having your website open, but this had just turned much juicer.

“Really? We have a co-worker from there! You may know him, Clark Kent.” She saw your easy smile drop, looking around as if he would appear from thin air or someone would come out with a camera letting her know it was a rouse.

“Oh, yeah. The Kents. Nice people.” Lois nodded, reading your expression and wondering how to get more out of you without sounding like a gossip.

“Yeah, he’s a real neat guy. All corn fed and midwestern charm.” You chuckled, nodding and wrapping your shal around yourself tighter like it was your shield.

“That’s… yeah. That’s him.”

“You look like I just mentioned the grim reaper.” She said lowly, coming closer to you to see your flushed cheeks.

“I- we just… lost contact.”

“But you had contact?”

“A lot, yeah.” You admitted, biting onto your nail. Really, you were sort of glad to be able to talk about him with someone else, instead of him just living in your mind and the weird limbo between Superman/Kal-el and Clark that developed in two months.

“Oh, okay. And did it end bad?”

“Well, not really. It was just hard to keep talking after.”

“Well, between us, of course, what did he do?” Lois asked, because it was clear to her something had gone wrong and if she knew Mr. Oh Shucks, it may have been his fault. It was hard for her to imagine Clark being horrible though. He was so respectful and kind, she had only seen him talk about woman with respect. You didn’t respond, biting your cheek from the inside like you were debating on if to say something.

“What? Did he take your virginity and dump you?” She asked in a laugh that faded when you didn’t respond.

“You took her virginity and dumped her?” Lois said, rather loudly, as she put her jacket down and walked towards desk. Cat looked at her with a confused look, glancing back at Clark who looked like someone had spilled his secret.

“I- what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Kent. The nice girl from the gallery.” Clark stood up quickly, taking Lois by the arm and leading her into a more secluded place to avoid her telling the entire bullpen about what he did.

“Did she- it’s not that simple.” Clark defended himself, Lois’s glare becoming harsher.

“You had sex with her, and you dumped her two days after. Seems pretty simple to me.” Clark whimpered, it was the course of events when you played it out like that, and he was horrified to realize that’s what you took it as.

“Yes, but I was dealing with a lot- I was getting my powers and she didn’t trust me.”

“She gave you her virginity! How is that not trust?” Lois spat, offensively looking at the man who was stumbling on his words.

“Okay, first of all, I was a virgin too. And second, you don’t get it. She wasn’t happy and her mother told me I needed to be the strong one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Her mother, on her deathbed, told me if she was unhappy or our life didn’t blend together anymore, I had to be the strong one and pull the plug. She would never do it herself and she was- she looked at me like I was disappointing her. And I was! I couldn’t tell her about the whole Kryptonian thing and a lot what happening so I just lied and avoided her, and I could tell she was tired. I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t know what to do- I kept thinking about her mother telling me to keep her girl safe and I would be putting her in danger. So, I just- I was the strong one.” He finally breathed out what he wanted to say, he had never told anyone the whole story or been honest about what was going on. To his parents it was because of the powers, to your friends it was because it just wasn’t working out. Lois was still frowning as she took it all in, arms uncrossing to place one on his shoulder in comfort as it was clear it was hard for him to talk about it.

“Oh. So, you never told her?”

“No. I was too afraid of scaring her or putting her in danger. When the powers came in harder and I realized what my parents- from Krypton, had wanted for me I just thought she didn’t deserve that. She needed stability and honesty. I didn’t know how to fix it or say it. I was terrified of her looking at me different.” Lois nodded, looking down as she imagined the type of mental hell Clark was in during that time.

“I get it. How did you know she was here?”

“I ran into her as Superman. Then again in her gallery that Green Lantern crashed into. I just kept like- listening to her and every time she needed help, I was there.”

“So, you’ve been like… back in her life as Superman.” He nodded, licking his lips and leaning against the wall. It was a relief to get this off his chest. He’d been hiding and plotting, acting like he was on a top-secret mission to help you carry groceries.

“Why not just… tell her? Now?”

“I- it’s like admitting to her I was lying all that time. I hid so much. She’ll think I didn’t trust her or love her enough.”

“She already does.” Lois whispered, Clark’s head whipping up at the words, his knees nearly buckling.

“What did she say?”

“She said she supposed you had fallen out of love or just never loved her really. That you wanted to go away to college single.” Lois repeated what you had told her when you explained the situation in a more calmed and relaxed manner, less freaked out by the mention of his name. Clark’s face fell, his heart in his throat. That was the last thing that he wanted, and he said it wasn’t because he didn’t love you, but he guessed it sounded like a lie with the way he acted. His first two years in college were even celibate, too afraid he’d whisper your name into another girl’s mouth, or it would lead to him thinking about what he did and what you were up to. If you were sad or had moved onto other better, human-er guys.

“Couldn’t be further from the truth, Lois. She was… the sun before I learned about what it did to me. She felt just the same way. I was.. every good thing I am is because of her, everything that didn’t come from my parents. She was in the stars every night I looked up, it was consuming my DNA. I still think of her, dream of her. She’s like my sleep paralysis angel. So close but so far.”

“Jesus, dude.” Lois whispered, shaking her head to shake away one of the most haunting, depravedly romantic things she’d heard. Clark sighed, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes in a rough manner, to rid himself of the emotion pouring out of him every time he talked about you. That’s why he avoided it for so long, rejected it when his parents asked or brought up anything regarding to you.

“I don’t think it’s too late. If you wanted to.” Clark looked at Lois and swallowed her words with difficulty. How could it not be. You had a life that didn’t need him; a hot neighbour who called you sunshine, a dog more loyal than a tick, a job you were wonderful at. You made yourself into the person he wanted to be around to meet, to help, to love. Without him.

“Where would I even start?”

You sat alone at the kitchen island wearing a sweater you'd taken from Daella and one fuzzy sock, surrounded by open textbooks and a level of academic despair that felt more like a personal attack with each passing minute.

A mug of tea warmed your hands. The rubric glared from the screen of your laptop; you glared right back. With a sigh, you abandoned the paper entirely and rested your cheek against your folded arm. You'd rest only for a minute... just long enough to stop thinking about it.

Which was precisely how Aerion found you.

You heard the soft sound of footsteps crossing the hardwood floor and the scrape of a glass being set onto the counter before anything else.

"Tired? Giving up already?"

Aerion stood on the opposite end of the island, his silver hair slightly disheveled as though he'd spent the evening running a hand through it. A whiskey rested beside him. The city lights reflected faintly against the windows behind him, outlining his silhouette in gold and blue. He looked good. It made you want to roll your eyes.

"Not tired," you sighed. "Just in a hate-hate relationship with this paper."

He raised an eyebrow. "That certainly sounds productive."

"It's a work in progress."

He took a sip from his drink, his eyes moving over your books to the single sock on your foot. "Where's the other one?"

"Somewhere in the living room, probably." You made a vague gesture in the other direction. "I've been here since dinner."

"I'm aware, and yet you've made remarkably little progress. You're shit at this university thing, and I'm trying to sleep. So unless you're going to stop sighing dramatically every few minutes, you should get the fuck out of my kitchen."

Your mouth opened. It also closed just as fast. "Your kitchen?"

"Technically. You don't pay rent here. Neither does my sister. So."

You began closing your laptop, expecting him to step away and disappear back into his bedroom. Instead, Aerion remained exactly where he was, the glass now resting loosely in one hand as he watched you gather your things. Something between irritation and disbelief crossed his features before he let out a huff through his nose.

"What in seven hells are you doing?" he asked, sounding almost offended.

"Leaving?" you offered, hesitating with your arm halfway across the counter.

He looked at you like you'd just suggested setting the building on fire. "Why?"

"You told me to get out of your kitchen?"

"I didn't mean leave the fucking apartment. Have you lost your mind? It's almost midnight."

You blinked, uncertain whether you should feel annoyed, amused, or something else entirely. The feelings were all increasingly similar when Aerion was involved. "You said—"

"I was talking about your bullshit sighing. Not you."

You stared at him, searching for some trace of humor in his face. There was none. "So.. I can stay?"

He rolled his eyes so hard it should have been audible. "Obviously." The glass hit the counter with a sharp tap. "Come here."

You hesitated, stuck now between the comfort of his presence and the strange feeling suddenly tightening in your chest. You'd spent countless nights in this apartment, slept in their guest room countless times, sat across from Aerion in the kitchen countless evenings, and yet right now something felt... different.

His hand appeared on the counter, palm up, waiting. When you still didn't move, he stood a little straighter. "What?"

Truth is, you weren't entirely sure what. Just that the way he was looking at you made your heart beat a little faster, and made your breath feel shallower than it should have been. But his hand remained extended, his long fingers splayed slightly, his silver pinky ring with the Targaryen sigil catching the light, waiting patiently for you to take it.

You did.

His grip tightened as soon as your fingers met his, pulling you around the island until you stood directly in front of him. You expected a teasing remark about your missing sock or your obvious sleepiness. Instead, he studied your face in silence, his eyes darker than usual in the dim kitchen light. His other hand found your waist, where he let his fingers curl against the soft cotton of your sweater.

"You're overthinking," he murmured. "Stop it."

"I'm not—"

His thumb brushed against your hip, and you cut yourself off. "Yes, you are." He tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction. "It's fucking exhausting."

Before you could respond, he bent down and pressed his forehead against yours. The contact was sudden, warm, and surprisingly tender for someone who usually expressed affection in sharp comments and mockery. His breath ghosted over your lips, smelling faintly of whiskey.

Your free hand came up instinctively, fingers digging into the fabric, and you could almost feel the steady beat of his pulse against the side of your hand.

"Aerion.." you started, not sure what you were going to say.

"Stop talking." He shifted his weight as his hand moved from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Just... stop."

The space between you disappeared completely as he leaned in, his nose now ghosting against the corner of your mouth.

The thing about Aerion was that he just wanted to be near you. More than anything else. Closer. Wherever that happened to be at any given moment. His face moved down the side of your cheek, across your jaw, the tip of his nose trailing warmth against your skin.

He was like this sometimes—touching you just to... feel you. No real intention behind it other than closeness, as though the world made more sense when you were within arm's reach.

Your breath caught in your throat as his mouth grazed your neck. The hand still holding yours tightened, his thumb now stroking the back of your hand in circles.

"You're always in my fucking head," he murmured against your skin, his voice tight with something that might have been frustration or desire, or both. "It's fucking impossible to think straight when you're here."

You didn't know what to say to that, or if there was anything to say at all. Instead, you tilted your head slightly to give him better access, letting him stay there as long as he wanted needed.

His lips found your pulse point, warm and soft, and you felt him inhale against your skin like he was trying to breathe you in. The hand at your back pressed harder, pulling you flush against him until you could feel his chest against yours.

Your eyes slipped closed. It would have been easy to blame the late hour or the exhaustion pulling at the edges of your thoughts, but the truth was that you simply liked this. You liked him. You liked the way his arms felt around you, and how he always seemed to reach for you without thinking. A small part of you wanted to stay wrapped up in him with nowhere else to be and nothing else to think about all night.

You let out a soft sigh when one of his thighs slipped between yours as he shifted; it made him go completely still. He pulled his mouth from your neck, now hovering just below your ear.

"Go to bed. You're exhausted."

"You don't want me to stay here?" you whispered.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You know I want you to stay." He pulled back just enough to look at you, violet eyes searching your face. "But you're half-asleep already, and I'm not fucking you like this."

Your cheeks flushed, but he was already moving, his arm sliding around your waist as he guided you toward the hallway. You didn't resist, too tired and too engulfed in the warmth of his body to argue.

At the door to the guest room, he stopped, turning you to face him again. He brought his hands up to push your hair away from your face, resting his fingers against your temples.

"Good night," he said quietly.

Before heading inside, you leaned forward to press a kiss to his collarbone. "Good night," you mumbled against his skin.

He didn't move until the door closed behind you, leaving you to collapse onto the bed in a daze. Your mind replayed the moment, his touch, his presence so solid and consuming it made your heart ache in the best way.

You fell asleep with the ghost of his fingers still lingering on your skin.

Friday evening finds you in the middle of a last-minute university event that's consuming far more time than expected. You were over it, so over it. Too much 'networking' for your liking when all you truly wanted to do was go home. Or do... literally anything else. Your phone buzzes in your bag as you hurriedly pack up supplies, the soft chime cutting through the noise of chattering students and clattering chairs.

When you check the lockscreen, you're not surprised to see Aerion's name. What does surprise you is the sheer number of messages. Seven. The last one was sent only a minute ago, and it's not even nine yet.

Are you busy tonight?

Are you still on campus?

Never mind. How long does this thing take?

Is it a real event or one of those fake ones they host to make people feel important?

Don't ignore me.

Are you even reading these??

Answer your fucking phone.

Before you can type a reply, the phone vibrates in your hand, Aerion's contact photo flashing across the screen. You hesitate only briefly before swiping to answer, pressing the phone to your ear as you step away from the others.

"Are you done?" he asks, no greeting, just his voice carrying that familiar tone of impatience that somehow always sounds fond when directed at you.

"Almost," you reply, balancing your bag on one shoulder. "We just have to clean up and—"

"I'm outside."

You stop walking, blinking in surprise. "Outside where?"

"Outside the fucking university."

"You're here?"

"Yes, I'm here. Where else would I be?"

"I didn't know you were coming to get me," you say, still trying to process the fact that he's waiting somewhere nearby.

"I didn't know I was either. Until about an hour ago." There's the sound of a car door closing on the other end. "You didn't answer your messages."

"I was working."

"Okay." His voice softens slightly. "Are you coming out soon?"

You glance toward the others still gathering supplies. "Yeah. Give me ten minutes."

"Fine." He pauses, then adds, "I brought you something."

"What did you bring?"

"Come outside."

The call ends, and you're left staring at your phone with an odd warmth spreading through your chest. Ten minutes later, you emerge from the building, scanning the sidewalk until you spot him leaning against his car.

He's wearing dark jeans and a black jacket, hands shoved into his pockets, his hair catching the glow of the streetlights. When he sees you, he straightens up, pushing off the car and opening the passenger door before you even reach him.

"Aerion," you say, smiling as you approach.

"Hi." He holds the door open, waiting for you to slide into the seat before closing it behind you. He moves around to the driver's side, slipping in beside you and starting the engine without another word.

"So," you begin, fastening your seatbelt, "what is it?"

He reaches into the backseat and retrieves a paper bag, placing it into your lap. "Thai. You were upset when Aegon ate your leftovers last time."

You laugh, peeking inside the bag at the familiar containers. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." He pulls into traffic, glancing at you briefly only to glare at you. "I just don't want to hear you complaining about your stomach all night."

"Because you care so much," you tease.

His lips twitch. "Shut up."

The drive to the apartment is comfortable; you watch the city lights blurring past the windows as you both relax into the silence of the car. When you arrive, he parks and follows you inside, watching as you set the bag on the kitchen counter.

"Daella's at this gallery thing tonight," he says, leaning against the island. "She won't be back until late."

You nod, unpacking the food. "You could’ve just driven me to my own place then, you know."

"Didn't want to."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

You give him a look, but there's no real bite behind it. You don't mind being here. You like being here, especially when it's just the two of you.

And Aerion will never admit it in so many words, but he likes it too. He likes having you around, likes the way you fill the space. He isn’t affectionate. Not truly. He hates it, believes it's unnecessary— would rather die than be caught fawning over someone. But he always finds excuses to stand just a little closer than he should, or to let his hand linger anywhere on your body.

He's subtle about it. Never obvious to anyone else. Just enough that you can feel it, that you know it's there.

He’ll tell you it's just habit, just his hands wanting something to do.

And you’re no better, honestly.

You're drawn to him the same way. You like the way his hand fits against your neck, the way his fingers curl around your wrist when he pulls you close, how solid and warm he feels when he lets you lean into him. And he’s always warm, hot even, like a heater set too high. You like the way it feels to press your cheek against his chest, the way you need him. How he lets you need him.

You sit together at the island, the containers of food spread between you as you eat. He picks at his noodles, watching as you take a bite of your curry.

"Good?"

You nod, swallowing. "Perfect."

"Good," he repeats, quieter now, and there's something in his tone when he says it this time that makes you glance up. He's already looking at you, his eyes softer than usual. He reaches out to brush some strands of hair from your forehead before trailing his fingers down the side of your face. "You're tired."

"Yeah, long week," you admit, leaning into his touch without thinking.

His hand lingers as his eyes search your face. "Come."

You move before he even finishes the word, sliding off the stool to stand between his legs. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in until your face is tucked against the side of his neck. You let out a hum, resting your hands on his shoulders as you breathe him in.

"This is nice," you whisper.

"Hmm." His hands move up your back, tracing patterns against your top. "You say that like it's a surprise."

"It is," you admit, smiling against his skin. "Kind of. You're usually so grumpy."

"Only with other people." His voice is low, and you feel his breath against your ear. "Never with you."

You don't know if that's entirely true—Aerion's moods can be unpredictable—but you appreciate the sentiment. You let your eyes close, relaxing into him as he continues to hold you.

Minutes, maybe hours, pass like this. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of the ice maker inside the freezer and the cars on the street below. His hand slips under the hem of your top, fingers brushing against the bare skin of your lower back. The touch is light, almost absentminded, but it sends a shiver through you nonetheless.

"Aerion," you murmur, shifting slightly.

He stills. "What?"

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding up to cup his face.

"Touch me," you whisper, and you mean it in every way possible. You're asking him to touch your skin, your soul. All of it.

He lets out an exhale that seems to go on for ages. "I am touching you."

"More."

He doesn't hesitate; you've never had to ask twice. His hands move down to the backs of your thighs, lifting you onto the counter so you're eye-level with him, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as his lips find yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, almost tentative. But it grows more heated as his palms press against your ribs and his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. You moan into his mouth, tugging him closer by his hair.

"I missed you," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with emotion.

"I'm right here," you reply, though you understand what he means. You know it costs him something to say it. And honestly, you've missed him too.

He kisses you harder, bringing one of his hands to the back of your neck to hold you in place as his tongue slides against yours. It's wet. More teeth and saliva than anything else, but you respond eagerly, your body arching into his, wanting more, needing more.

His other hand moves lower, tracing the waistband of your jeans before slipping beneath the fabric to touch you directly. You moan softly, breaking the kiss to press your forehead against his as his fingers find your clit.

"Fuck, Aerion," you whisper, your hips rutting against his hand.

"Look at me— fuck, just look at me," he commands, and you do, lifting your head to meet him.

It’s like this every time. You need to see his face. You need to see how you make him feel. You need to know that he wants this as much as you do. Because he’ll never say it, you can count on that. But here, like this… when his pupils are blown so fucking wide his eyes look black, when his mouth is swollen, his breaths coming in short pants, his hands gripping you like you’re the only thing holding him to earth… you know. You know he’s just as consumed as you are. Maybe even more.

He watches you with such intensity that it makes you feel like you're being set on fire from the inside out. His fingers press harder, moving in circles that have your hands clutching at his shoulders for support.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he says. "Every time. I can't— fuck, I can't get enough of you."

You whimper, the pleasure building rapidly under his touch. "Aerion, please..."

"I know," he's kissing you again, tangling his tongue with yours as his fingers continue their assault on your senses. "I've got you."

It doesn't take long before you're trembling, your orgasm coming over you in waves that leave you gasping his name. He holds you through it, keeping you steady as you ride out the pleasure.

When you finally come down, you're both breathing heavily. So you rest your head against his shoulder until your breath returns to normal. He gently strokes you through the aftershocks before he slips his hand out of your jeans.

"You alright?" he asks softly.

You hum, smiling as you press a kiss to his lips. "More than alright."

"Perfect." He kisses you again, slower this time, before pulling back slightly. "Now, go to bed."

You raise an eyebrow. "You're not coming with me?"

He smirks, lifting you off the counter and setting you on your feet. "I didn't say that."

He takes your hand, leading you down the hall to the guest room, where he gently nudges you onto the bed before pulling off his jacket and shirt. You watch him, admiring the way the moonlight highlights the lines of his body and the way his muscles shift under his skin.

"Can I sleep in your room instead?" you ask as he joins you on the bed.

He looks at you for a moment, his expression somewhat guarded, before nodding. "Yeah… Okay.”

He should say no. He wants to say no. He has his own shit to deal with; nightmares that come and go, insomnia that keeps him up far too late. But, he can't seem to refuse you, not when you're looking at him like that. So, he stands, pulling you up with him.

You follow him quietly across the hall to his bedroom, where the air feels cooler, the sheets are softer too. He throws a shirt in your direction, and you catch it, watching as he climbs into bed, patting the space beside him.

You slip out of your clothes, leaving only your underwear on, then pull his shirt over your head. It hits mid-thigh, the fabric soft against your skin, and it smells good. Clean. Like him. You crawl into bed beside him, immediately wrapping yourself around his body.

He sighs. Sighs as though he hates it. But the arm that comes around your shoulders to pull you closer says otherwise. His lips press against the top of your head, and you feel him start to relax beneath you.

"Sleep well," you murmur, already half-asleep.

He doesn't respond, but his fingers trace soothing patterns against your back, lulling you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

And in the morning, when you wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and Aerion still holding you close—and he hasn't had a nightmare—you realize that this is exactly what he needed. Exactly what you needed.

The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.

Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.

Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —

Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.

“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.

Abbot feels Hiro’s pulse — it’s slow, thready. “Not great. He’s getting harder to bag.”

“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”

“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.

“Got it, Sarge!”

The engine roars.

The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.

They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.

And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.

“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”

“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”

“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.

Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.

Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.

Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.

“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.

“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.

“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.

Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.

The monitor goes off.

“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.

A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.

“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”

“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.

“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.

It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.

The beeping doesn’t stop.

Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”

“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”

Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”

“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”

“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”

Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.

Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.

Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.

“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.

This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.

“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”

“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”

“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.

“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.

“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”

“Mine would be to sit and wait.”

“That’s just lazy, man.”

“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”

They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”

“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”

“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”

The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.

And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.

“Do you ever take breaks?”

“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”

Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.

The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.

“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”

“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”

“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”

“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”

“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”

Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.

Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.

His heartbeat stutters.

But you don’t say a thing.

You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.

Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”

“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”

“Is it the beard?”

“Among other things,” you chuckle.

Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.

But you’re a natural at multitasking.

You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.

“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.

Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.

Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.

You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”

Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”

“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”

“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.

Like he is following a pull.

You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.

But for the second time, you don’t.

And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.

He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.

His tension slowly eases —

Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.

“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”

Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.

Robby first looks at you.

He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.

“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”

“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”

“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.

And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.

Levington doesn’t.

“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”

“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”

For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.

And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.

“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.

The sats drop down to 91.

“I got it,” you say in the same second.

Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.

“I’m in. Balloon up.”

The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.

“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”

But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:

“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”

That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.

The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.

Hiro’s voice booming.

“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”

Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.

Hiro gets hit.

His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.

There are two dead bodies left behind.

The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.

Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.

“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”

He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.

“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”

You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.

“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”

Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”

“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.

He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.

And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.

But why?

“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.

“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.

“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”

“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.

Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.

“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”

Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.

“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”

“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.

“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:

“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”

You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.

It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.

Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.

And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.

“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”

There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.

“Do they really?”

His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.

“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”

The room goes silent.

Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.

Correction: you aren’t fighting it.

“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”

“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”

The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.

You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.

“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”

His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.

His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.

“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”

“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”

“Shooting at people is.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”

“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.

“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.

“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”

Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.

“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”

You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.

“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”

Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.

“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”

There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.

“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”

“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”

“You ever heard about self-defence?”

“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”

“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”

“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”

An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.

“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.

“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”

“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.

Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.

“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”

The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.

“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”

“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”

It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”

“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.

“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”

“They don’t —”

But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.

He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.

For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.

“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”

It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:

“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”

Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.

“Are you a therapist now too?”

“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”

“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.

You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.

Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.

“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”

Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.

Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)

He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)

Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”

Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.

“What’s the plan?”

“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.

“How soon can they take him?”

“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”

“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.

And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”

It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.

He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.

The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.

“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.

“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”

Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.

“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”

Jack can’t argue with that.

He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.

Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:

“She did get under your skin, huh?”

Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.

“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”

“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”

“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”

“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.

Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.

This time, the pain in his back lingers.

And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.

Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.

Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.

“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.

Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”

He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”

She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.

“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”

“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”

Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.

“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”

“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”

Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.

“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”

“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.

You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:

“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”

Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.

He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.

Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.

And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.

To find that you’re already looking at him.

Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:

“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”

Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.

“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.

“He’s doing alright up there?”

“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.

Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.

You don’t.

Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.

Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.

Jack goes rigid all over.

You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.

That’s not what happens.

Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.

You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.

Hoping you’ll stay for longer.

Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.

You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —

and then you’re done.

Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.

“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”

His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.

Still, he asks:

“Three what?”

“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”

You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.

His guilt stays.

He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.

It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?

Should he keep doing it?

Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”

Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”

“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”

It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”

“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”

Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:

“She’s my half-sister.”

He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.

“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.

That is one way to put it.

Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.

He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”

“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”

There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.

“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.

She flips him off on her way to the elevator.

His phone vibrates.

Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.

Levington:

You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.

The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?

Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.

So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.

Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.

He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.

It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.

The hardest will be trying to talk to you.

If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.

Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.

Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.

And somehow, he craves both.

✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?

the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).

Her day off had not belonged to her from the moment Aerion handed over his card that morning.

He had done it in the same way he did most things when he was trying not to make care sound like dependence. One hand around his coffee, phone lighting up every few seconds on the kitchen island, tie hanging loose around his throat as if he had only remembered it existed halfway through dressing, he had slid the black card across the marble toward her and said, “Get whatever’s needed. For the flat. For Maelor. For tonight.”

Duncan, leaning against the opposite counter in one sock and no shame, had looked up from the shopping list on his phone. “You say that like I’m incapable of buying groceries.”

Aerion had not even glanced at him. “You bought sparkling water, the wrong rice, and dog treats.”

“We do not own a dog.”

“Exactly.”

You had taken the card, trying not to smile. Aerion finally looked at you then, and the expression on his face had done that quiet, dangerous thing it always did when he was exhausted and pretending he was not. Blue eyes sharp, mouth set, the whole of him wound too tightly beneath the surface. His jacket was still off, but the shirt he wore was a deep ember-red under the kitchen light, dark enough to look almost black until he moved. His hair had been pushed back from his face with impatient fingers, silver-gold and a little untidy at the front, and he looked far too beautiful for the amount of strain he was carrying.

There was still fire in him, even now.

He no longer wore it the way he once had, not openly, not in those shameless years when he had seemed to delight in setting himself ablaze just so everyone else would have to look. Gone were the loud reds and molten golds, the theatrical flourish, the silk and arrogance and the almost taunting way he used to move through rooms. But the thing beneath all that had never disappeared. It had only narrowed. Refined. Learned control.

In his youth, Aerion had been the kind of beautiful person that people spoke about with resentment in their throats. Silver-gold hair, pale skin, a high brow, hard cheekbones, deep blue eyes that could look amused, bored, or cruel with almost no warning. There had been something imperious in his face even then, something too aware of its own effect, too certain that the world ought to rearrange itself around him. And he had been cruel once. Capricious. Vain. Spectacularly difficult to love. The kind of man who could be all smiles and polished courtesy in front of his father, then turn around and show his teeth the moment the room changed.

That version of him had left damage behind.

He knew it.

So did the rest of them.

But he had changed, which in some ways made him more unnerving now, not less. The recklessness had hardened into discipline. The arrogance had become precision. The need to provoke had thinned into something colder and more useful. Even his temper had improved, which was perhaps the most alarming thing of all.

Men who stayed monsters were easy to understand.

Men who learned restraint were not.

And today, with Daeron stepping down and Brightflame’s internal structure shifting like a fault line under all their feet, he looked like a man being pushed toward power whether he wanted it or not.

Daeron had laid his portion down that morning. Publicly, it had all been phrased the way such things always were, private realignment, long-term stability, continuity, all the polished language wealthy families used when they were trying to keep fracture from sounding like weakness. But everyone who actually mattered knew what it meant.

Daeron was done.

He had too much going on in his head, too much damage gathering where none of them could pretend not to see it anymore, and he wanted to step back before it took the rest of his life with it. The family had agreed, begrudgingly, and only because his performance had been slipping for too long. It was no longer yielding the kind of results expected from a Targaryen son bred for inheritance and scrutiny. His drinking had become its own quiet scandal. Public enough to embarrass, private enough to bury, but only just. It had become surprising, frankly, that he had not yet been flagged for something uglier. A DUI. A formal incident. A case someone could not make disappear quickly enough.

So Aerion had been brought in next.

Not the whole family. That still belonged to Baelor’s line and all the glittering, cold authority that came with it. Valarr, golden and correct and built for rooms full of shareholders and cameras, stood closer to the center of the dynasty’s public face. But Maekar held a brutal amount of private leverage. Voting power. Quiet capital. Senior partnerships. The kind of internal force that never made headlines because it did not need to. When he moved, men noticed. When he withdrew support, people bled.

And now that Daeron had stepped aside, more of that burden was shifting onto Aerion, with the unspoken certainty that when Maekar was gone, the full force of that power would become his.

You had seen it in him for days. The tightness around his mouth. The shorter patience. The way he seemed already braced for impact before the first blow had even landed.

This morning, though, all he had said after sliding the card toward you was, “Don’t let Duncan decide anything that requires judgment.”

Duncan had put a hand to his chest. “That is deeply insulting.”

Aerion had looked at him then, deadpan. “You’ll survive.”

Then he had gone still for a second, like another thought had occurred to him too late. His gaze shifted back to you.

“Take Donnel with you.”

You blinked. “For groceries?”

“Yes.”

Duncan laughed. “Christ. We’re buying yogurt, not transporting state secrets.”

Aerion ignored him completely. “Take Donnel. Let him do the driving.”

“Aerion,” you started.

“No.” His tone did not rise, but it sharpened. “No argument. Take him.”

You stared at him.

He looked back at you for one hard, unblinking second, and there it was beneath the control. Not paranoia. Not quite temper. Calculation. The kind that had only gotten worse since the news broke that morning. Since finance pages started talking. Since social media had turned into a landfill fire of speculation, edits, slander, threads, and badly informed analysis from people who suddenly believed they understood the inner structure of the family because they had seen two headlines and a grainy board photo.

Aerion Brightflame taking on Brightflame Holdings.

Aerion stepping into Daeron’s place.

Aerion joining billionaire heir lists.

Aerion, the former family nightmare, now expected to carry a meaningful portion of Maekar’s side of the empire.

Reddit was calling it a disaster in a good suit.

TikTok had already made edits of him leaving the tower the week before, slowed down under music so dramatic it should have come with a government warning. Clips of him in dark tailoring. Clips of him ignoring cameras. Clips of him walking like he was carrying violence in his pocket instead of documents and legal briefings.

And not just him.

There were edits of you and Aerion with Maelor wandering through the expensive side of downtown, his little hand in yours, while Aerion carried the bags and looked annoyed enough to make the comments lose their minds. Gala photographs where you stood somewhere in the frame, not centred but never accidental either, surrounded by the Targaryen family, like you had always belonged there.

Photos in the background of Egg’s stories and posts, boating weekends, polo matches, horseback riding, long lawns and old-money sunlight, where you were simply there. Sometimes with Maelor on your hip. Sometimes beside Aerion. Sometimes in the distance, speaking to Maekar about God only knew what. No one ever filtered you out. You were not a one-time guest or a rumour. You were a constant. A familiar one. A welcome one, if the outside world were any judge of it.

The only thing most people ever seemed to know for certain about you was that you and Aerion had met in the first year at university, when you both took the same required course that happened to overlap between your degrees. He had started in mechanical engineering before he pivoted, surprisingly and irritably, toward actuarial work and eventually the financial structure of the family empire. You had stayed the course, moved into software engineering, and actually finished it.

Through your friendship with Aerion, you had later secured a role within the wider Targaryen business structure as a software engineer, but even that had been positioned carefully. Not under Maekar’s office. Not under Aerion. Under Baelor, Maekar’s elder brother, after the same interviews, the same coding assessments, the same technical screening everyone else sat through. You had not ridden Aerion’s coattails into the building, and everyone who mattered knew it.

You had earned your place.

Both in business and, increasingly, in their lives.

When Maelor had been announced, the public never learned who his mother was. Only a select few knew the truth, that it had been a fucked-up one-night stand Aerion regretted deeply, though never once his son. The arrangement had been swift, ugly, and buried almost as quickly as it had surfaced. NDAs. A private agreement. Full custody to Aerion. A lump sum to make the woman disappear from the story before the story ever really began. No public war. No custody battle. No damage that could not be covered over with money, silence, and the family’s usual efficiency.

Half the comments online called Aerion dangerous.

The other half seemed to think danger was the point.

And a select few were simply appreciative of his face.

And all morning, his name had been climbing.

You understood then.

Not groceries.

Exposure.

So you only nodded. “Fine.”

His jaw eased by a fraction. Then he kissed the top of Maelor’s head, brushed two fingers lightly over the back of your hand where it rested near the card in one of those thoughtless, intimate gestures he never seemed to realize were more dangerous than open flirting, and said to no one in particular, “Good.”

Donnel drove.

He was one of the older security men, broad-backed, quiet, and so immaculately unruffled he gave the impression of having been born in a black suit with an earpiece already in. Duncan rode with you, still in full grocery-errand mode, while Donnel took the wheel like he had been expecting this all morning.

At first, it really did feel stupidly domestic.

Pasta sauce. Cereal arguments. Duncan holding up two jars like the fate of nations depended on your answer. Donnel saying almost nothing from the front except once, very dryly, when Duncan asked if he wanted to weigh in on pasta shapes.

“I like whichever one gets us home fastest, sir.”

That made Duncan bark out a laugh.

Then your phone rang.

The screen made your stomach drop.

Summerhall Private Academy

Duncan saw your face change instantly. “What happened?”

You were already answering. “Hello?”

The woman on the other end sounded calm in the careful, professional way that always meant the opposite. “Hello, is this Maelor’s mother?”

Your eyes shut briefly.

Of course.

Of course that was how they still had you listed.

“Yes,” you said automatically, then corrected yourself too late. “I mean, I’m his emergency contact. What happened?”

“Maelor is alright, I want to make that clear first, but he had a fall during recess. The nurse has seen him, there are no immediate signs of anything more serious, but he’s upset and asking for you. We attempted to reach his father, but his office told us he was unavailable in meetings.”

Unavailable.

No shit.

Not today. Not when half his future had just been dropped in his lap and the other half was being measured by men who still thought his sins at twenty-two mattered more than his competence now.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” you said.

“Thank you. He’ll be very relieved.”

The call ended. Duncan took the cart from your hands without being asked.

“How bad?”

“He fell. They said he’s okay, just shaken.”

Duncan nodded once. The humor had gone from his face. “Go.”

“What about this?”

“I’ll finish.”

“You bought the wrong detergent last time.”

“I’ll call you from the detergent aisle and let you supervise me like the tyrant you were born to be.” Then, softer, “Go get him.”

Donnel was already moving.

By the time he had pulled the car around to the front curb, the whole shape of the day had changed.

He met you at the entrance with the rear door already open. “School?”

You nodded once. “Maelor fell.”

Donnel’s expression did not change much. He only said, “Understood,” and got you moving before the first question could fully settle in your throat.

The drive to Summerhall was quiet in the front and too loud in your own head. Duncan texted twice. Once to ask if Maelor was okay. Once to send a photo of two detergents with the caption:

choose wisely, my tyrant

You almost laughed.

By the time you reached the school, your pulse had worked itself into a tight, aching knot. The place looked exactly the same as always, all polished glass, private funding, and landscaped discretion, but you barely noticed any of it beyond the doors.

The first thing you did notice when Donnel opened your door was the black SUV idling half a block down.

Then another.

Then a man with a camera pretending not to be facing the entrance.

Donnel noticed them too.

His jaw tightened once. “Right.”

Inside, Maelor was sitting outside the nurse’s office with his backpack in his lap and his cheeks still pink from crying. There was a bandage near his temple, and the sight of it made something in you drop hard and fast. The second he saw you, he sat up so quickly his shoes knocked the edge of the chair.

You crossed the floor and crouched in front of him. “Hey, sweetheart. Let me see.”

His eyes went glassy all over again. “I fell.”

“Oh, baby.”

That was enough.

He came straight into your arms, and you held him close while the teacher, already half-apologetic, explained what had happened. A kite had gotten stuck high in one of the trees, and Maelor had tried to help another student get it down. He had climbed higher than he should have, slipped coming back down, and scared himself badly in the process. The nurse was confident it was more fright than true injury. No vomiting, no dizziness, no blackout, no confusion. Just a scraped temple, a hard cry, and a little boy who wanted someone familiar.

You signed the forms one-handed, kept one palm steady against his back, and listened with the kind of focused calm that was really just worry in cleaner clothes.

Then the teacher smiled and said, “He was so happy when we told him his mum was coming.”

Your pen paused for the smallest second.

You should have corrected her. You did not.

Maelor tucked his face harder into your neck, and that settled the matter more than words could have.

The problem started the moment you stepped back outside.

The cameras saw you first.

Or rather, they saw Maelor in your arms, saw Donnel immediately changing course toward you, saw the school doors open, and understood at once that something had happened and they were about to get more than they had expected.

“Ma’am, can we get a comment?”

“Is Aerion prepared to take on Brightflame now that Daeron’s stepped down?”

“How is he handling the transition?”

“Has Maekar formally backed him for a bigger role?”

“Is he expected to join the top-earning heirs list this quarter?”

“Is the family worried about optics?”

“Is Aerion ready to lead?”

“Can you comment on the market reaction?”

The questions came fast and ugly, colliding into one another as more of them surged toward the pavement.

Maelor jolted against you.

That was the only thing you registered clearly.

You pulled him tighter instantly, one arm locked hard around him, the other hand spreading over the back of his head and pressing his face into your neck. He hid there at once, small body curling inward. You could feel his breath against your throat, too fast, too shallow.

Donnel stepped in front of you like a door slamming shut.

“Back the fuck off,” he snapped, voice carrying clean across the entrance. “Back. Up.”

The nearest photographer kept moving.

Donnel took one step toward him and said, colder now, “Do not make me repeat myself.”

It worked.

Not because they were decent, but because they knew who employed him.

Still the shouting continued.

“How does Aerion feel about taking this on when Daeron was supposed to carry it?”

“Has Maekar chosen him?”

“Is the family united on this?”

One idiot with a phone shouted, “People online are calling him the dark horse of the family. Is that fair?”

The flashes started going off. White, sharp, ugly.

Donnel opened the rear door of the car without ever fully turning his back on them.

“In,” he said.

You did not waste a second.

Once inside, you pulled Maelor properly into your lap in the back seat, even though he had technically outgrown that years ago. He pressed himself against you without complaint, face buried in your neck, your hand still firm over the back of his head while the other rubbed slow circles between his shoulders.

Donnel slammed the door, rounded the car, and got behind the wheel in three long strides.

By the time the vehicle pulled away, the shouting had dulled into muffled noise behind tinted glass.

Maelor did not lift his head.

You kissed his hair and kept your voice low. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

His fingers clutched harder at your coat.

Outside, the city kept moving. Inside the car, your phone would not stop vibrating.

Notifications.

Messages.

News alerts.

Three missed calls from an unknown number.

A trending clip somewhere of the school entrance, probably, or the tower from that morning, or one of those edits people kept making of Aerion walking into buildings like he was carrying a knife between his teeth and not a tablet full of merger documents.

You did not look.

Not yet.

Donnel did, once, in the mirror.

“I’ve already called ahead,” he said.

You looked up. “To the tower?”

“Yes.”

That made something in your chest loosen, just a little.

The drive into the city felt different after that. Less like panic. More like bracing.

You got Maelor buckled in again when he finally let you, wiped the last dried tear-tracks from his cheeks, gave him water, and turned the music down so low it was more background than sound. He spent most of the drive looking out the window, little face reflected in the glass, watching traffic lights streak red and gold across it.

Then, somewhere between the expressway and the downtown turn, he said softly, “Papa’s going to do the forehead thing.”

Despite the knot in your chest, you almost smiled. “The forehead thing?”

Maelor pressed two fingers between his brows and dragged them down into a dramatic, severe frown.

“That one.”

A soft laugh escaped you. “Yeah. He probably is.”

He nodded, pleased you understood. Then, after a small pause, he added, “I like when you come better.”

That one landed.

Your grip tightened on the wheel, and the rest of the drive passed with a different kind of ache sitting in your ribs.

By the time Targaryen Tower rose into view, black glass and dark steel against the grey afternoon, you were braced. It looked less like an office building than a modern keep, built by a family that no longer needed crowns because voting power, private leverage, and controlling interest did the same work with better press.

Security recognized your car before you reached the barrier.

The guard at the entrance barely glanced at the screen before lifting it. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

No pause. No check-in. No delay.

Nobody in that building was stupid enough to delay you when you had Maelor with you. More than that, nobody wanted to be the person Aerion discovered had made your day harder than it already was. The fact had become something close to legend over the last year. He had once reduced a junior assistant to tears because she left you waiting in reception for eleven minutes while he was in a call. Another time, a security contractor had tried to insist on protocol while Maelor was sick and half-asleep in your arms. He had not lasted the week.

People learned.

And if Aerion’s temper did not teach them quickly enough, Maekar’s colder displeasure usually did. That surprised outsiders more than it should have. But the old man noticed everything, including who mattered to his son and grandsons. Anyone who made life difficult for you had a way of finding the tower less welcoming after.

So the staff let you through.

Not because they pitied you. Not because they were indulging some unofficial favorite.

Because they knew better.

The tower entrance was already prepared when you arrived.

Two security men were outside before the car fully stopped. The doors were opened for you instantly. The small crowd clustered beyond the outer barrier barely had time to surge before one of the guards stepped forward and cut them off.

“Back.”

There were shouts immediately.

“Can we get a statement?”

“Is Aerion inside?”

“Was that Maelor?”

“Is the family responding to market speculation?”

But you were already moving.

One hand on the back of Maelor’s head. One arm tight around him. Donnel half a step ahead of you and one of the tower guards at your shoulder, clearing a path so efficiently it felt almost choreographed.

Inside, the lobby shifted the second you crossed the threshold.

Not subtly.

Immediately.

A receptionist was already coming around the desk. One of the assistants near the lifts straightened so quickly she nearly dropped her tablet. The new girl at the secondary desk, clearly not yet trained enough to hide her nerves, stared at you, then at Maelor, then at Donnel, and went pale.

No one asked you to sign in.

No one stopped you.

No one was stupid enough.

Because everyone in the building knew what happened when you arrived carrying Aerion’s son and looking like that.

And because if the crowd outside thought they could get a statement from you here, they were about to learn what the inside of this family actually looked like when its own were involved.

Inside, the lobby was all dark stone, brass, and hush. Old money. The kind that did not need to prove itself. Heads turned the moment you stepped inside with Maelor on your hip, but not in a gawking way. More like the floor itself had adjusted to your arrival.

One of the newer assistants stood from behind the secondary reception desk the second she saw you. She looked polished, young, and just uncertain enough to give herself away as new. Her eyes moved from you to Maelor and widened slightly.

“Oh,” she said quickly, smoothing her skirt, “I’m so sorry, ma’am, he’s still in strategy, but if you’d like, I can let him know his wife and son are here?”

You blinked.

Maelor, little menace that he was, said nothing at all. He only settled more comfortably against you and curled his fingers around the necklace at your throat, the gold pendant Aerion had given you, two dragons entwined to signify him and Maelor.

Before you could correct her, the older receptionist beside her made a strangled sound into her throat that was suspiciously close to a laugh and rose to her feet. “I’ve already called Ellyn.”

The new assistant went pink.

You did not correct her.

Not because you were trying to claim something. Not even because some quiet, shameful part of you liked the sound of it more than you should have.

Mostly because correcting it with Maelor in your arms and the whole lobby listening would have made it something larger than it needed to be.

A moment later, the private lift opened.

Ellyn stepped out in charcoal and silk, tablet under one arm, expression composed. She took one look at you, one look at Maelor, and one look at the new girl’s face, and understood everything instantly.

“Well,” she said dryly, coming toward you, “I see we’re having a day.”

“I fell,” Maelor told her with grave dignity.

“I can see that.”

Then, lower, to you, “He’s on the edge. The meeting’s gone on too long, Daeron’s papers are finalized, and three directors have already said the phrase fiduciary continuity like it means anything worth hearing.”

That made you huff the smallest laugh.

Ellyn’s mouth twitched. “The building is still standing, which counts as success.”

She turned to the new assistant. “With me.”

The girl looked like she wanted the floor to open beneath her.

Upstairs, the executive level was all frosted glass, muted light, and the oppressive quiet of expensive places where men with power preferred their panic to happen softly. Ellyn crossed to the boardroom and knocked once before stepping inside.

Voices. Low, clipped, tired.

Then Ellyn’s voice, smooth as polished stone.

“Sir,” she said, “your wife and son are here to see you.”

Silence hit the room so hard it was almost audible.

Then the door opened.

Aerion came out like the room had failed him personally.

His tie was gone. His collar was open. His jacket was still on, but only just, like he had kept it there out of spite. The color beneath the black of the suit was dark and ember-red, visible only when he moved, and it made him look like what he had always been at heart, a man with fire banked beneath control. His hair had been pushed back too many times already, silver-gold disordered at the front. Exhaustion had deepened the violet of his eyes until they looked almost bruised.

Then he saw Maelor.

Everything in him rearranged.

The boardroom vanished from his face. The directors, the votes, the transition, Daeron’s absence, Maekar’s pressure, all of it dropped back the second his attention landed where it mattered.

He was in front of you in a heartbeat, too close, too fast, one hand going first to Maelor’s cheek, then to the back of his head with a tenderness that never failed to catch you off guard because of how complete it was. Not performative. Not careful for witnesses. Just real.

“What happened, little dragon?”

Maelor blinked at him. “I fell.”

Aerion’s gaze swept the bandage, the faint puffiness around his eyes, the dried traces of crying you had not quite managed to wipe away. His jaw tightened. The line appeared between his brows exactly where Maelor had predicted. But his hand stayed gentle, thumb brushing once, carefully, below the bandage.

“I can see that.”

“He was checked by the nurse,” you said quietly. “No dizziness, no nausea, no confusion. He mostly scared himself.”

Aerion looked at you then.

That was the dangerous part.

Not the temper. Not the name. Not even the history.

The way he looked at people he loved.

There was nothing casual in it. No half-measures. No polite distance. Aerion had once been a man who burned through things out of boredom, arrogance, and sheer appetite. Now, when he cared, he did it with terrifying focus. Enough to make a person feel pinned where they stood. Enough to make the room around you both feel briefly irrelevant.

His hand stayed cupped at the back of Maelor’s head.

The other slid around your waist, low and sure, like it had every right to be there and had long since stopped asking permission.

“Thank you,” he said, and the words came out rougher than they should have, quiet enough that they felt like something meant only for you.

It would have been easy, in that moment, to forget the room behind him entirely.

Easy, if Maekar had not risen.

He stepped into view at the far end of the table, broad and severe and unmistakably built from some older, harsher world. Thick through the chest and shoulders, beard cut square, hair silver touched with gold, pox scars faint on his cheeks, he carried himself with the dense, immovable force of a man who had never needed charm because he had always had authority instead. Even in a modern suit he looked like he ought to have been wrapped in black velvet and dragon teeth, one hand on the haft of a mace.

His gaze went first to Maelor.

Something in it softened.

Not enough for anyone outside the family to catch. But you saw it. Aerion saw it. Ellyn certainly saw it.

Maekar loved his grandson in the manner of hard men who had never learned softness and considered that a private failing, not a public one. He did not coo over them. He did not fuss. But rooms shifted for them. Schedules bent. Tempers were reined in. The world, where possible, was made safer.

Then his gaze moved to you.

He did not smile. He probably had not smiled properly in twenty years.

But the look he gave you was not neutral either.

It was that same stern, grudging approval he had never spoken aloud but never really hidden from you, either. The look of a man who thought you were good for his son, knew it, and resented his own inability to say so in a way that did not sound like an operational briefing.

If Maekar had been made with gentler language, he would have said that you steadied Aerion in ways the rest of them could not. That you had never asked anything from the family but had somehow become essential to it. That you made his son less reckless, his grandson happier, and the building itself calmer when you walked through it.

Instead, he said, “I assume the tower can survive ten minutes without you.”

Aerion did not look away from you. “It will have to.”

Maekar’s gaze dropped once to the bandage, then back to you. “Take him into the office.”

It was not really about the child.

It was Maekar’s way of saying go, of making space for Aerion without dressing it up as kindness, of choosing you both openly enough that anyone in the room with half a brain would understand.

Then Maelor, because children were born to betray the adults who loved them most, tucked his face against your shoulder and said, “They called her your wife again.”

The silence that followed was glorious.

The new assistant at the back of the room looked like she might pass out.

Ellyn’s eyes lowered at once to hide her amusement.

Something flickered at the corner of Aerion’s mouth.

He looked at his son first, then at you, and some tiny fraction of the strain left his face.

“There’s my honest boy,” he murmured.

Maelor blinked up at him. “I didn’t tell them no.”

That got you. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Aerion heard it, and the look he gave you after was enough to make your pulse stumble.

Then, still holding your waist like letting go would be an error in judgment, he said quietly, “Come upstairs with me.”

Not a request.

Not really an order either.

Just the truth in its most controlled form.

You went.

His office was dim compared to the corridor beyond, all dark wood, low lamps, and glass running from floor to ceiling behind the desk. The skyline looked cold through the windows, the city blurred silver and slate beneath the weather. Maelor was settled onto the long sofa with juice, crackers, and one of the wooden puzzles Ellyn kept in a cabinet for emergencies that were never officially called emergencies.

By the time the door shut behind you, the hush in the room felt different from the hush outside.

Aerion took his jacket off and dropped it over the back of a chair. He crouched in front of Maelor first, checked the bandage himself, pressed a kiss just beside it, brushed the hair back from his forehead, and asked the same questions the nurse had already asked because he needed the answers from his son’s mouth, not anybody else’s.

Only when he seemed satisfied did he stand.

He dragged one hand over his face, exhaled, and turned toward you.

You leaned a hip against the edge of his desk, watching him. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The city glowed beyond the glass. Maelor rustled softly on the sofa behind you.

Then you said, “They called me your wife, Aerion. What is that?”

His head lifted slowly.

For one suspended beat he only looked at you.

Then he crossed the room.

He stopped close enough that your knees nearly brushed his, one hand coming to your waist again, the other braced beside you on the desk. The position turned the question into something hotter than you had intended, though perhaps not hotter than you had feared.

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and then rose again.

“The first sensible thing anyone’s said to me all day,” he said softly.

That would have been enough.

It was not all he did.

His thumb moved once against your waist, slow and deliberate, and then he leaned in just enough for his forehead to touch yours for the barest moment, like a confession he had no intention of offering anyone else.

Behind you, Maelor gave a sleepy little sigh from the sofa.

Aerion did not look away from you.

“Stay close,” he murmured. “I’ve had enough of everybody else deciding what matters today.”

Because there he was, a man with half a branch of the family settling onto his shoulders, a boardroom full of directors waiting, Maekar watching, Daeron gone, Brightflame shifting, the whole goddamn tower braced for him to become something harder, and still he was standing there with his hand at your waist like the only thing in the room he trusted not to fail him was you.

Clark had no idea why he was nervous, not really. He’d faced collapsing buildings with his bare hands, interrogated criminals, and reported on disasters that made most people’s heads spin.

But standing on the fifteenth floor of the Daily Planet, amidst racks of fabric swatches and shimmering magazines- clutching a folder of forms he didn’t understand- he felt decidedly out of his depth.

Sure, his clothes were smart, expensive in their own right. His shoes were real, genuine Italian leather that had been a splurge a few months ago; when he decided he needed a little retail treat after being flung about by an intergalactic threat. Yet no combined net worth could have prepared him for the complete monstrosity of an office that everybody knew as the fashion writing floor.

It didn’t help that it had a reputation, whispered about in slack channels and hallway conversations- talks that he hadn’t been part of until now.

The “fashion floor” had a new head, someone who had risen fast through the ranks, who everyone said was both brilliant and kind, effortlessly sharp yet impossibly warm.

"Wears a lot of gold," Perry had grumbled when giving him direction, "And animal print. You can't miss her."

But there being a new chief did nothing to calm his nerves. Clark was still way in over his head. He'd overhead, in bits and pieces, an old story- a year ago, a couple of overenthusiastic interns had published a column about... well, men. Atrractive men.

At work, his work no less, the entire Daily Planet building they all shared.

He overheard Lois say once that there were numbers involved. Clark never gave it much thought; articles like that just weren't his speed.

Apparently, it had been a drunken experiment gone viral. The interns were promptly fired, but the column lingered in office lore. It flitted about the bullpen for a week or two, but deadlines soon wiped out any and all talk of it.

Who greenlit it?

Who decided on the numbers?

Who started it?

Clark knew- through no fault of his own- that he was somewhere on that list. Number seven, though he didn't know which way the pendulum swung. He figured it was a random list, anyway; AI generated, like those self-submissions Perry would put through the shredder.

He didn’t dwell on it, like he didn't dwell on appearances. He didn’t flirt with the thought like Max from Marketing did, didn't obsess over it like Steve- simply because to Clark, no flattery came of it.

He just didn’t notice things like that. Why would he, when sirens wailed in the distance and buildings kept burning?

And yet, here he was, folder in hand, stepping into a world of sequins and scented candles, where pretty women covered their giggles with manicured hands poking out of lacey designer sleeves.

Golly.

Suddenly, he felt very… farmboy-flannel. Not chic at all. He kind of wished he’d combed through his hair, straightened his tie, anything- before stepping out of the damn elevator.

He heard you before he saw you.

You were mid-laugh, head tilted just so, explaining a pattern layout to one of the new hires with a calm authority that made it impossible not to listen.

Light spilled across your glossy hair and glimmered against the gold jewellery on your arm. It was fascinating, in all honesty. He expected you to be wearing a lot more, but you seemed to have mastered the perfect combination of bangles, rings and necklaces. They complimented your skin perfectly.

And Clark- for the first time in his life- almost forgot to breathe.

“I’m so sorry,” the red-faced intern blushed, head hung low in shame. You reached a comforting hand out, patting her back with a comfort others typically reserved for friends. “I promise, I triple checked- I don’t know how I missed his,”

“Nothing to apologise for, darling. It happens, and now we fix it.”

There was confidence in your posture, kindness in your gestures, and a sort of magnetic energy he couldn’t name. He always thought, after so long reporting on heroes and extraordinary deeds and tremendous acts that shook the morality of the world- sometimes, the most heroic thing a person could do was just be good.

Clark didn’t move for a beat. He just watched, completely mesmerised.

The intern scurried off, head still low but a lot calmer now. You called out to them about maybe taking a few minutes outside; go for a short walk, get a drink maybe. You’d pick it back up with them when they came back, well rested.

He hadn’t seen anything like it before. Especially not in fashion.

You noticed him eventually, of course- there was no missing someone that tall in a slightly wrinkled suit with a manila folder clutched to his chest. His too-big blazer hung off his shoulders in a way that was both dorky and charming, a contrast to the tight fitting pieces around you.

Your brow arched in a friendly welcome. “You’re not part of my team,” you joked.

Clark cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. “That obvious?”

“A little,” you said kindly, stepping closer, smiling as you took in the gentle, nervous way he watched you. “You haven’t got any loose thread on you, and you smell like a printer.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Not bad. Jusy very... upstairs vibes.” You tilted your head. “Perry sent you?”

“Yes,” Clark admitted, relief mingling with a blush that at least, you knew what he was here for. “Something about forms. Budget approvals, I think. He said you’d know what to do with them.”

“Perfect.” You accepted the folder, flipping it open as you walked back toward your desk. Your heels clicked purposefully against the shiny tile, click-clacking a satisfying tune.

Clark followed, careful not to bump into anything shiny. He noticed how everyone seemed to orbit your presence; out of respect, not fear.

It was fascinating and terrifying, the power you seemed to hold. You were young- a few years younger than him, at least- but you commandeered the space like it was your own.

“You’re Clark, right?” you asked casually, glancing at the name on the folder. “I knew I recognised you. Perry’s golden boy reporter.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know about golden boy. But I try.”

“You write about Superman,” you said distractedly, signing the first page. “You make him sound very good, Mr Kent. Not that he’s not- you just don’t make him sound overly flashy, or superficial. I’ve read a lot of articles," the next page graced yet another signature of yours, "and yours… well, I couldn’t really put it down.”

Clark blinked. Mentally, he scolded himself for wondering why somebody like you would take any interest in text written by somebody like him.

“That’s- geez, that's very kind of you to say. Thank you. So much." he managed, tone genuine, unable to hide the small smile forming on his lips.

You handed back the folder, brushing lightly against his glimmer stained sleeve. “Careful up here. Glitter’s an occupational hazard.”

He looked down at the faint shimmer clinging to his arm, eyes widening ever so slightly. “Oh, darn it. Is it obvious?”

“Only if you plan to stand under direct sunlight.” You smiled, turning back to your team. “But no, it's not even noticeable. I think you’ll survive.”

Clark laughed softly, letting a little tension he hadn’t realized he carried unwind.

“But, if you need any tips to get rid of glitter, or if Perry needs anything else signing,” you reached for one of the business cards on your desk, cringing slightly at the principal of handing something so official to someone you just met.

"Here’s my number, and you can send me a message first. I’m not usually at my desk much and would hate for you to make the trip for nothing.”

You watched him fumble just slightly with the card, the way his shoulders stiffened as if he were suddenly carrying the weight of the entire skyscraper.

You had a twinge of sympathy for the man before you- he looked so out of place amidst the glittering chaos of your floor, so earnest and polite, trying not to intrude.

To anyone else, handing a man your digits would probably come across as a bold move, but you’d already decided it was anything but. Someone like Clark, someone genuinely kind, deserved a lifeline in a world that wasn’t built for him.

“Okay?” you smiled, your voice gentler now, “don’t hesitate to text. Seriously. I mean it.”

You'd said it with such confidence because you'd had it happen before- countless times. Especially with the journalists from upstairs- Perry didn't seem to believe in warning you in advance. It was rare you'd ever return to your desk after a fifteen minute coffee run with no notes or rainchecks from other people.

Clark swallowed, his throat dry in a way that had nothing to do with the office air conditioning.

“Y-Yeah, sure. Thank you, really. I appreciate it.” He gave a small, awkward smile, glancing down at the card in his hand like it might suddenly vanish.

A silence settled, hovering a beat too long. It was only when he cleared his throat that you realised you'd been staring.

“I should probably get going- you know, before Perry notices how long I've been gone for.”

“Of course,” you said, smiling up at him. “Good luck. Hope he doesn't chew you out too much.”

“Thanks,” he said again, almost to himself, "And thank you, for signing the forms. You must be very busy,"

"I'll always find time." you winked, turning back to the papers on your desk.

Clark gave you an awkward parting nod, his head ducking down as he stalked towards the elevator. Still clutching the folder- now accompanied by your card- Clark held it like it was a treasure he wasn’t sure he deserved.

He left quickly, though he didn’t want to. He wanted to keep talking to you, keep watching you in your element. His heart was still thumping a little faster than normal, skipping and stuttering in a way that felt alarming.

He didn’t notice the way your gaze lingered after him, thoughtful and amused.

Back on the bullpen floor, Jimmy nearly doubled over at the sight of the man walking towards him. “Hey, Edward Cullen. Did you just get glitter bombed?”

Clark froze, glancing down at his sleeve. “Glitter bo- oh. Uh, yeah. Not on purpose though, no,”

Jimmy snickered. “What happened? Why are you shiny?" when Clark was too slow to respond, he carried on, "Someone throw a disco ball at you? You walk into a Chappell Roan lookalike contest?”

“Uh-“

“Did Glinda the Good come and cover you in a bubble? No- you walked past a Lush store, didn't you?”

Clark groaned at the remarks, tugging at his tie. “It’s… I was at the other department. Perry sent me with some forms,”

“What other department?” Lois slid her chair in then, eyebrow raised as she swiped Jimmy’s pencil.

He continued staring at the glitter on his arm, but made no effort at all to brush it off. “Fashion.”

“Ah,” the woman grinned, sitting with one leg crossed over the other. “Let me guess. You got judged for your loafers,”

He winced slightly, “Just a little.”

“And the woman who runs it- Edyta, is it? How was she with you?”

“Actually,” Jimmy piped up, matter-of-fact finger poised in the air, “Edyta’s gone, I heard. Something about her passion being in sports- Steve was telling me about it. They have a new fashion head now.”

Clark perked up, genuinely interested. He had no idea your presence had made waves beyond your floor- especially not in his own. Balancing two lives had kept him distracted, and he often overlooked the one that now mattered most.

“Everyone’s been talking about her. Pretty, smart, wears a lot of gold-"

Clark nodded in agreement, remembering the way your jewellery clinked together with every move you made.

"-really nice, says darling a lot. Apparently an intern spilled coffee on her shoes on his first day, and he still has his job,” Jimmy swooned, “She’s cool. Met her once in the elevator.”

"Oh, yeah. Cat calls her Goldie. I think they're friends," Lois noted in amusement, before retreating back to her desk, finished with the conversation.

Clark’s ears warmed. “Yeah, she's cool. I guess,” he said softly, the words barely escaping as his pulse picked up.

Jimmy’s raised eyebrow nudged the corner of a grin, clearly amused at the subtle awe in his tone.

As Clark began to settle at his desk, the photographer followed; evidently bored with the lack of conversation at his own.

“Man,” Jimmy started, leaning casually on the edge of the desk but not too close, “I still can’t believe Edyta’s gone. She… uh, she used to help me with a lot of…" he trailed off, a grimace forming on his face.

"...you know, weird little problems here and there.”

“Oh?” Clark tilted his head, already itching to turn his computer on and work towards completing one of the countless deadlines he had that week.

But he didn't, because that would be rude, and his Ma raised him better than to stare at a screen right in front of another human being.

Jimmy hummed, “Mhm. Probs for the best, I guess. That article she let slip last year… the 'eligible bachelors' one? Totally crazy.”

"Mhm." something Clark could actually agree with.

His mind was half set on what the other man was mumbling, but mostly on the way the sound of your voice had already weaved its way into his brain.

Don't hesitate to text. Seriously, I mean it.

"And you wanna know what's even crazier?" Jimmy had a glint in his eye then, and Clark could tell he'd been sitting on this goldmine of information for a while- just itching to let it all out.

"You know the new head? The one you met? Super nice, seems like an angel- even Perry doesn't hate her, right?"

Clark's eyebrows raised, gaze still on his keyboard even though his interest in this conversation had turned around completely. You were involved now.

He nodded in acknowledgement.

Jimmy proceeded.

"Rumour has it..." he said theatrically, lowering his voice, "it was her who picked the numbers.”

“Listen bud, I've got-” Clark began with a sigh, before snapping back to reality and realising he'd actually been very oblivious to where this conversation was headed.

Wait... you did what?

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah! You know, that list? The one you refuse to read?" Jimmy rolled his eyes.

"People are saying it was her idea, attraction order. I still can’t believe she actually did it by number- so cruel. And me? I got number eleven. Eleven!”

Clark froze, papers slipping from his hand, his heart suddenly thudding far too loud in the quiet office. The click of keyboards, the hum of the printer, even the faint scent of spilled ink- all of it faded into the background.

It was you who picked the numbers.

It wasn't just some smart-AI generated piece of fiction, like Clark had convinced himself this whole time. It had real words, and real opinions, written by real people.

And you? Kind, gentle, beautiful you?

Well, you were the reason it existed. You were the reason random girls at work came up to him sometimes, eyes on his shoulders, gaze on his crooked smiled, murmuring Morning, Number Seven with a giggle under their breaths.

You were the one to look at him at face value and decide where he slotted in a sea of over a hundred men at the Planet. Without even ever having a conversation with him first, you wordlessly decided to grace him with a single digit.

And Clark?

Well, he had no idea what the hell to do with this information.

Meanwhile, you had returned to your desk and allowed yourself a small, secret smile.

Clark Kent had no idea who he really was in office lore, and you could tell- just by the way his head was ducked, shoulders slightly hunched, the faintly crooked, hesitant smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

An unassuming man whose face had graced the now-infamous Eligible Bachelors column- number seven on a list no one dared fully explain.

You’d always been glad he’d remained blissfully unaware. Sweet, hardworking, too gentle to realise he inspired any sort of “buzz.”

It was even more of a relief that nobody knew the actual reasonings behind the rankings.

The votes you'd casted, the office gossip you'd taken part in- the attraction for Clark Kent you couldn't help but agree with at the time, because he once held an elevator door open for you and your ovulating mind ran rampant.

Now, you wanted nothing more than that list to gather dust at the backs of peoples minds for eternities to come. It was a dumb, silly little thing; you'd been asked for your opinion and you gave it.

Suddenly, it was on the second page of every Daily Planet newspaper that graced the shelves the very next day.

Cringing at the memory, you took a deep beeath in.

You'd grown since then. Taken over an entire department since then, made everyone's lives so much easier. That made up for it, right?

You glanced around at your team, mentally noting the stack of swatch books that still needed approval, the pile of last-minute submissions from freelancers, and a stylist wrestling with a broken sewing machine on the corner table. Your floor was a hurricane of sequins, perfume, and spreadsheets, but somehow, you thrived in it.

Still, even with your usual calm, you felt the faint twinge of stress gnawing at your edges today- deadlines looming, emails pinging, interns asking a thousand questions at once, and still, somewhere in the back of your mind- the memory of a slightly flustered Clark Kent clutching your business card.

You wondered if he'd ever brave a phone call. You doubted it, but it was still a nice thought.

“God, Number Seven’s tall,” one of the stylists muttered from across the room, earning a low whistle from Ana, your assistant.

“Damn right. That’s a tree I wouldn’t mind climbing,” another added, elbowing her friend, both of them grinning with the kind of casual bravado only people who didn’t know him well could afford.

“Tell me about it,” Anna said with a soft laugh, rolling her eyes, but you noticed a fond smile tugging at her lips.

You shook your head slightly, hiding a chuckle behind your hand.

Let them joke, let them whisper. Clark didn’t know, and somehow, that made him more… was cute the word? Earnest?

You liked that he was untouched by the superficial chatter, that he moved through the world with that quiet decency you secretly admired. Bobby from the third floor- Travel writing- still wouldn’t shut up about his #28 and he didn’t even work there anymore.

The day ended slowly. By the time most people had gone home, the office hummed quietly, fluorescent lights reflecting off polished glass.

The faint scent of perfume lingered in the air, and a single stylist was still hunched over a final layout, muttering numbers to himself and something about a swatch piece.

You’d told him he could go, enjoy his evening and finish it up Monday- but a deadline was a deadline and he didn’t want the hassle of worrying over the weekend. So, you let him be.

The chair creaked slightly as you leaned back, an exhale leaving your glossed lips. You scrolled through proofs with one hand while the other tapped idly against your desk; the lull of demotivated overtime.

The low hum of the building, the occasional clack of a keyboard, the soft ring of phones being answered- it all felt almost peaceful after the day’s non-stop craze.

Until your phone buzzed; a message flashing bright across the screen from an unknown number.

Hi. I hope I’m not bothering you.

Another, very soon after.

It’s Clark, by the way. Sorry. I forgot you probably don't have my number saved.

I just have a quick question for you, if that’s alright.

You smiled, imagining the nervous way he must be sitting there, fingers hovering over his phone, head slightly tilted, unsure if you’d think it was bold or intrusive of him to actually make use of your business card.

With the faint clicking of your nails against the screen, you shot him two quick texts back.

Hi, Clark :)

Go for it, I'm listening.

Three little dots popped up on the screen for no longer than five seconds. They disappeared for a while, eventually coming back again- only to fully disappear once more.

You could practically see him, earnest and a little flushed. It made your heartbeat pick up a tad as a smirk played on your lips.

That’s when the other buzz came, wiping the grin off your face completely.

Number Seven, huh?

Oh.

Oh no.

Your cheeks warmed; unsure whether to laugh, groan, or spin your desk chair right out of the ceiling to floor glass window.

Somehow, the oblivious, shy, sweet Clark- the one you'd fawned so fondly over to Anna the second he left your floor- had just discovered the legend of his office ranking.

And now here he was, texting you about it.

For a moment, you froze, fingers hovering over your keyboard. Your cocky demeanour fizzled as quickly as it came.

Typing a reply felt impossible. Your brain ran through a dozen potential responses and discarded them all.

You were trying to steady the way your heart was pounding when your phone buzzed again, almost teasingly- as if Clark had sensed your reaction and was revelling in the hesitation.

What’s it going to take to get to number one?

it’s impressive, honestly. you’ve seen politicians less reactive.

“oh—no, i—um. it’s nothing,” he says, and ducks his head, eyes flickering anywhere but your face.

you take the notebook from him. your fingers brush his, and he freezes.

you clock it immediately. the stiffness. the hesitation. the way his breath seems to stutter.

interesting.

“thanks, country,” you say brightly. “you just saved democracy. or at least my grocery list.”

he lets out a small, startled laugh, like he didn’t expect his body to make that sound.

and just like that, the dynamic is set.

you’re everything he isn’t.

you’re loud in the newsroom. not obnoxious—just alive. you talk with your hands. you argue like it’s a sport. you laugh like it’s a dare. you’re confident, unapologetic, and allergic to shrinking.

clark, meanwhile, writes like he’s trying not to be noticed. his articles are devastatingly precise. humane. kind. brutally honest in a way that never feels cruel.

he never raises his voice. he never interrupts. he never makes a scene.

and yet—somehow—you keep ending up assigned to the same stories.

“partner up,” perry orders one morning, waving his hands. “kent, you handle background. you—” he points at you, “—bring the heat.”

clark nods immediately. “yes, sir.”

you flash him a grin. “ready to bring the heat, smallville?”

he nearly drops his pen.

“i’m—not—uh—” he clears his throat. “yeah. of course.” he sounds like he’s bracing for impact.

which, honestly, is fair.

you notice things.

you notice how clark listens to you like you’re the only sound in the room. you notice how he laughs quietly at your jokes, even when you’re pretty sure they weren’t that funny. you notice how he turns red when you stand too close. you notice how he never quite meets your eyes when the conversation turns personal.

and, maybe most interestingly, you notice how careful he is with you.

not in a patronizing way. not in a fragile way.

more like he’s holding something precious he doesn’t believe belongs to him.

you’re working late one night, the newsroom dim and humming with that low electric fatigue that settles in after midnight.

clark sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. he looks more like himself this way, slightly less put together, slightly more real.

“you’re staring,” you mutter without looking up.

his pencil stops moving. “i—sorry. i wasn’t—” he falters, then admits softly, “you just… work very intensely.”

you glance up, smirking. “is that a complaint?”

“no!” he says quickly. “no, not at all, it’s—um—it’s impressive.”

that word lands heavier than it should.

you lean back in your chair, studying him. “clark kent, are you flirting with me?”

he goes scarlet.

“i—what? no. i wouldn’t—i don’t—” he looks like he might short-circuit. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”

you laugh. “relax. i’m teasing. mostly.”

he tries to smile. it comes out crooked, shy, sincere.

you realize something then.

he’s not oblivious, he’s terrified.

there’s a rhythm to the way you work together.

you chase leads. he verifies facts.

you kick down doors. he makes sure no one gets hurt in the process.

you call sources at reckless hours. he sends follow-up emails that somehow sound like handwritten letters.

sometimes, your leg bumps his under the conference table, and he stiffens like he’s been struck by lightning. sometimes, you catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. sometimes, you wonder what would happen if you asked him, point-blank, what he feels.

you don’t.

not because you’re scared.

but because it’s… fun. the tension. the slow burn. the way he seems to hover at the edge of saying something and never quite steps over the line.

one evening, after a long assignment, you end up walking out together.

metropolis hums around you. neon. sirens. wind curling down the streets.

“you ever get tired of this?” you ask him, gesturing at the city. “the noise. the chaos. the pressure?”

he thinks for a moment. “no,” he says quietly. “it reminds me that people matter.”

you blink at him.

god, he’s earnest.

“that might be the most clark kent answer in history,” you say, smiling.

he chuckles softly. “and is that… bad?”

“no,” you hum. “it’s refreshing.”

there’s a beat.

you catch him glancing at you, then looking away again like it physically pains him to hold eye contact.

“you know,” you say casually, “most people would’ve made a move by now.”

his heart stutters so hard you swear you can see it.

“a move?” he echoes.

you tilt your head. “yeah, you know coffee? dinner? a risky workplace flirtation? you’ve had plenty of openings.”

he swallows. “i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he admits. “or assume anything.”

you soften despite yourself. “that’s considerate,” you say gently. “but you’re allowed to want things, clark.”

he looks at you like that sentence is brand new. “i do,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

your breath catches.

he looks horrified at his own honesty.

“i mean—i—what i meant was—” he stumbles, face burning. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—”

you step a little closer.

“hey,” you say quietly. “if you’re too shy… you can just say so.”

his eyes flicker up to meet yours for half a second longer than usual.

“i’m… working on it,” he says.

and something about the way he says it makes your chest feel too full.

later that night, lying in bed, you think about clark kent.

the way his voice softens when he talks to you. the way he holds doors open like it’s a sacred duty. the way he looks like he’s constantly trying not to take up space, despite being physically incapable of doing anything else.

you wonder what it would take to make him brave. you wonder if he’s thinking about you too. you suspect he is.

he’s not very good at hiding it.

you start noticing how close clark kent stands to you.

not close close. never anything bold. never anything that could be called intentional. but closer than he stands to anyone else. close enough that you can feel the warmth of him when you lean over a document together. close enough that your elbow brushes his sleeve more often than coincidence would allow.

he always freezes when it happens.

not like he’s offended.

more like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t freeze.

you find that strangely compelling.

the story that really bonds you happens in the rain.

a whistleblower. corporate corruption; the kind of thing that makes people nervous, that makes phones go silent, that makes editors suddenly careful.

you and clark spend days chasing leads, cross-referencing financial trails, knocking on doors that open only a crack.

you work like a storm. he works like a steady current.

together, you’re dangerous.

late one night, soaked from a sudden downpour, you duck under the overhang outside the daily planet. your jacket is damp, hair frizzing, pulse still buzzing from adrenaline.

clark stands beside you, rain clinging to the shoulders of his coat.

“you okay?” he asks quietly.

you exhale a breath that feels like steam. “exhausted, wired... ready to flip a table.”

he smiles, soft and private. “you always look like that right before you publish something incredible,” he says.

you blink. “that’s oddly specific.”

“i pay attention,” he says before he seems to realize how that sounds.

he goes red.

you laugh, gentler than usual. “you’re allowed to look, clark.”

“i know,” he says. then, quieter, “i just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

you tilt your head. “and if i told you i wasn’t?”

he looks at you. really looks at you.

for a heartbeat, he doesn’t look away.

rain rattles against the pavement. the city hums. the world keeps moving, oblivious to the small, electric moment happening between you.

“i’d still be careful,” he says.

something in your chest tightens.

“why?”

“because,” he says, voice barely above the rain, “i care what you think.”

the words hang there.

you feel them settle under your ribs.

you start texting more.

at first it’s strictly work. links, deadlines, notes.

then it’s memes. headlines that make no sense. a blurry photo of a terrible vending machine dinner.

clark replies faster than he probably should.

sometimes his responses are overly formal. sometimes they’re unexpectedly dry. occasionally, he makes a joke so quiet and sharp you wonder how many people miss it.

late one night, you send: ‘ur still up?’

a pause. ‘yes. i couldn’t sleep.’

you consider your next message, then type: ‘me neither. wanna admit why?’

three dots appear. disappear. reappear. ‘because i keep replaying conversations in my head.’

your breath hitches. ‘with who?’ though you already know.

a longer pause. ‘you.’

you stare at the screen, smiling like an idiot. ‘u know u can just say things the first time, right?’

a moment later: ‘i’m afraid i’ll say the wrong thing.’

you type: ‘try me.’

another pause. this one stretches.

Finally: ‘i like you. i just don’t always know how to exist near you without feeling like i’m doing something wrong.

your heart stumbles.

you type slowly this time. ‘you’re not doing anything wrong. you’re just being you.’

three dots. ‘that’s what scares me.’

in person, it gets harder.

you catch him glancing at you when you laugh. when you argue. when you concentrate so hard your tongue peeks out between your teeth.

once, you lean over his desk to grab a file, and your shoulder brushes his chest.

he inhales like the air just vanished.

you pull back, studying him. “clark?”

he swallows. “yes?”

“you okay?”

“yes ma’am,” he says too quickly.

you step closer, lowering your voice. “you don’t have to flinch every time i get near you.”

“i’m not flinching,” he says, but it sounds like a confession.

you soften. “you look like you think i’m going to disappear.”

he meets your gaze, tentative and open. “sometimes,” he admits, “it feels like you belong to a world that moves faster than i do.”

you smile gently. “so keep up.”

“i’m trying,” he murmurs.

there’s a night when the power flickers in the newsroom.

backup generators hum. screens glow. outside, thunder mutters like distant applause.

you’re both still working. of course you are.

you bring him coffee. he thanks you like you’ve given him something sacred.

you sit on the edge of his desk.

“so,” you say lightly, “why haven’t you asked me out yet?”

he nearly chokes. “i—i didn’t think—”

“you didn’t think i’d say yes?”

“i didn’t think it was appropriate,” he says carefully. “or fair. or—”

you swing your legs slightly. “clark. look at me.”

he hesitates. then he does.

you hold his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

“do you want to ask me out?” you ask.

he breathes in, slow and controlled. “yes,” 

you grin. “then ask.”

he pauses. looks terrified. then, quietly, honestly: “would you… like to get dinner with me sometime?”

there’s nothing flashy about it. nothing smooth. no bravado. 

it’s perfect.

“i would,” you smile. “very much.”

his relief is immediate and almost heartbreaking.

he smiles like he’s been given permission to breathe.

later, as you pack up to leave, he walks beside you again.

the city feels different now. brighter. expectant.

at the corner, you stop.

“hey,” you say softly.

he turns to you.

“if you ever feel too shy,” you say, “you can let me know.”

he smiles, warm and bashful and real. “and if i do?”

“then i’ll meet you halfway.”

his voice is steady when he replies, “i think… i’d like that.”

clark kent treats your first date like it’s a diplomatic summit.

he arrives early. of course he does. he’s wearing a suit that looks like it’s been pressed within an inch of its life, tie straightened three times too many, hair just slightly more tamed than usual.

you show up five minutes late on purpose, because you refuse to let him think this is an interview.

when he sees you, his breath stutters like he forgot how lungs work.

“you look… incredible,” he says, immediately flustered by the fact that he said it out loud.

you grin. “you clean up like a man trying very hard not to cause property damage.”

he laughs, relieved.

the restaurant is warm and dim and humming with soft conversation. candlelight glows between you. every little sound feels louder than it should—the clink of silverware, the low murmur of voices, the quiet hum of the city outside.

clark sits across from you, posture careful, hands folded like he’s afraid to knock something over.

you rest your chin in your hand. “you always this nervous smallville?”

he considers lying. he doesn’t.

“yes,” he says simply. “around you.”

your chest tightens. “that’s not exactly a reason to be afraid,” you say more gently.

“i know,” he says. “but it feels… important to get this right.”

“you don’t need to get it right,” you say. “you just need to get it honest.”

his eyes lift to yours. “okay,” he says quietly. “honest, then.”

conversation comes easily, which almost feels unfair given how tense the air between you is.

you talk about work. about your childhood. about the first stories that made you want to chase stories of your own.

clark listens like every word is something he intends to keep.

when you talk about ambition, he watches you with something like awe. when you talk about fear, he watches you with something like devotion.

at some point, you realize his knee is almost touching yours under the table.

not quite, but close enough to feel the heat.

you wonder if he notices. you suspect he notices everything.

after dinner, you walk.

metropolis at night feels like a living thing. lights pulsing, trains roaring, wind tugging at coats and hair.

clark keeps pace beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but alert, like he’s constantly bracing for something.

“you know,” you say lightly, “you’re allowed to flirt.”

he nearly trips. “i—i don’t know how,” he admits.

you step a little closer. “try.”

he thinks for a long second. “you… um… make the world feel louder,” he says. “in a good way.”

you stop walking.

turn to face him.

“that might be the most clark kent flirtation i’ve ever heard,” you say softly.

he blushes, but he doesn’t look away this time. “i meant it,” he says.

you hold his gaze.

for once, he holds yours back.

you end up on a quiet street corner, traffic distant, the city’s noise softened into a low, steady hum.

the moment stretches.

you can feel it pulling tight between you.

“so,” you say quietly, “is this the part where you overthink everything?”

he smiles ruefully. “usually.”

“and?”

“i’m trying not to.”

your heart thrums.

he looks at you like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff.

“i’ve wanted to do this for a while,” he admits.

“do what?” you whisper.

he hesitates. then steps closer.

not rushing. not overwhelming. just enough to close the space he’s been so afraid to claim.

his voice is low. “be brave.”

you tilt your head slightly, giving him the opening without forcing him to take it.

his hand lifts, hovering like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed.

“may i?” he asks.

your pulse spikes.

“yes,” you say.

his fingers brush your cheek. he looks like he might fall apart.

slowly, carefully, he leans in.

the kiss is soft.

not urgent. not hungry.

just warm and tentative and full of everything he hasn’t known how to say.

when he pulls back, he looks stunned by his own courage.

you smile. “well,” you murmur, “you survived.”

he lets out a breathless laugh. “barely.”

later, actually walking you home instead of wandering aimlessly, he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize the fact that this is real.

at your door, he hesitates again.

“thank you,” he says. “for… being patient with me.”

you step closer.

“clark,” you say gently, “if you’re too shy—”

he smiles. “—i’ll let you know,” he finishes.

“exactly.”

he leans in and presses another soft kiss to your cheek this time, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

as he walks away, you watch him go, heart buzzing.

you know this is only the beginning.

he’s still holding back; still keeping secrets, still afraid of taking up space.

and you’re already wondering what will happen when he finally stops.

dating clark kent feels like discovering a hidden room in a familiar building.

everything is quieter. softer. more deliberate.

he opens doors for you. walks on the street-side of the sidewalk. remembers the exact way you take your coffee, the story you once mentioned in passing, the song you hummed absentmindedly while fact-checking.

he never rushes you. he never assumes.

and yet, the longer this goes on, the more it feels like he’s holding back something enormous.

you notice it in the pauses.

in the way he sometimes goes still when sirens echo in the distance. in the way his jaw tightens when the news mentions disasters, crime, people in danger. in the way he sometimes looks at the sky like he’s listening for something only he can hear.

once, in the middle of a conversation, he just… vanishes.

you blink, check the hallway and the stairwell.

thirty seconds later, he returns, breath barely altered.

“everything okay?” you ask.

“yes,” he says too quickly. “i just… needed a moment.”

you believe him. you also know there’s more to it.

the feelings deepen anyway.

you sit on the newsroom roof one evening, city lights spilling out below you like stars that forgot how to behave.

clark brings takeout. you bring sarcasm.

“you ever think about the future?” you ask, leaning back on your hands.

he follows your gaze across the skyline.

“all the time,” he says.

“does it scare you?”

“only when i think about losing people,” he admits.

you glance at him. “people like me?”

his breath catches.

“yes,” he says without hesitation.

the honesty knocks the air from your lungs. you smile to hide it. “smallville, you’re getting bolder.”

“only because you make me feel like i’m allowed to be,” he says.

you almost call him out on it.

on the strange disappearances. on the impossible timing. on the strength he pretends not to have when he lifts things that should strain him.

but you don’t.

not because you don’t notice. because you trust him.

and because part of you wants to see if he’ll tell you on his own.

one night, the tension spikes.

a major story breaks. chaos, sirens, helicopters. the newsroom turns into a battlefield of ringing phones and shouted updates.

you’re chasing leads when the building shudders.

distant explosions. screams somewhere outside.

you feel fear curl in your stomach.

before you can even turn, clark is at your side.

“stay here,” he says urgently.

you grab his sleeve. “clark—”

his eyes lock onto yours, blazing with emotion he can’t quite hide. “i promise,” he says, voice low and steady, “i will come back.”

then he’s gone.

minutes pass. then more.

your heart hammers against your ribs.

when he finally returns, his hair is wind-tossed, his glasses slightly askew, suit rumpled in a way that makes no sense.

“you’re okay,” you breathe.

“yes,” he says softly.

but he looks like someone who just carried the weight of the world.

later, when the adrenaline ebbs, you corner him near the empty copy room.

“clark,” you say quietly, “what aren’t you telling me?”

he stiffens.

“i’m not—”

“you disappear. you come back shaken. you act like the city’s pain is personal,” you press gently. “i’m not asking to accuse you. i’m asking because i care.”

he looks like he might break.

“i want to tell you,” he admits.

“then do it.”

he hesitates, voice trembling. “i’m afraid if i do… you’ll see me differently.”

you step closer.

“clark kent,” you say softly, “i already see you differently. that’s the point.”

his eyes shine with emotion he rarely lets surface. “you make me want to be honest,” he whispers.

“then be honest.”

he almost does.

you can feel it—right there, hovering on his tongue.

but fear wins.

“soon,” he says instead. “i promise.”

you nod.

“soon,” you echo.

the romance deepens anyway.

soft kisses at crosswalks. hands brushing in elevators. late-night phone calls where his voice sounds lower, more unguarded.

once, half-asleep, he murmurs, “you deserve someone brave.”

you smile into the dark.

“then keep practicing,” you whisper.

you don’t find out on a quiet day. of course you don’t.

you find out on a day when the sky fractures.

a crisis erupts downtown—panic, collapsing scaffolding, screaming sirens, people flooding the streets in fear. the newsroom explodes into motion, and so do you.

you grab your coat, your phone, and your resolve.

and then you realize clark is gone.

again.

you don’t think. you just move.

outside, wind howls between buildings, carrying dust and debris. emergency crews shout over one another. somewhere above, something massive groans under strain.

you push through the crowd, heart racing.

“clark?” you breathe, like the city might answer.

and then, 

a shockwave.

the world lurches. people scream. you stumble backward as part of a structure gives way overhead.

you brace for impact.

it never comes.

instead, arms catch you mid-fall. strong, unyielding, impossible.

you gasp as you’re lifted effortlessly out of harm’s way.

you look up.

clark.

not hunched. not hiding. not shrinking.

he stands full-height, coat torn at the shoulder, tie gone, the left frame of his glasses shattered. his face is tilted away, but you could recognize that tie anywhere—the one martha bought for him when he first got hired at the planet, the tie you used to tease him for. wind presses against him like it means nothing.

his face is bare of pretense. his looks… unmasked.

“clark?” you whisper.

he looks at you with something like fear and relief and love tangled together. “i’m sorry,” he says softly.

behind him, metal groans and settles. sirens wail. people stare.

you stare back at him.

and suddenly, everything makes sense.

the disappearances. the timing. the restraint. the weight he carries like it’s a duty carved into his bones.

“you’re—” your voice trembles. “you’re him.”

he doesn’t pretend not to understand. “yeah,” he says.

you laugh once, breathless and stunned.

“of course you are,” you murmur. “clark kent, mild-mannered reporter, secretly the literal impossible.”

he winces like he deserves that.

“i wanted to tell you,” he says. “but can we talk about this later, baby? please?”

“what’s there to talk about?”

“i have to much to tell you, i promise. i just… i was afraid.”

you search his face.

“afraid of what?” you ask quietly.

“of losing you,” he admits. “of you thinking everything about me was a lie.”

your chest tightens. “you idiot,” you whisper, voice thick. “the only thing that would’ve hurt is you thinking i couldn’t handle the truth.”

he looks at you like that sentence might shatter him.

later, when the city settles and the adrenaline fades, you sit with him on a quiet rooftop.

the skyline stretches around you like a held breath.

he stands at the edge, wind tugging at his hair, looking like a man who has carried too much for too long.

“i never wanted to deceive you,” he says. “clark kent is still me. i just… didn’t know how to be both with you.”

you step closer. “you’ve always been both,” you say. “you’re gentle. you’re kind. you’re awkward. you’re brave. you’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing.”

a faint smile flickers over his face.

“and i like all of that,” you add.

he turns to you fully, eyes bright with emotion.

“you’re not afraid?” he asks.

you shake your head.

“i’m not afraid of you,” you say. “i’m afraid for you.”

he exhales shakily.

“i’ve wanted to be honest with you for so long,” he admits. “but i didn’t think i deserved someone who could see all of this and still stay.”

you reach for him, resting a hand over his heart.

“you don’t get to decide what you deserve,” you say softly. “that’s my call.”

he laughs quietly, teary and relieved.

“you’re incredible,” he murmurs.

you tilt your head. “and you’re still too shy,” you tease gently. “even when you can literally lift a building.”

he smiles more fully now. “i’m braver with you,” he says. “you make me feel like i’m allowed to want things.”

“good,” you say. “because i want you.”

the words feel like stepping into open air.

he looks stunned. then certain. then impossibly tender.

he cups your face and kisses you like he’s finally stopped holding back.

not rough. not consuming.

just honest.

you entered his awareness zone the moment you befriended cat, your voice worming its way into his regular circle of voices. in a matter of months cat had already invited you to their biweekly karaoke bar night and he began to listen in through walls for your voice at the planet. the girl that had shown up at the bar not matching up his registry of things he had heard from you at the office. at work you were quiet, meek, reserved, the complete opposite of who he was just witnessing bouncing on the stage alongside cat and lois. a totally off beat rendition of rich girl by hall and oates flooding the bar you all decided to stop at.

your smile was contagious, and even though you were drunk off your mind—the slightly off beating of your heart giving away your drunken state—he could not remember the last time he heard a voice like yours.

when you sat back down beside him, he handed you a glass of water and the way you looked at him made the bar go quiet. jimmy and lois' off key duet of girl's just wanna have fun fading into the background.

"how'd we do?" you had asked.

and from the tone of your voice, he decided he shouldn't lie. "that was horrible."

you both laughed at the seriousness of his tone. you didn't invite him up to the stage with you that night, but he knew he would've done background vocals for any song you had asked.

two weeks later he had found you alone in the break room, eating a burrito by the corner closest to the door. when he said "hi" you jumped in surprise, a smile decorating your face immediately after.

"can i sit here?" he'd asked. and when you smiled and nodded he sat down next to you in the small table.

from then on you two would spend your lunch breaks together. and for the next karaoke bar night, he was the one to invite you. not cat.

when you said you had to do don't stop believing, he was the one by your side up on the stage. the smile on your face so carefree, so bright, intoxicating in a way. if he was able to get drunk, he had the feeling that is how it would feel like. by the end of the night, your cheeks were red from the tequila and when he offered to walk you home you were bold enough to grab his hand the whole way. not that he tried to pull away at all whatsoever.

the next time he invited you out after work wasn't for a group karaoke night.

"i wanted to know if you would like to have dinner tonight" he had asked, poking and prodding at his salad bowl. "just you and me"

the slight pause to your heartbeat making him look up, "yeah." you'd answered with a smile.

after the first date, he'd invite you anywhere he could. and offer to come with any time you would have him. by the fifth grocery store run, he'd ask you to be his girlfriend.

in the produce section. next to the pears.

"you and i would make a great pear" he said as you sorted through the fruits, making you laugh as you looked at him.

"what?" you'd said between laughs.

he took that as his cue to keep going, scanning the fruits and vegetables around you to come up with more puns. "you make my heart skip a beet"

when you'd laughed again, he simply asked. "would you let me be your boyfriend?" and smiled as you nodded and said yes.

he loved spending time with you, loved it when you spent the night at his place. loved making dinner with you, sitting in the couch and watching movies with you. he even loved when you couldn't sleep at two a.m. and asked things like

"do you think worms get to see our faces from the ground? or are we faceless monsters that squish the grass and yell when we see them?"

which would turn into a long conversation that would end with him offering to sing you to sleep just for you to stop asking him about worms, or vegetables, or the bottom of the ocean.

"but think about it clark! there has to be at least one megalodon in the mariana trench"

"stop watching national geographic before bed"

yet in all your conversations, you never mentioned work. and maybe he should've asked. maybe he should've considered it odd. you listened to him talk about work, but he had never heard anything from your side of the planet. so he decided to stop by one day.

his day was slow, he had finished his article early for once. and he wanted to see you in your element. you were always visiting him upstairs, why had he never thought to do the same for you before?

his ears were perfectly attuned to you. and the closer he walked to the photography department, the clearer he could hear you. you and the group of girls that were talking with you. or more at you.

"wow y/n," he heard someone say, flipping through your photos. "these shots have such a raw quality to them. totally candid"

he stopped to hear your reply. a small airy laugh was all they pulled from you.

another voice interjected. "yeah, real personal. almost like a hobby"

“she does seem personal,” someone added. “especially with the reporters. kent.”

one of the voices snickers, your breath shuddering.

“you don’t look like the type,” she said casually, “so how do we get him to request us like you?”

both girls laugh and he can hear your heart beat a bit faster, he knew you were blushing.

"yeah" you mumble and let out a small laugh. "i gotta go hand these in to perry"

he heard your steps approaching and as soon as you were close enough to him he caught you by the shoulders. eliciting a gasp from you, "clark".

your eyes were red and your cheeks were burning up. "oh baby" he mumbled, opening his arms to you. to which you immediately take comfort in.

he squeezes you twice before rubbing your back and letting you pull away, he grabs the pictures from your hands and flips through them. "oh honey these are great, the light is doing some great framing in this one." his compliments elicit a smile from you, the confidence back in your step as she makes her way to the elevator towards perry's office.

clark, on the other hand, rounds the corner into the photo room. immediately finding the two girls fawning over some photo one of them had taken. the one that called you personal notices him first.

"hi clark!" she says, brushing her hair over her shoulder.

"hi" he says with a curt smile. "i was looking for a photo from last week's protest at the square."

they both perk up at the request. "oh sure clark, what kind?"

"it doesn't really matter" he says with a smile. "i was looking for something low res. just for a mockup" he adds with a soft, kind tone.

he approaches the work table they were standing by and zones in on one of the photos they had spread. "ah. this will do the trick" he says with a smile. "may i?"

when he looks up both girls are giving him a death glare, nodding at his request.

"thank you" he says kindly. "keep up the good work." he adds, before exiting the photo room and getting walking towards the elevator.

i. WORD OF MOUTH

The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon. 

Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy. 

His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex. 

There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read. 

Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it. 

Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material. 

“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the mid-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.

You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building. 

(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.) 

Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man. 

It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you. 

You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.  

Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way. 

Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head. 

“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?” 

Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated! 

“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?” 

You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.” 

“No kidding?” 

“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought. 

Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe. 

Because his cheating needed to be international. 

Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it. 

(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.) 

Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony. 

Jackass. 

“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?” 

“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.” 

“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute. 

After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.

Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.

So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons. 

1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you. 

Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.

Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.

He just couldn’t ruin a good thing. 

You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile. 

“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.” 

You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”

“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again. 

You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.” 

“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.

“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly. 

Clark blinks. 

“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”

“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”

You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue. 

There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good! 

Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use. 

“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”

He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.

Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere. 

You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.” 

“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it. 

To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.

However, this was fixable. 

Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?” 

“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.” 

“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.” 

Clark frowns, “Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?” 

“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.

He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman. 

Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him. 

ii. WEEKLY PAPER

The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right? 

A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day! 

For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis. 

The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help. 

Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest. 

That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman. 

(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.) 

So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community. 

He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars. 

The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning. 

How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.) 

When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience. 

He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D. 

Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service? 

It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.

Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course. 

Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman. 

Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that. 

It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution! 

That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for. 

“Morning, Clark.” you chirp as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.” 

(There was a reason for that.) 

Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.” 

“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.

“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.” 

“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.) 

You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding. 

“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?” 

“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.” 

Clark wants to call you dramatic. 

He goes for, “I hear you.” instead. 

“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.” 

How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness when it came to you. 

And your means to be overtly theatrical.

Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft. 

Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more. 

He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.” 

“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.” 

“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly. 

You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.” 

“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.” 

iii. SUPERSHIT 

Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.  

One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent. 

His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent. 

The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog. 

“Whew. Bad day?” 

The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone. 

Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.

“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?” 

When Clark hesitates, you answer for him. 

“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.” 

Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.

You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads. 

Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time. 

Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase. 

He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car. 

(For good reason!) 

The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table. 

The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs. 

It was hard not to look at him. 

The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you. 

That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual. 

Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.” 

You perk, “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?” 

“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state. 

Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.” 

“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.” 

The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age. 

Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend. 

Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation. 

Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love. 

That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right. 

But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.

He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?) 

It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask. 

It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision. 

“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—” 

“Clark.” 

Clark hums, “Hm?” 

“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.” 

“You would?” 

You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.” 

“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile. 

The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement. 

His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on. 

The night should’ve ended there—on a high. 

Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark. 

You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance. 

“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—” 

“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.” 

Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.” 

You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.” 

Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.

(Sunlight status revoked.)  The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun. 

His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red. 

Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly. 

“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—” 

“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”

“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”

Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!” 

“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?” 

OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction. 

You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.” 

Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.” 

He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.

Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION

So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.

After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patience was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.

The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee. 

Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview. 

The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.

Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)  

Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role. 

Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.

“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone. 

You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own. 

“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.” 

“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?” 

“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.) 

“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.” 

Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.” 

You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.” 

“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?” 

“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.” 

“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it. 

It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”

Lois really likes you. She decides. 

“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.” 

“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”

Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open. 

Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman. 

He was saving kids. How could you resent that? 

Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered! 

But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story. 

“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors. 

“Pardon me?” 

You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.” 

“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—” 

“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.” 

“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I have time.” 

You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?” 

“Yes. I suppose I should have.” 

It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.” 

“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.” 

“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.” 

Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth? 

He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.

You know…once he takes elevator back up. 

Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully. 

“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.” 

“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?” 

“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. 

“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt. 

(Hook, line and sinker.) 

“Then yes.” 

+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES

You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time. 

And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.  

It was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust. 

Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom. 

You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.  

When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window. 

Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?” 

It sounded like him. 

Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain? 

The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Good evening ma’am.” 

You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!” 

He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?” 

“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.” 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?” 

“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.” 

Oh. He took your joke seriously. 

Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

You sigh, “Worth a shot.” 

Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.” 

“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.” 

A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site. 

Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions. 

You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood. 

Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort. 

You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head. 

He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose. 

Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether. 

“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful. 

You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.

“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?” 

He hums lowly. 

You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.” 

“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.” 

“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?” 

“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?” 

Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?” 

“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.” 

“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?” 

“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”

“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot. 

“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.” 

“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.) 

Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.” 

Oh, boy. 

“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?” 

“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway. 

You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?” 

Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.” 

“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.” 

“The glasses?” 

“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.” 

Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant. 

“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?” 

“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.” 

Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.” 

“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.” 

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.” 

You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.” 

“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city. 

With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”

“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)

“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone ebbs along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”

“Is that okay?”

“Again, Clark Kent—”

Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate. 

The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips. 

There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.) 

You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.” 

He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.” 

“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.” 

“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.” 

You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom. 

The blue light of your laptop was a cold, unforgiving sun in the dimness of your studio apartment. You were sprawled across the floor, the plush fibers of the taupe carpet pressing against your cheek, providing a strange grounding sort of friction against the drift of your thoughts.

Around you, the world felt static— a tableau of half finished coffee cups and a mountain of open tabs that hummed with a quiet, persistent buzz.

The emails sat in a neat, daunting row. A digital wall of obligations you weren't quite ready to climb yet.

“And then— Y/N! Are you even listening to me?” Aegon’s voice, tiny and sharp through the phone speakers, sliced through your temporary trance.

You blinked, your eyes burning from the screen glare as you shifted your weight, propping your chin up with your palm.

In the small, glowing rectangle of the FaceTime window Aegon—Egg— looked borderline offended. His shaved head an evidence of rebellion in a family that prized their silver-gold manes like religious relics. His face catching the light of his bedside lamp.

“Huh!” You shook your head, the motion making the room tilt for a fraction of a second. “I’m here, Egg. I’m listening, I swear.”

Egg sighed. A dramatic, heavy sound that seemed too weary for a boy his age. He rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated by the camera angle. “Right. Sure you are. So, what did I just say? About Daeron promising to take me to that amusement park?”

You stared at him, your brain a chaotic, filing cabinet of unfinished assignments and to-be-attended seminars. “Uhm… well… I know it involved something about… the dornish puppeteers? Did they have a pop-up show near the ferris wheel?”

“See! I knew it!” He pointed a traitorous finger at the camera, his expression a mix of triumph and genuine annoyance. “You weren't listening. You were doing that thing which you do when my dad is talking and you’re pretending like you’re listening.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay!” You groaned, finally surrendering to the fatigue and letting your head thud back against the base of the velvet sofa behind you. Choosing to ignore his side remark for your own sanity.

You reached out, fumbling to perch the phone against a discarded thrown pillow so you could look at him without holding the device. “I’m just… I’m swamped Egg. College is kicking my ass. It’s a relentless cycle of deadlines, and your family… your beautiful, brooding, weirdly passive-aggressive family… they’re a lot to handle sometimes.”

You knew, logically, that you shouldn't be venting the intricacies of Targaryen interpersonal drama to the youngest member of the dynasty, but Egg was anything but a normal kid.

He was the sixth son of a fourth son. He was free to do as he pleased, yet he still carried the weight and prejudice that came with the Targaryen name.

“Tell me about it,” Aegon deadpanned.

He flopped onto his back, his camera swinging wildly to show a ceiling painted with a mural of the night sky— it was expensive, meticulous, and cold.

“They’re exhausting. Especially when Daeron starts drinking those ‘medicinal’ herbal teas that smell like a brewery.”

You didn’t even want to know.

“The point is,” you sighed, closing your eyes and letting the hum of your laptop anchor you, “I’m trying to keep my head above water, and I’m sorry if I can’t remember every minuscule detail of the amusement park itinerary. I’m trying to be a person, Egg. It’s harder than it looks.”

Aegon went quiet suddenly. Through the screen, his expression softened, his eyes losing that sharp, precocious edge.

He looked, for a moment, like a little boy who just missed his friend.

“I know,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “I didn’t mean to be difficult. Much.”

“It’s fine,” you whispered, biting the corner of your lip, suddenly feeling guilty for dumping everything onto him.

You felt the familiar ache of your own position. The permanent babysitter, the girl who came over every friday, the honorary older sister who still had to submit invoices to a business manager at the end of every month.

You loved them, you truly did.

You loved the chaos of Kiara’s friendship and the way she navigated the social stratosphere with a grace you could only envy.

You loved Daella and Rhae, even when they were being impossible.

But you were an orbit away from their sun.

“Plus,” you added, the bitterness leaking out before you could stop it, “your asshole brother has made it his personal mission in life to make sure I don't have a single moment of peace on campus.”

You didn’t bother to censor the word.

‘Asshole’ was perhaps the kindest descriptor you had for Aerion Targaryen.

“Aerion?” Egg’s voice sharpened with genuine confusion and a flicker of something that looked quite like dread. “What’s he doing now? Is he being… weird again?”

You remembered when Egg had told you— about how apparently Aerion had drowned his cat in the well once. Looking at the dying creature with cold, detached eyes. A shudder ran through you, a cold finger tracing the length of your spine.

“Nothing direct,” you lied, though the lie felt thin, even from your own lips.

“Just comments. He’s always there Egg. In the student union, in the courtyard… leaning against that ridiculous car of his. He always makes these… remarks. About my clothes. About how I look like I’m constantly lost. About how I don’t ‘belong’ there.”

“Y/N…” Aegon sounded worried now.

“It’s stupid. He’s just a nepo baby with too much time and a god complex,” you said, trying to regain your footing. “He’s an asshole, and that’s just the natural order of things.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to take his offenses just because you’re working for—babysitting me,” Egg quickly corrected himself, his loyalty flaring up.

You bit your lip harder. That was the crux of it, wasn't it? You were the help, even if you were the help that got invited to Christmas dinner.

You were terrified of the day you might snap, of the day you might finally tell Aerion Targaryen exactly what you thought of his entire ‘brightflame’ persona, and subsequently find yourself without a job and a roof over your head.

Maekar, his father, was a fair man—hard, but fair, but you knew that blood was thicker than any employee contract.

“I know. I can handle it. Really,” you assured him, though your voice lacked the steel you wanted. You were tired of constantly being the resilient one, the punching bag.

Aegon huffed, clearly unconvinced, but he knew better than to push you when you were in this mood.

He rolled over in his bed, the rustle of his cotton sheets audible through the phone. “Well… anyway, I need to go. Maester Mellon is taking us for a ‘nature walk’ tomorrow. Which is just code for looking at dirt and pretending it’s interesting.”

“Ah. How academic. How very thousand eyes and one of him,” you snickered, referencing the old campus joke about the faculty’s surveillance.

“Shut up,” Egg grumbled, but there was a smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Egg. And don’t stay up late playing Minecraft. I can see your status on Discord, you know.”

“Love youuu! Bye!”

He didn’t even wait for a response before the screen went black, the call cutting off with a soft bloop.

The silence came abruptly after. The ‘I love you’ lingering in the air. A warm, soft thing that made the cold blue light of the laptop feel a little less clinical. You hated how natural it sounded.

He was the reason you stayed. This little boy and his ridiculous shaved head were the only thing currently keeping you motivated.

But tomorrow was Monday. Tomorrow meant the university campus. It meant navigating the labyrinth of ivory towers and the even more treacherous social hierarchy of the ‘great houses’ students.

“Oh, fuck me,” you muttered, pressing your fingers against your temples. A headache was already beginning to bloom behind your eyes. The humming of the fridge audiable in the background.

You thought of Aerion— the way he wore his arrogance like a tailored suit, and the way his eyes always seemed to find you in a crowd, tracking you with the predatory focus of someone who had never been told ‘no.’

You considered, just for a moment, the blissful possibility of staying in bed. Of letting the emails rot and the classes pass you by.

But then you thought of Egg’s laugh and Kiera’s frantic texts about the next big event, and you sighed.

You wouldn't give Aerion the satisfaction of your absence.

You’d show up, you’d take his insults, and you’d survive.

Because that’s what you did. You were the permanent babysitter, the girl who kept the dragons from burning down the house, even if it meant you got a few singe marks along the way.

Transitioning from the claustrophobic, blue light drenched sanctuary of your apartment to the sprawling, high-gothic grandeur of King’s Landing University always felt like a leap between two different centuries.

The previous night’s two hour digital marathon with Egg, his face a pixelated mess of adolescent indignity, felt like a fever dream by the time the morning sun hit the red brick facade of the Law building.

You were walking arm in arm with Kiera, your boots clicking rhythmically against the cobblestones that had been smoothed by centuries of entitled footsteps.

Kiera was a walking riot of color, as usual. A middle finger to the beige and navy minimalist aesthetic of the university’s elite. Her curls were a defiant, ethereal bubblegum pink, a nod to her Tyroshi heritage that she wore like a proud, neon sign.

She was draped in an oversized, custom hand painted silk coat that billowed behind her, looking effortlessly chic in a way that made the old money students in their barbour jackets look like they were wearing uniforms. All of them dulled in comparison to her.

"I’m telling yo Y/N, the look on Valarr’s face was priceless," Kiera giggled, the sound like wind chimes in the crisp morning air. She was recounting the latest scandal from the Breakspeare household.

"We were at this tiny, artisanal bistro very low-key, very ‘we’re not that famous'— and then Matarys calls. He sounds like he’s trying to describe the color of his own soul. Apparently, he thought those brownies in the fridge were just… well regular brownies."

You snorted, a stray lock of hair whipping across your face. "Matarys?” Your voice is filled with disbelief, imagining the straight edged, Dondarrion freckled, golden boy who apparently took an edible? By accident? How does that even happen?

"Accidentally, my ass. On purpose, maybe," Kiera deadpanned. "He told Valarr he was 'too scared of the ceiling' to call Baelor. Can you imagine? Calling the deputy of Targaryen corp who also happens to be your terrifyingly perfect father— to tell him the room is spinning? Valarr had to leave our dessert to go rescue him from a very intense conversation with a floor lamp."

"I think it's sweet that they trust each other like that," you noted, though a pang of envy flickered in your chest.

The Targaryens were a mess. A beautiful, sprawling, high functioning disaster, but they were a unit. Even when they were spiraling, they had someone to call. "I don’t think I’d have the courage to call anyone in that state. I’d just accept my fate and become one with the carpet."

"Oh, please," Kiera nudged you, her elbow sharp but affectionate. "You would’ve called me. Mostly because I’d probably be the one who gave you the brownie in the first place."

"True," you admitted, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to dissipate.

The campus was nothing short of electric today. Between the towering library and the ivy choked faculty buildings, a sea of white tents had been erected.

The KLU Student Body was hosting a massive charity drive for the urban renewal of Flea Bottom. The low income district that sat in the shadow of the university’s pristine hill. It was the kind of performative altruism the university adored; students in five hundred dollar sneakers selling cupcakes to 'end poverty.'

Still, it meant the atmosphere was festive rather than academic. No three hour seminars on ancient tournaments and conquests. No grueling geography tests on the tourist economies of the Summer Isles.

For a moment, you felt invincible. You were young, you were wearing your favorite thrifted leather jacket, and you were flanked by a woman who looked like a walking sunset.

"Looks like we have a penchant for trouble—" you started to say, the words light on your tongue. But as soon as the words escaped your lips, you wished they never had.

The scent is what gave him away. The sandalwood and expensive tobacco, and a sharp, metallic note of something like ozone. It was a fragrance that cost more than your monthly rent.

And the very air in the crowd seemed to shift, as if out of reverence.

Standing near the fountain, leaning against a stone gargoyle with a level of practiced arrogance that bordered on the divine, was Aerion Targaryen. A vision of monochromatic cruelty.

His hair, that signature Targaryen silver-white, was messily styled but perfectly maintained, catching the morning light like spun glass. He was wearing black dress pants that looked custom tailored to his lean frame and a crisp, white shirt with the top three buttons undone, exposing the pale line of his throat. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the dirt of the path he clearly felt superior to.

"Seven hells," you whispered, the invincibility of the morning shattering like dropped porcelain. "Just the thing I needed. My daily dose of arsenic."

Kiera’s upbeat expression flattened instantly. Her pastel brows furrowed as her eyes landed on her boyfriend’s cousin. "Oh. Him."

You tried to pivot, to blend into a group of passing freshmen, but it was too late.

Aerion’s gaze—a pale, violet-grey that felt like being stared at by a glacier— already snapped to yours. He straightened up. A slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. He practically descended upon you.

"Not babysitting the impudent little rat today, are you?"

His voice was a smooth, melodic drawl, the kind of voice that belonged to a venomous serpent draped in silk, and was currently being used as a weapon. He didn't even bother with a greeting. To Aerion, you were a fixed point in the universe— a target.

"Aerion," Kiera said, her voice dropping into the clipped, diplomatic tone she used when dealing with the more volatile members of the family tree.

He offered her a shallow, mocking nod, his eyes never leaving yours. He was sizing you up, his gaze raking over your outfit, the slightly worn boots, the frayed hem of your jeans—with a visible, shimmering disdain. It was as if he were looking at a smudge on an otherwise perfect canvas.

"And you," he turned his focus to Kiera, his presence suddenly suffocating. "Not hanging off my dear cousin’s arm today, Kiera? Or has Valarr finally realized that your color palette is… shall we say, a bit too much for a future diplomat?"

Kiera visibly tensed beside you, her hand tightening on your arm. "Valarr is busy with the faculty. They’re organizing the fundraiser. You know, for people who actually need help?"

Aerion let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He looked at the charity tents with an expression of profound boredom.

"How lovely. Charity being organized by… charity cases." He leveled a pointed, malicious look at you. The implication hung in the air like a foul mist: You are the help. You are the Flea Bottom they are pretending to care about.

"If you have nothing nice to say, Aerion, you might as well take your expensive cologne and your bad attitude back to the economics wing," you managed through gritted teeth, your pulse hammering in your ears. "Some of us are actually trying to have a good day."

He stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could see the fine, silver lashes framing his eyes. "Careful," he hissed, his voice dropping to a poisonous whisper that only you could hear. "Remember, sweetheart, you still work for my father. One word about your… 'unprofessional' outbursts, and you’ll be back to working at the puppeteer shows without a paycheck to catch you."

"You have some nerve—" Kiera started, stepping forward to defend you, but you caught her hand.

Aerion chuckled, a sound of pure amusement. "Careful Tyrosh. Calm your little friend. We wouldn't want those wedding bells with Valarr to stop tolling before they even start, would we? Uncle Baelor is so very particular about the company his heir keeps."

The threat was veiled, but heavy. He was reminding both of you of the precariousness of your positions. Kiera was a girlfriend; and you were an employee. He was something neither of you would ever be. He was blood.

"Have a fun time, ladies," he added casually, slinging his hands into his pockets and stepping back.

He swept his gaze over you one last time, his eyes lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second too long before turning cold again. "Taking care of… blind children and narcomaniacs. It suits you. Very 'salt of the earth.'"

And with that he vanished into the crowd, his silver hair a beacon of light amidst the sea of brown and blonde. The scent of his cologne lingering like a physical weight, a reminder of the encounter that made you feel suddenly, violently small.

"What the hell is actually wrong with him?" Kiera muttered, practically dragging you away from the fountain and toward the arts and humanities building. "He’s getting worse. It’s like he’s bored of being a Targaryen, so he’s decided to try his hand at being a demon."

"Nothing’s wrong with him, Kie," you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts. "Some people are just inherently evil. It’s a biological trait. He was born with silver hair and a missing conscience."

"You really believe that?"

"Don't you?"

Kiera didn't answer. She just hummed a low, thoughtful note as you reached the sanctuary of the arts building.

Inside (to your relief) the atmosphere changed instantly. The clinical, cold air of the campus was replaced by the scent of turpentine, linseed oil, and stale coffee.

Tanselle was positioned in the center of the atrium, perched on a wooden stool that looked like it was held together by prayer and old paint.

She was a muralist by trade, but today she was doing 'quick fire' portraits for the charity drive. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, and a smudge of cerulean blue decorated her cheekbone. She was focused, her brush moving with a grace that made the chaos around her seem like background noise.

"Oh! Hey!" she greeted once she had noticed your presence, not looking up until she’d finished a delicate line on the canvas. "What’s up? I’m just finishing this one… it’s a portrait of a 'lost soul’ or something… I think the student just had a bad hangover."

"We ran into the devil on the way here," you deadpanned, leaning against a nearby table cluttered with jars of brushes.

From the shadows of a nearby pillar, a girl with fiery red hair and a look of permanent skepticism emerged. Rowan— she was holding a thermos that you knew for a fact contained more vodka than tea.

"You mean prince brightflame?" Rowan mocked, her eyebrow arching. "Did he set anyone on fire today, or was he just being his usual, sparkling self?"

"The one and only," Kiera sighed, leaning down to give Tanselle a quick, paint avoidant squeeze.

"Okay, enough about Targaryens. Especially the ones who think they’re God’s gift to the student union," you groaned, rubbing your temples. "I need to forget his face exists for at least four hours."

"What’s got your panties in a twist?" Rowan giggled, taking a long swig from her thermos. "Is it the insults? Or is it the fact that he looked particularly edible in that white shirt today?"

You stared at her, your expression flat. "Do not even finish that thought, Rowan. I don't care what the university policy is on student on student violence."

"Alright, alright, Seven Hells… no need to go all Maegor on me," Rowan grumbled, though she was still grinning.

She had an ongoing bet that your mutual hatred with Aerion was just a very long, very exhausting preamble to something else.

You hated that she even thought it. You hated even more that, for a split second by the fountain, you’d noticed the way the wind caught his hair.

"Anyway… on a lighter and happier note…" Kiera spoke up, leaning against another table of art supplies. "One of Valarr's faculty friends, some guy named Raymun, is hosting a party tonight at his off campus loft. It should be cool. Not too many nepo babies, good music, and an appropriate amount of booze. Valarr said it’s a 'no ego' zone."

“I'm in," Rowan said instantly, gleaming with newfound enthusiasm. “I have a constitutional right to be at every party within a five mile radius.”

“Um… yeah, sure,” Tanselle said, her voice a bit more hesitant as she cleaned a brush. “If I finish the mural for the atrium…”

"Don't worry, Tans. Duncan will be there," Kiera winked.

Everyone knew Duncan— the towering, incredibly earnest rugby captain who followed Tanselle around like a particularly large, loyal hound.

Tanselle flushed a deep, violent crimson, muming something about “not caring about rugby players” that everyone gracefully ignored.

“What about you, Y/N? You in?” Kiera turned her gaze to you, her eyes hopeful. "You need this. You’ve been buried in schoolwork and Egg’s drama for weeks. One night. No babies, no Targaryens, no responsibilities."

You mulled it over. You had a Yi-Ti translation due on Wednesday. You had three chapters of The Citadel Chronicles to summarize. And, you had a lingering headache from Aerion’s venom.

In the back of your mind, a small, cynical voice whispered that a party hosted by Valarr’s friends was a dangerous place for someone trying to avoid the ‘inner circles.’

But you pushed it down. You were with your friends. You were in the Arts Building and the sun was out.

“Sure,” you said, the word feeling like a victory. “To hell with the emails. I’m in.”

You didn't realize that in the world of the Targaryens, the 'no ego zone' didn't exist. And Aerion Targaryen was never the one to miss a performance.

The first thing that catches you by surprise is not the overwhelming, sweet haze of top-shelf Dornish cannabis or the sharp, botanical sting of expensive gin.

In a place that was supposed to be a temporary Friday night sanctuary— a casual, off-campus loft in the old industrial district, supposedly void of any high-end drama or old-money politics, and the insufferable nepo babies of the Red Keep quad— you expected paper cups and vinyl records.

Instead, you stepped into a room filled with exactly the kind of royalty you had spent the entire week trying to escape.

A party hosted by a close friend of Valarr Targaryen. You closed your eyes for a fraction of a second, cursing your own naivety.

How fortunate.

What had you honestly been expecting? A gathering of normal people? Students who actually worried about tuition and supermarket receipts like you did?

But the true shock wasn't the sheer, architectural immensity of the living room, with its polished concrete floors, exposed steel beams, and massive glass panels showcasing a panoramic view of the twinkling King's Landing skyline.

It was that sharp, jagged bolt of white light across the room. A head of messily perfect, silver-white hair that you had been praying to the Seven you wouldn’t see tonight.

And much worse, draped elegantly over his arm was Alicia Florent.

Alicia was widely considered the campus’s reigning deity of effortless glamour— excluding Kiera, of course, who occupied a stratosphere entirely of her own.

A finely manicured, diamond-ringed hand was splayed possessively across Aerion’s forearm, the dark wool of his designer jacket a stark contrast to her sunkissed skin. Her perfectly lined, glossy lips were curved open in a rich, musical laugh at whatever witty, venomous thing he was currently whispering into her ear.

She looked entirely, infuriatingly perfect.

Her makeup was a masterclass in high-end minimalism; a subtle, glittering shimmer danced across her eyelids and collarbones, looking so natural it defied the hours it must have taken to apply. Her clothes, a silk, emerald-green slip dress fitted her like a second skin.

It was obviously expensive, the kind of fabric that didn't wrinkle or catch, and you were suddenly, violently overwhelmed by a suffocating wave of inferiority.

She was a natural. A creature born to inhabit rooms like these, to drink from crystal flutes and look down on the rest of the world with a lazy, secure smile.

You desperately tried to tuck that jealous sense of inadequacy away, but it was hard when your own outfit suddenly felt like a joke.

The structured black crop top and matching silk skirt (which Kiera had practically forced you into, insisting you needed to show a little skin and live a little) now felt entirely too revealing. Under the invisible, judgmental gazes of the KLU elite, the fabric seemed to suffocate you. Making you feel exposed and clownish instead of gorgeous.

You felt like an imposter who had snuck in through the servant's entrance.

You forced yourself to shake off the feeling, taking a deep breath as you stepped further into the warm, bass-heavy atmosphere of the loft, hand in hand with Rowan.

Rowan, bless her, was a necessary shield against the room's collective snobbery.

She was sporting a vintage leather jacket slung effortlessly over a fiery, scarlet jumpsuit that perfectly matched her untamed nature. Her thick, red curls were propped into a flawless, artfully messy topknot on her head, and she moved through the crowd like a queen inspecting her subjects.

“Hi! Hello! Oh my god, babe, you look so stunning!” Rowan called out, waving to a group of arts students by the balcony. She was so painfully, beautifully natural at this— at being kind, funny, charismatic, and universally liked.

While she floated through the social waters with ease, you just stood there awkwardly, anchoring yourself to her hand and pinning a tight, plastic smile to your face, hoping no one would look close enough to see the panic in your eyes.

Tanselle and Kiera were a few paces behind you, following closely on your heels, looking equally shimmering and joyful.

The heavy, rhythmic thumping of the bass from the speakers couldn't drown out the sudden shift in the air behind you. You caught the faint, warm sound of Valarr’s deep voice as he approached their group.

Turning your head slightly, you watched as the heir apparent to the Breakspeare fortune greeted Kiera, his chocolate brown hair catching the amber pendant lights as he leaned down to press a tender, familiar kiss to her temple.

Right beside them, Duncan— the towering rugby captain who looked slightly terrifying but possessed the heart of a golden retriever— was already hovering over Tanselle.

He muttered a shy, earnest greeting, and even in the dim lighting of the loft, you could see Tanselle flush a furious, violent crimson.

You turned around fully just to shoot her an encouraging, all-knowing smile. She caught your eye, her blush deepening as she biting her lip, a silent plea for you to stop teasing her.

Before you could offer any more silent solidarity, Rowan was suddenly pulled to the side. The host of the party himself—Raymun Fossoway— had caught sight of her.

He intercepted your path with a wide, bright grin, and the immediate body language between them suggested they were much more familiar than you had previously realized.

“Hey,” Raymun greeted you, extending a hand to shake yours.

His grip was polite, but it was entirely clear that his brain had ceased to function the moment he looked past your shoulder. His eyes literally could not leave Rowan’s stunning, scarlet-clad figure.

You couldn't even find it in yourself to be annoyed. You got it. Everyone looked at Rowan when she entered a room.

You offered him a quick, polite greeting, gently squeezing Rowan's hand before letting it go. "I'll be totally fine on my own," you assured her in a quiet whisper, giving her a reassuring nod as Raymun already began pulling her into a conversation about some indie band.

“Okay, scream if you need anything!” She managed to let out before Raymun dragged her away towards some friends.

Turning away from the couples and the social butterflies, you looked toward the far side of the room.

You needed a barrier between yourself and the silver haired specter by the window.

Deciding to put some distance between yourself and the crowd, you began to weave through the sea of silk and linen, heading straight toward the crowded kitchen counter to grab a drink.

The kitchen was nothing short of breathtaking, a cathedral of high end consumption, dominated by a vast marble island that looked like it had been carved from a single cloud.

It was cluttered with an array of spirits that felt more like museum artifacts than party supplies— bottles of triple-distilled vodka and vintage Dornish reds with labels so ornate and script so archaic you could barely pronounce the names, let alone guess the price point.

You were in the middle of decanting a suspiciously shimmering liquid into what felt like a genuine crystal tumbler (half-convinced the glassware alone cost more than your monthly rent) when a sudden clearing of a throat vibrated through the air beside you.

Before you even turned, the scent hit you like a sensory ambush.

It was a suffocatingly sweet cloud of Ashai vanilla and sun-ripened strawberries— a fragrance so curated and polished it felt like walking into a high-end boutique in the middle of a summer heatwave.

It was the smell of someone who had never known the scent of a crowded subway or a cheap laundromat. It was the scent of a walking candy cane.

You turned, the heavy bottle still poised awkwardly in your hand. “Hm?” Your gaze collided with Alicia Florent.

“Hey.” Her voice was like honey dripped over velvet— painfully sweet and effortlessly melodic.

She flashed a smile that belonged in a Vogue editorial, her teeth so perfectly white and aligned they looked like a row of polished pearls. “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice dropping as a group of boisterous students pushed past, forcing her to press into your personal space.

Up close, the perfection was devastating.

Her blonde hair didn't just curl; it spiraled in a way that suggested a personal stylist had spent hours meticulously crafting a 'natural' look. Her eyes were two pools of shimmering, ocean-like blue crystals, framed by lashes so long they seemed to cast shadows against her high, sculpted cheekbones.

You felt a sudden, sharp pang of grounding reality; you totally understood why Aerion had her anchored to his side.

She was a goddess crafted from old money privilege and premium skincare.

You stood there, feeling like a low resolution glitch in a high definition movie, holding the glass bottle with a grip that was far too tight. You were painfully aware of the contrast— her glittering, effortless grace against your own sense of being an intruder in a world built for people like her.

“Oh, I just came over to grab us a drink,” she said, her smile widening as she registered your wide eyed, deer in headlights expression.

The ‘us’ hung in the air like a territorial flag.

It was a subtle, sharp reminder that while you were here as a guest of a friend, she was here as a part of the dynasty. People like Alicia Florent and people who spent their weekends parsing complex Yi-ti sentences and babysitting the youngest Targaryen did not inhabit the same social stratosphere.

It was just a biological fact of campus life.

She let out a soft, airy giggle— a sound that was probably practiced to perfection— and reached for a gold-labeled bottle of Arbor Gold. “Do you mind?” she asked, her gaze flicking down to your hand, noting that you were essentially guarding the bar.

“Right… um, sorry,” you stammered, your face heating up as the ice in your glass rattled.

You cleared your throat, the unknown liquid in your cup sloshing dangerously as you stepped back, yielding the marble altar to its rightful priestess.

You didn't wait for her to say anything else. You pivoted, ducking your head and weaving your way through the press of bodies, heading toward a shadowed, secluded corner of the loft near the floor to ceiling windows.

You decided then and there to leave the expensive drink-mixing to the expensive nepo babies; you needed the darkness of the corner to hide the fact that you suddenly felt very, very visible.

You bumped into people muttering quiet little ‘sorry’s’ and ‘excuse me’s’ until you finally found the heavy glass sliding doors that led out to the expansive terrace.

You needed air. You needed to escape the suffocating sweetness of Alicia’s strawberry scented perfection and the low, heavy hum of bass that was beginning to rattle the inside of your skull.

As you stepped outside, the climate shifted instantly.

The cool, midnight breeze of King’s Landing clipped at your bare shoulders, a welcome shock to your system. Below the loft, the sprawling, chaotic expanse of the metropolis hummed with nocturnal life.

You could hear the faint, distorted sounds of the city filtering up to the penthouse level— distant shouts from the entertainment district, the aggressive honk of car horns, and the low, rhythmic wail of a siren echoing somewhere down in the valleys of the concrete jungle.

Above it all, the towering skyscrapers of the financial sector gleamed like sharp, metallic monoliths, their glass windows reflecting millions of tiny, artificial lights against the dark canopy of the sky.

It was the quintessential Westerosi dream: a glittering, cutthroat paradise built on old money and modern ambition.

You leaned your weight against the sleek, black iron railing, closing your eyes as you took a deep, centering breath. You let the crisp night air fill your lungs, hoping it would cleanse the dizzying haze of the Dornish wine and the residual contact smoke from the living room.

Out here, the party was beautifully muted. The thumping bass became a dull, rhythmic heartbeat against the glass, and the loud, overlapping conversations of the KLU elite drifted away into the wind.

For a few fleeting seconds, suspended high above the streets, you felt entirely untouched by the hierarchy inside.

A movement in the far corner of the terrace caught your eye. A couple was deeply entrenched in the shadows, draped over one another on a low outdoor sectional. They were clearly drunk, murmuring slurred, lovey-dovey obscenities into each other’s ears, entirely oblivious to the world.

You squinted at them for a fraction of a second, rolled your eyes with a quiet shrug, and walked purposefully toward the furthest, most isolated edge of the balcony, seeking whatever true peace you could salvage.

Then, the heavy glass door hissed open behind you.

You didn't turn around. You assumed the amorous couple had finally taken their business indoors, or perhaps another drunk freshman had come out to throw up over the side. You remained still, staring out at the golden grid of the highway below, until the air around you changed.

The wind shifted, carrying that familiar, dangerous fragrance— sandalwood, rich tobacco. Your breath hitched in your throat.

Before you could even process the sensory warning, a lean, broad-shouldered frame leaned onto the railing right beside you.

Up close, the first things that caught the ambient light were his hands. His long, aristocratic fingers were loosely gripping the cold metal of the railing, adorned with an array of heavy, intricate rings.

They were beautifully crafted jewels, shaped into coiled dragons and sharp, jagged scales that caught the neon glow of the city lights. They were forged from dark, smoky Valyrian steel— the ultimate heirloom status symbol, modernized for a prince who wore his legacy like brass knuckles.

The irritation began to simmer in your chest, a biological knee-jerk reaction to his very existence. Your spine instantly straightened into a rigid, defensive line.

"Come out here to make my life a living hell again?" The words slipped past your lips before you could stop them, laced with a bitter, cynical venom.

Perhaps it was the cheap courage of the alcohol flowing through your veins, or maybe you were just entirely exhausted by his games, but you didn't care that you were speaking to your employer's volatile son with complete disrespect.

But to your absolute shock, the sharp, cutting retort never came.

There was no dry remark about your attitude, no poisonous reminder that he could have your contract terminated before sunrise. Aerion remained perfectly still.

He just stared straight ahead into the sprawling labyrinth of the city lights, his expression unreadable, as if entranced. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket and pulled out a classic, crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds.

You stood there silently, utterly dumbstruck by this newfound, quiet iteration of him.

Your gaze involuntarily drifted to his side profile. In the dim, ambient wash of the terrace lights, his features looked sharp enough to draw blood— the perfect curve of his nose, the slight clench of his jawline, and that notoriously messy, silver-white hair that somehow always managed to look effortlessly styled.

A sudden, sharp click broke the silence as he flicked open a matte-black lighter. The small, orange flame illuminated his face for a second, casting long shadows across his high cheekbones.

He inhaled deeply, taking a slow, heavy drag before letting the gray smoke curl lazily from his lips, wrapping around the space between you like a shroud.

You watched the way he held the cigarette between his fingers— so delicately, almost gently, as if he were tracing the fragile skin of a lover. It was a vulnerable, quiet posture that felt entirely out of character for the brutal, arrogant boy you encountered on campus.

You cocked your head to the side, your eyebrows furrowing as you silently questioned what kind of psychological game was unfolding.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I'll have to assume you like what you see." His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, rough from the smoke but dripping with his signature, lazy arrogance.

The tip of his cigarette glowed a fierce, angry orange as he took another slow drag. His violet-grey eyes never shifted from the concrete jungle below, but a slow, maddening smirk was beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth.

You let out a sharp, breathless scoff, though to your own horror, a strange sense of comfort washed over you at the sarcastic remark. It was predictably, entirely Aerion.

"You are so incredibly full of yourself," you muttered. And for the first time since you had met him, your words felt less like a defensive shield and more like a tease.

You blamed the wine. You blamed the heavy midnight air, the glittering skyline, and the infuriatingly perfect way the neon lights reflected in his pale irises. There was absolutely no logical way you were enjoying Aerion Targaryen’s company.

"You'd be profoundly bored without it," he bit back smoothly, finally turning his head to look at you.

When his gaze locked onto yours, it felt like a physical shock. His eyes were sharp, electric, and possessed a dark, hungry intensity that made the air in your lungs feel dangerously thin.

"You know, Aerion," you sighed, leaning back against the railing and trying to maintain your grounded, deadpan demeanor despite the sudden hammering of your pulse, "you are, without a doubt, the most irritating person I have ever encountered in my entire life."

"Say that again," he whispered. The shift in his tone was instantaneous. Something dark and predatory flashed in the depths of his eyes.

And you would have rather labeled yourself entirely delusional than admit that his lean frame had just gravitated toward yours, his shoulder brushing against your leather jacket as he leaned in close.

"What? That you're the most irritating person I’ve ever—"

"No," he snapped softly, his jaw clenching with a sudden, rigid intensity. "My name." He clarified.

You froze, your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stared at him. The sheer, magnetic weight of his presence was overwhelming. You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you finally relented to the gravity of the moment.

"Aerion," you spoke, the syllables falling from your lips more deliberately this time.

You tasted the weight of his name on your tongue, weighing the vowels as if testing a dangerous secret. It felt dizzyingly, terrifyingly intimate. No, you hate him. You absolutely despise his entire existence.

Suddenly, Rowan’s laughing voice flashed through your mind from earlier in the afternoon—You two just have too much mutual attraction. It’s chaotic chemistry, simmering until it bursts.

You forced yourself to clear your throat, aggressively pushing those chaotic thoughts into the darkest corners of your brain.

"So…" you began, desperate to fracture the suffocating tension that had built up between your bodies. "Where exactly is Alicia? I’m surprised she let you out of her sight for more than thirty seconds."

You wondered how the campus goddess had managed to lose her prize. Aerion's arm candy usually followed him everywhere at events like this, not necessarily because he possessed a genuine shred of affection for them, but because they served as a pristine status symbol.

"Inside," he said flatly, as if the answer were entirely inconsequential.

At the mention of the blonde girl, his silver brows furrowed with a brief, visible flicker of annoyance.

"I thought you liked her?" You shrugged, nervously fiddling with the rings on your own fingers, desperately trying to quell the strange, fluttering sensation that was beginning to bloom in the pit of your stomach.

Aerion watched your hands, tracking the nervous movement of your fingers before he straightened his posture.

He cleared his throat, the flashing silver face of his luxury watch catching the moonlight. "She’s…"

He cocked his head to the side, letting out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh that sounded entirely uncharacteristic. He nervously racked a hand through his white hair, his fingers disrupting the perfect mess of his strands as if he were genuinely struggling to find the right vocabulary.

"She's just…"

"Alicia," you finished for him, your tone flat.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver down your spine.

He turned his head fully now, his violet eyes locking onto your face with a dangerous, undisguised hunger.

"Don't look at me like that," you whispered, the words small, a desperate attempt to swallow the rising anxiety in your throat.

"Like what?" he chuckled, the sound rich and low against the background hum of the city.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. I hate you, Aerion. Remember?" you reasoned, trying to remind both him and yourself of the boundaries.

"You say that like you're trying to convince yourself," he murmured. He shifted his weight, turning his torso fully toward you now, completely invading your personal space.

Before your brain could formulate a cohesive, defensive response, his hand rose.

His long fingers reached out, the cold, heavy metal of his Valyrian steel rings brushing against the hypersensitive skin of your jawline as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His touch was agonizingly slow, a gentle contrast to the volatile persona he usually was.

"Let's just say…" he whispered, leaning down until his lips were mere inches from your ear, his breath a warm mix of heavy tobacco and expensive alcohol against your skin. "I vastly prefer you when you're not playing house for my little brother."

He was so incredibly close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. Your mind snapped under the proximity, an embarrassing, violent heat crawling up your neck.

What kind of twisted game was he playing? He had to be mocking you. This was undoubtedly another one of his cruel, depraved psychological experiments to see how easily he could break you—

The electric moment was violently shattered by the sharp hiss of the sliding glass door opening once again.

"There you are!"

Alicia’s glittering, emerald-clad frame stepped out onto the concrete terrace, her voice bellowing over the quiet hum of the night.

She was looking directly at Aerion, her glossy lips pouted in exaggerated annoyance. "I've been looking for you literally everywhere, everyone is in the lounge."

Aerion made a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat— a guttural, irritated sound as if pulling his weight away from your body physically pained him.

He straightened up, his demeanor instantly freezing back into its familiar, icy mask.

"Is everything… okay out here?" Alicia asked innocently, her ocean-blue eyes flicking curiously from Aerion's rigid posture to your flushed face.

She seemed entirely devoid of jealousy. In fact, the absolute absurdity of person like Aerion Targaryen harboring a genuine, consuming interest in a girl like you was clearly a concept so laughable she didn't even possess the capacity to entertain it.

To her, you were just the girl who watched Aegon. You were part of the background scenery.

You quickly cleared your throat, desperately trying to construct a normal sentence before the silence became incriminating. "Yeah. Um, we were just chatting about—"

You didn't even get to finish your lie. Alicia reached out, her manicured hand wrapping tightly around Aerion's forearm, physically dragging him toward the glowing warmth of the interior.

"Oh, perfect! Well, you can finish your little chat another time. Valarr is looking for you in the kitchen, they’re opening the good bottles."

With that, she began pulling him back toward the glass doors. Aerion aggressively shood her hand off his arm with a sharp flick of his wrist, but he was already trailing reluctantly on her heels, his compliance a necessity of the crowd inside.

Just before he crossed the threshold back into the roaring noise of the party, he stopped.

He looked back over his shoulder once, his pale, violet-grey irises catching the harsh glare of the neon signs.

"You're trouble," he murmured, his voice carrying a strange, low weight that felt dangerously pleasant.

You swallowed the remaining panic in your throat, anchoring your heels into the concrete. "You'd be bored without it," you managed to fire back, throwing his own line right back at his chest.

Aerion shook his head, a genuine, quiet huff of a laugh escaping his lips before he turned and vanished into the sea of silk and gold.

The glass door hissed shut behind him.

You let out a long, shuddering breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your fingers tightly gripping the iron railing as your knees felt suddenly, dangerously weak.

You stared blindly out at the twinkling lights of the King's Landing skyscrapers, the scent of sandalwood and tobacco still heavy in the midnight air.

What the hell had just happened?

The heavy glass door slid shut behind you, cutting off the crisp midnight breeze and plunging you back into the sensory overload of the penthouse.

The sudden spike in temperature, the thick scent of luxury perfumes competing with expensive cannabis overwhelmed you once again, and the sheer volume of the bass rattling through the hardwood floors.

You needed to drown out the memory of the balcony. You needed to dance, to drink, to find Kiera or Tanselle— literally anyone who could act as an anchor to reality before your thoughts completely spiraled into dangerous territory.

Like a neon beacon of hope in a sea of unknown faces, Kiera’s familiar head of bubblegum pink curls caught the light near the edge of the sunken living room. She was leaning against a sleek minimalist pillar, gesturing animatedly with a tiny martini glass as she talked to Valarr and a guy you didn’t recognize.

"Hey," you said, stepping into their orbit. A sudden, nervous energy carried you forward, your heart still beating a little too fast from your encounter outside.

The trio turned toward you. Kiera’s face lit up instantly, her eyes bright and slightly glassy— a telltale sign that she had been indulging a little too heavily in the free-flowing liquor.

She held her martini glass at a dangerously loose angle, the clear liquid sloshing near the brim. You didn't worry, though. Valarr was right beside her, his hand already resting protectively at the small of her back. He always looked out for her.

"Y/N!" Kiera beamed, throwing her free arm around your neck in a sudden, bone-crushing hug. She was definitely more intoxicated than she’d let on via text earlier. "You made it! I thought you died on the balcony!"

"Whoa, whoa, careful, love…" Valarr’s deep voice intervened smoothly.

With the practiced reflexes of a seasoned athlete, he leaned across, his long fingers gently but firmly catching the stem of the martini glass just as it slipped from Kiera’s grip. He wasn't fast enough to stop the liquid entirely though, as a splash of the gin sloshed straight onto the front of her silk top.

"Oh, shit," Kiera grumbled, staring down at the damp fabric and sighing in deep frustration at her own clumsiness.

"I'm going to go get this cleaned up," she mumbled, pouting as she gestured vaguely toward the corridor where the guest bathrooms were located, her legs a little wobbly beneath her.

"Yeah, and you’re not going anywhere alone in this crowd," Valarr pointed out, a tender, amused smile breaking across his handsome features. He looped an arm around her hips, effortlessly guiding her through the dense press of people. Before they disappeared, he offered a polite, apologetic nod to you and the remaining guy. "Excuse us for a minute."

You shook your head, a fond smile playing on your lips as you watched them go. Valarr really was the golden boy of the Breakspeare line— so effortlessly smooth, attentive, and diplomatic. He would make an incredible politician one day, exactly as his father Baelor intended.

Your eyes broke away from the retreating couple when a quiet throat-clearing sounded across from you.

You snapped your attention back to the stranger left standing in Valarr's wake. He was someone you had genuinely never seen before—not in the crowded lecture halls of the law building, not in the quiet, dusty corners of the study halls, and certainly not hanging around the high-end sports cars parked in the Red Keep quad.

He was blonde, but not the striking, otherworldly silver-blonde of the Targaryen dynasty. His hair was a softer, warmer shade of honeyed gold, messily strewn about his head in a way that suggested he had spent the day outdoors rather than in front of a mirror.

He possessed a wide, incredibly friendly grin that immediately crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was like a golden puppy. Lean and approachable, he wore a simple, well-fitted white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a pair of crisp, dark trousers. He looked entirely… safe.

"Hey… sorry for the chaos," he said, holding out a hand toward you. "Didn't even get a chance to introduce myself properly amidst the martini crisis. I'm Art."

You reached out and took his hand. When your fingers gripped his, you were caught off guard by the sheer warmth of his skin. There were no heavy, cold Valyrian steel rings biting into your palm this time. Just a normal, human touch.

"Me and Valarr are in the same political science major," he clarified, his smile widening as you exchanged names.

"Ah, right. You're Kiera's best friend," Art said, a look of recognition dawning on his face as he gestured toward a slightly quieter corner of the loft where a low leather bench sat empty. "Shit, Valarr mentions the two of you all the time when we're studying."

"He does?" You giggled, letting him guide you away from the main traffic of the walkway.

"Yeah… I mean, mostly he talks about Kiera. The man is completely, painfully down bad for her," Art laughed, scratching the back of his neck.

“Sound about right.” You bit back, sitting down beside him, you couldn't help but notice how entirely different his presence felt compared to the one on the balcony.

Aerion’s presence was a suffocating, atmospheric weight that demanded your entire cognitive capacity; it was all sharp edges, dangerous tension, and dark gravity. Art, on the other hand, felt like a sunny afternoon.

He was entirely down-to-earth. As you fell into easy, comfortable small talk, you learned he didn't come from a millionaire tech empire or an ancient political dynasty. He played tennis on a scholarship, had two younger siblings, and his parents actually owned a commercial dairy farm in the Reach district outside the city.

"Though, I have to say," Art added, leaning back against the bench and throwing you a playfully roguish look, "Valarr definitely left out the detail that Kiera had such a stunning best friend."

It was a textbook, slightly cheesy pickup line, and you couldn't help but swat his shoulder teasingly. "Oh, shut up," you grumbled, though a genuine laugh escaped you.

"What? I'm just stating facts!" he defended, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"So, you're a literal farmer?" you asked, leaning in, trying to make sure your voice didn't sound judgmental. It was just so rare to find someone at a KLU party who knew what manual labor felt like.

"What's so funny about that?" he laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I mean, I help out around the property when I go home for the holidays. I get the milk from the cows, mend the fences… why are you laughing so hard?"

"Nothing, nothing…" You shook your head, pressing a hand over your mouth as a breathless wheeze escaped you. "It's just… it's so incredibly Tom Sawyer of you. I didn't think guys like you actually existed at this university."

"Hey, it builds character," he grinned, his face completely open and relaxed.

You had to admit, you were having a surprisingly wonderful time. Art was easy to talk to, kind, and genuinely funny.

Yet, despite the effortless flow of the conversation, a traitorous, intrusive little voice in the very back of your head refused to go quiet.

No matter how much Art made you laugh, a part of your mind was still lingering on the balcony. Your skin still felt hyper-sensitive where Aerion’s smoky Valyrian steel rings had brushed against your jawline. You could still taste the phantom scent of Marlboro Reds and sandalwood in the back of your throat.

More than once, a prickling sensation washed over the back of your neck—that heavy, unmistakable feeling of a pair of eyes drilling into your spine.

But every time you casually glanced around the crowded room, hoping or fearing to catch a glimpse of silver hair, you found nothing but strangers. You're being delusional, you told yourself severely. He's with Alicia. He doesn't care about you.

At one point, Rowan walked past the lounge area, her hand securely laced with Raymun’s. When she caught sight of you chatting and laughing with the handsome, honey-blonde boy, she stopped dead in her tracks and shot you a massive, exaggeratedly knowing wink. You aggressively shook your head at her in return, your cheeks heating up as she giggled and let her host boyfriend pull her toward the bar.

"Anyway," Art said, drawing your attention back to the bench as he shifted the topic. "We were supposed to be discussing our interpretation of the Citadel Chronicles for Ashford's seminar. Did you actually manage to parse through the third volume's syntax? Because I'm convinced the author was having a stroke there.”

"Oh, the syntax is a nightmare," you agreed, glad for the academic distraction. "I had to stay up until three in the morning just trying to translate the regional economic data from the old port city—"

Before you could finish your sentence, a sharp, violent sound tore through the thick atmosphere of the loft. The sound of something crashing.

It was the unmistakable, explosive shattering of glass, heavy and resonant enough to cut right through the booming bass of the speakers. The music didn't stop, but the collective volume of the party’s laughter and chatter dropped instantly, replaced by a sudden, tense silence.

"What the hell…" Art muttered, his friendly expression instantly flattening as he stood up from the leather couch.

You rose immediately to follow his lead, your heart doing a strange, protective drop in your chest. Across the vast penthouse, a frantic murmur was breaking out. A large, dense crowd of students was already shifting, turning their heads and eagerly gathering near the wide archway of the kitchen entrance, voices rising in a sudden flurry of excitement and dread.

The easy, golden warmth of your conversation with Art dissolved like mist. You didn't even think; your boots were already moving, stepping off the leather bench and driving you toward the kitchen archway.

Art’s hand shot out, his warm fingers brushing against your wrist in a frantic attempt to anchor you, to keep you from running straight into the blast radius.

"Y/N, wait—don't get close to that," he warned, his voice low and tight with a regular guy's instinct for self-preservation.

You shooed him off with a sharp jerk of your arm, your eyes locked on the shifting geometry of the crowd ahead. "I’m fine, Art," you muttered, your focus completely consumed by the sudden shift in the room’s temperature.

"I'm not your fucking mate!" another voice roared, high-pitched and vibrating with pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

Around the kitchen perimeter, the KLU elite were already adopting their positions. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, holding their gold-rimmed glasses and designer clutches, their faces schooled into expressions of practiced, aristocratic judgment.

They acted horrified, wrinkling their noses as if violence were an urban disease beneath their tax bracket, but their eyes were wide, glittering with a sick, parasitic entertainment. Hypocrites, you thought. Every single one of them.

"What's happening?" you demanded, nudging the shoulder of a girl in a sequined top whose view wasn't blocked by the wall of tall rugby players currently forming a human barricade.

You didn't need her to answer. As if responding to the sheer force of your arrival, the crowd parted just enough to afford you a clear, unobstructed line of sight.

The pristine, grey-veined marble of the kitchen counter was no longer an altar for expensive wine. Aerion Targaryen had a guy pinned by the throat against the high-gloss white subway tile of the wall. His lean, tailored frame looked entirely predatory, his shoulders squared as he leveraged his weight to lift the other student an inch off the floor.

Before your brain could even process the visual, a sickening, wet crack echoed through the space, a sound so brutal it seemed to stop the music altogether. Aerion’s knuckle, adorned with those heavy, coiled Valyrian steel rings, had collided squarely with the guy's nose.

An ugly, violent crimson bloomed instantly across the boy's face, cascading like a ruptured river down the front of his pristine white linen shirt.

You gasped, the sound catching in your throat along with a collective, horrified ripple that shuddered through the entire throng of spectators.

It was a stark, grounding reminder: all the nepotism in Westeros, all the multi-million-dollar trusts, the high-end private nannies, and the legacy admissions didn't make the children of world leaders and corporate dynasties any less savage than regular street thugs when the veneer cracked. Underneath the tailored silk, they were still beasts. "Oh, you're fucking dead, Targaryen!" the guy barked, his voice choked on his own blood.

With a desperate, adrenaline-fueled surge, he managed to writhe his neck free from Aerion’s bruising grip. He didn't retreat; he lunged forward, sending a wild, heavy punch flying straight toward Aerion's jaw.

Some of the girls near the front shrank back in genuine horror, while a few of the more intoxicated frat guys from the sports faculty were outright beaming, too boozed up on top-shelf liquor to realize they were witnessing a potential lawsuit in real-time.

Through the shifting shoulders of the crowd, you finally spotted Raymun Fossoway trying to force his way to the front of his own kitchen, his face pale with the realization that his security deposit was currently being smeared across the walls. Rowan was trailing tightly behind him, her fiery red topknot slightly disheveled, her eyes wide and worried as she looked for you.

"Aye! What the fuck is happening here?" Raymun yelled, throwing his arms out as he finally breached the inner circle.

He shoved himself physically between the two crashing bodies, his hands pressing against their chests to stop them from completely tearing each other apart. "What the hell has gotten into the two of you? Knuckleheads! This isn't a fucking boxing ring! You've got a problem with each other, take it outside to the gravel!"

The injured student spat a massive, dark dollop of blood straight onto the polished concrete floor, the fluid landing right between Aerion’s polished shoes and Raymun’s sneakers. "Tell this prissy, silver-headed fuck—" the guy choked out, but he never got to finish the insult.

Aerion was already lunging again, his eyes entirely void of reason, his silver-white hair flying wildly around his face like a localized storm.

"Aerion!"

Alicia’s shrill, high-society shriek cut through the chaos like broken glass. She was hovering near the pantry, her perfect makeup ruined by lines of frantic tears, her emerald-green dress looking suddenly crumpled and tragic.

You couldn't tell how long the exchange lasted. You didn't know how many blows had been traded before the room went dark or how much structural damage had been inflicted on the loft.

All you knew was that you stood entirely paralyzed, your boots glued to the floor as the crowd shifted around you like a turbulent sea.

Finally, the sheer mass of Duncan the Tall moved into the frame. The rugby captain utilized his massive, broad frame to physically lock his arms around the bleeding student, pulling him backward with a strength that brooked no argument.

Simultaneously, Valarr materialized from the corridor, his jaw tight and his expression dark with a profound, weary frustration. He grabbed Aerion by the shoulders, using his own formidable leverage to drag his cousin back into the center of the room.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Aerion snarled, his voice a guttural, animalistic hiss as he violently wrenched his shoulders out of Valarr's diplomatic grip.

"Hey—" Valarr stepped into his line of sight, his tone remarkably level, his hands raised in a calming gesture. He didn't look shocked. He looked tired.

This was clearly a regular occurrence in the private annals of the Targaryen family tree— a realization that both baffled and horrified you. "Calm the hell down, yeah? Look at me. Breathe."

Valarr tried to talk some sense into him, but Aerion just let out a cold, mocking scoff, his chest heaving as he turned his back on his cousin. He swept his glacier-like gaze across the circle of onlookers, his eyes burning with a terrifying, unhinged malice.

"What are the lot of you staring at?" he barked, his voice slicing through the residual murmurs until the room went completely dead silent.

Alicia stepped forward, her manicured hand reaching out to touch his arm, her voice trembling as she begged him to stay, to let her clean him up. Aerion didn't even look at her. With a brutal, dismissive jerk of his shoulder, he shrugged her off as if she were nothing more than a nuisance, leaving her standing under the harsh kitchen LEDs.

As he turned toward the main exit, the light caught his face fully for the first time.

A nasty, jagged cut was bleeding freely on his upper lip, and an ugly, dark purple bruise was already beginning to bloom across his aristocratic cheekbone. He stormed out of the kitchen, his heavy boots echoing like thunder against the concrete as he headed straight for the apartment door, leaving a vacuum of stunned silence in his wake. "What the actual fuck…" you heard Art mutter under his breath from beside you.

You hadn't even realized he had followed you to the front until his shadow fell over your shoulder. He shook his head, staring at the blood splatters on the subway tile with a deep, visceral disgust.

"That guy is a literal lunatic. A straight-up textbook psychotic. Who even does that at a house party?"

Valarr ignored Art entirely. His brunette hair was slightly mussed as he rubbed a heavy hand across his forehead, his eyes locked onto the heavy oak door at the end of the foyer that was still vibrating from being slammed shut.

"Shit," Valarr muttered, his diplomatic composure finally cracking as he looked at Raymun. "He shouldn't be driving like this. He’s furious, he’s bleeding, and he’s probably got half a bottle of gin in his system."

You knew exactly what Valarr was thinking. Aerion was headed straight for the parking garage below the building. He was headed for that ridiculous, midnight black Porsche— the one he drove around campus like an extension of his own volatile ego.

Valarr let out a heavy, stressed sigh, his fingers palming his forehead as he calculated his options. "Shit… I can't leave Kiera, though. She's completely wasted in the bathroom, I can't just drop her—"

"It's fine," you said.The words cut through the air before you could even formulate the conscious thought to speak them.

You surprised yourself, the sudden steel in your voice catching Valarr’s attention immediately.

Your brain, the logical, self-preserving part of you, was screaming at you to stop. What are you doing? You should stay here. You should be in the bathroom with Kiera, holding her hair back while Tanselle or Rowan helped. You should let Valarr handle his own dysfunctional family. They were blood; they shared the same ancient, volatile lineage. It wasn't your job. It wasn't your burden.

But your feet were already shifting.

"I'll go after him," you let out, the declaration sounding final, leaving no room for argument as you turned your back on the kitchen and began walking purposefully toward the front door.

"Y/N, wait!" Valarr barked behind you, his long stride breaking into a forward movement to catch your hand, but you were already too fast.

You slipped past the threshold of the lounge, dodging a group of stunned freshmen who were already slipping back into their idle chatter and high-society gossip, moving as if the violence had been nothing more than a mid-party performance.

"Is this chic fucking insane or what?" Art’s voice drifted over the crowd, his tone laced with absolute bewilderment as he watched your retreating back. "Does she have a literal death wish…"

You didn't look back to see his expression. You had no idea what had just taken control of your body.

You had no idea what kind of silent, stupid, magnetic force was pulling you out of that safe, warm apartment and driving you toward the elevator. All you knew was that the image of the blood on Aerion’s lip and the unhinged, self-destructive look in his violet eyes had burned themselves into your eyelids, and you couldn't stop walking until you hit the cold concrete of the hallway.

On the way down in the elevator, the silence of the steel box was deafening, a stark contrast to the roaring chaos you had just left behind. You were biting your inner lip so hard that the sharp, coppery tang of blood began to bloom on your tongue.

Your breathing was erratic, coming and going in shallow, jagged bursts that rattled your chest.

What the hell were you thinking?

You had seen the way he treated Alicia— a girl who actually belonged in his gilded world—and he had all but discarded her like an afterthought when the adrenaline hit. What could you possibly say to him that she couldn’t have?

You were the babysitter. You were the help. You were probably the absolute last person on this earth Aerion Targaryen wanted to see right now. Why had you stormed off like that? Was it some sick, deeply buried savior complex deciding to kick in, or were you just a massive, incomparable idiot? Probably the latter.

You repeated it like a mantra against the steady descent of the elevator floor: You're an idiot. A big, fucking idiot. Did you have some pathological need to fix every single broken, tragic Targaryen that crossed your path? You weren't hired to heal their generational trauma. You weren't supposed to care.

But all the logic in the world evaporated the moment the elevator doors chimed, sliding open to reveal the subterranean chill of the lower parking level. Your feet moved of their own volition, carrying you forward like a heavy weight on a mechanical track, utterly out of your control.

The moment you stepped out into the open air of the perimeter lot, a violent gust of wind hit you like a physical wall, whipping your hair across your face.

The night was dark, illuminated only by the sickly amber glow of a single, flickering sodium-vapor streetlamp. Your boots clicked a frantic, echoing rhythm against the damp asphalt as you rounded the concrete pillar.

And there he was.

Aerion’s lean frame was practically shaking with a terrifying, kinetic fury, his silhouette dark against the polished, obsidian paint of his Porsche.

"Aerion!" you shouted into the wind, your voice cracking slightly but carrying across the empty lot, rendering your presence entirely unavoidable.

"What the hell..." he muttered under his breath, pausing with his hand resting on the driver's side door. He spun around to glare at you, his features twisted into something feral.

"Leave me the fuck alone, Y/N. Get away from here." He barked the order, already pulling the heavy key fob from his pocket, his knuckles raw and scraped, his split lip still oozing a dark line of red.

"No!" you interjected, closing the distance between you, defiance anchoring your heels against the pavement as he cursed under his breath, fumbling with the car door.

"Are you completely deaf or just plain stupid?" he bared his teeth at you, his violet eyes flashing in the dark like a rabid dog backed into a corner. "I don't want you here. Get out of my sight."

"No," you cut him off, your voice rising to match his, your own frame shaking with a sudden, matching fury. "I am not letting you get into that car with fucking alcohol instead of blood in your system. You're going to wrap that expensive piece of metal around a tree, or worse—"

He let out a harsh, mocking snarl, stepping away from the car to face you fully. "And why the fuck would you care, huh? Don't stand there and act like you give a single, flying shit about what happens to me. You said it yourself tonight—I'm the most irritating, insufferable—"

"Shut up for once in your miserable life, Aerion!" you thundered, the sheer volume of your voice surprising even the wind.

"Just shut the hell up, will you? You treat me like absolute garbage for months. You make my life a living hell on campus, you spew your poisonous, elitist shit at me every time I breathe the same air as you—and then all of a sudden, you’re touching my face on a balcony and acting like..."

You swallowed hard, the word catching in your throat. "Acting like a complete lunatic! And then you get yourself into a bloody brawl in a kitchen. You have no right—you have absolutely zero right to do this!"

Aerion seemed violently taken aback by the outburst. The vicious retort died on his tongue, and if you hadn't been so entirely consumed by the white-hot rage vibrating through your veins, you might have noticed the way his pale irises instantly hazed over, darkening with a sudden, predatory intensity that looked like he wanted to devour you alive right there on the concrete.

"Not every single thing on this planet is a game revolving around your ego, okay?" you continued, your chest heaving as you stepped closer, entirely disregarding the danger. "Because if you get in that Porsche and you fucking die tonight, you're not the only one who has to suffer the fallout. It's about your family. It's about Valarr, and your father, and Aegon—"

"Oh, so this is about Egg now?" he mocked, his voice dropping into a bitter, venomous drawl as the alcohol loosened his filter. "What, do you get some sick cosmic thrill out of playing house? Acting like a fucking mother? Let me remind you of something, sweetheart—you will never be his mother. You can never replace her. We had a mother. She's dead. She’s ashes." He spat the words, the raw, unhealed trauma of Dyanna’s passing oozing out of him like poison.

"Are you even hearing yourself, you fucking hypocrite?" You let out an incredulous, bitter laugh, shaking your head. "This has nothing to do with me trying to be a mother or trying to replace Dyanna—"

Aerion physically winced at the sound of her name, his jaw tightening into iron as he raised a warning finger to your face. "Don't you dare say her name—"

"No! This is about you!" you shouted over him, refusing to back down. "This is about the kind of men that poor little boy has to grow up watching! Take this with every single bit of bitter salt that you can, Aerion Targaryen, but your family is a magnificent, catastrophic mess. Your father, Daeron, you—all of you! And instead of protecting Aegon, instead of helping him and loving him like a normal, decent older brother should, you torture him! He is terrified of you, Aerion! He looks at you and sees a monster!"

Aerion shook his head slowly from side to side, a manic, disbelief coloring his features as he tried to block out the truth of your words. "That's a bunch of absolute bullshit... and we both know it..."

"No," you thundered, stepping directly into his space until the scent of his metallic blood, stale gin, and Marlboro Reds completely enveloped you. "No, it is the absolute, undeniable truth, Aerion. It's the truth and you know it. You're just too much of a pathetic coward to look in the mirror and admit it to yourself."

"A coward, huh?" He let out a low, dangerous sound, his head tilting as the blood from his split lip smeared across his chin. "Is that what you're calling your employer's son now? You have some serious fucking nerve."

When you finally managed to catch your breath, your heart stopped. A slightly crooked, dark grin was playing on his bleeding lips. He wasn't furious anymore. He was fascinated. He was thoroughly, intensely enjoying the sight of you screaming at him, loving the fact that you were tearing him down to his very bones.

He leaned his hand forward, his fingers twitching.

“Don't you dare touch me,” you breathed, practically jumping back a step as if his very skin were made of burning coal.

“You'd absolutely hate how much you'd like it… and you know it,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a smooth, resonant register that possessed not a single shred of doubt.

And the worst part—the absolutely terrifying, sickening part—was that unwelcome, coiling heat instantly spreading through the pit of your belly again, betraying every logical thought in your head.

"If you're waiting for me to apologize for what I said, don't hold your breath," you snapped, trying to steel yourself.

"Good. I'd hate for you to pass out from lack of oxygen before I win this argument," he countered smoothly. He was unfuckingbelievable.

"Aerion..." you warned, your voice trembling slightly as you realized the distance between your bodies had vanished again. "You're standing too close."

"Say the word, and I'll stop... but don't lie to me," he whispered, leaning in dangerously, agonizingly close.

You could see the dark, drying blood coating the edges of his Valyrian steel rings. "We're completely alone out here. No one from the Red Keep has to know. No one from the campus. Just this once..."

He dared to raise both hands, his long fingers structuring themselves on either side of your face. His grip was firm, entirely unyielding, but possessed a strange, controlled gentleness that ensured it wouldn't leave a mark. It was an utterly, undeniably possessive hold.

"What is wrong with you?" you spat, a volatile cocktail of frustration, tears, anger, and deep-seated want bubbling to the surface as your hands came up, closing tightly over his wrists to pull him away. "Is this just another one of your sick, depraved games? A bet with your friends?"

He shook his head, the accusation seemingly inflicting a flash of physical pain across his features. He licked his dry, bleeding lips, his eyes locked onto yours.

"Why, Aerion? Why do this?" you demanded, desperate for a shield, refusing to let him win this easily. You needed a reason. You needed to understand how a guy who had made your life a living purgatory suddenly looked at you like this. "You spend months threatening to ruin my fucking life, and then you—"

"Because I don't know how the fuck to get you to pay attention to me, okay, Y/N?" he suddenly growled through gritted teeth, the raw, unfiltered truth ripping out of him with a force that clearly cost his pride everything.

"You are always focusing on someone else. You're always hovering over Aegon, or Daella, or Rhae, or fucking Daeron. You look at my father, you look at Valarr, you look at every single person in that house—except me. You look right through me."

"So you justify bullying me because you were fucking attention-seeking?" You almost barked an ironic, disbelieving laugh against his chest.

"No," he stepped in even closer, his torso pressing against yours. "'M not justifying a single thing." His thumbs began to slowly, deliberately caress the sensitive skin of your cheekbones, the contrast of his cold steel rings against your burning skin making your mind go completely blank.

"You're blushing," he pointed out, a wicked, triumphant grin cutting through the blood on his face. You didn't even think he could see it under the dim, orange wash of the streetlamp, but you felt it—the violent, coiling warmth spreading across your face.

"Shut up," you muttered weakly. "If you wanted me to kiss you," you breathed, refusing to break eye contact, your fingers tightening on his wrists, "you could have just said so from the beginning."

A dark, raw sound escaped the back of his throat at your words, every single ounce of his practiced aristocratic self-restraint shattering into nothingness. "You know exactly what you do to me, don't you? You always have," he accused.

"Careful Targaryen," you bit back, one last desperate defense. "Someone might actually think you want me. We are absolutely not supposed to do this."

He threw his head back, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh as if the concept of rules were an utter joke to his bloodline. "Since when has that ever stopped a dragon?"

And with that, the tension snapped.

He lunged forward, his hands sliding from your face to grip the back of your neck, pulling your body flush against his own as he dragged you into a searing, cataclysmic kiss.

Aerion didn't just kiss you—he devoured you. It was a feral, consuming force, as if he wanted to eat you alive and pull your very soul into his lungs.

A heavy, desperate groan broke against your mouth as your hands finally released his wrists, your fingers threading wildly through his silver-white locks, pulling him impossibly, painfully close. The kiss was all sharp teeth and bruising tongue—a violent, chaotic battle of wills that you had no intention of letting him win easily.

You bit down hard on his lower lip, wanting him to feel at least a fraction of the agonizing mental torment he had inflicted on you for months.

Instead of pulling away, his grip on your waist only tightened, his fingers digging into your hips as he let out a dark, breathless sound, clearly thriving on the depraved, aggressive nature of the embrace.

It was a kiss fueled by alcohol, adrenaline, months of toxic friction, and pure, unadulterated lust. It tasted like gin, Marlboro Reds, and the coppery tang of shared blood—it was filthily disgusting, entirely wrong, and undeniably the greatest kiss of your entire life.

Your entire universe narrowed down to the heat of his skin. Your body was completely intoxicated by his scent, your brain entirely incapable of forming a single coherent thought. The world outside this parking lot didn't exist. Rowan, Kiera, Valarr, Aegon—they were all casualties of a fire that was currently burning you alive.

"Aerion..." you panted against his lips when the sheer lack of oxygen finally forced the two of you to pull back an inch, your foreheads resting together as you gasped for air.

"I can feel your heartbeat..." Aerion muttered, his voice a low, ragged purr. He leaned down, pressing his lips directly against the frantic, hammering pulse point on your neck, tracing the skin with a terrifying reverence. "Is that for me, love?"

"I've wanted this... since the very first moment I met you," he admitted against your skin, his hands never ceasing their frantic caress.

"Could have fooled me," you bit back, though the words lacked any real venom. You looked up at him with a newfound, consuming obsession, every shred of your logic and self-respect scattered on the pavement.

You couldn't bring yourself to care about how messy, dangerous, or ruinous the morning would be. The morning.

"You can go back to hating me in the morning..." Aerion whispered, his violet eyes locking onto yours with a desperate, heavy gravity. "Just let me have you. Just give me tonight."

"Is this really all you wanted from me?" you questioned, your fingers gripping his shoulders.

"No," he shook his head, a dark, dangerous sincerity settling over his features. "I wanted more."

Of course he did. Aerion Targaryen wanted everything. He wanted all of you, his greed an insatiable, genetic trait that was engraved into his very marrow. It was apparent in the way he carried himself, in the way he fought, and in the way his lips moved against yours.

"I always knew there was a fire in you," he murmured, his gaze tracing your features with an obsessive, terrifying devotion.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he muttered something in low, rolling High Valyrian that you couldn't fully translate, though the cadence made your skin prickle. "Ñuhon," he whispered against your skin. Mine.

You swallowed hard, the taste of his tobacco and liquor still heavy on your tongue. "Don't stop," you muttered fiercely into his cheek as his heavy hands slid down to grip your hips, pulling you back into the dark shadow of the Porsche. "Don't you dare stop."

You had no idea what the hell was happening anymore. You had no idea what this would do to your job, to your life, or to the fragile peace you had built.

Because when the sun came up, everything would be undeniably, irreversibly altered.

Or perhaps, that was the thought that terrified you the most. Monsters like Aerion Brightflame didn't change their nature over the course of a single night.

And even if he spent the next few hours worshipping you in the dark, it didn't mean he wouldn't be ready to tear you to pieces when the morning light rose.

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