somewhere, anywhere

“What the fuck is this,” he demands. Your chest aches, heart about to explode and lungs tight on air. The fork is thrown against the stainless-steel counter, and it bounces onto the spotless floor with a pathetic clatter. “Bullshit. Wasting my time.” 

Loose in his careless hand, he shoves the dish into your chest. You scramble to grasp it—you do, thank god, because a broken plate would have the entire kitchen bracing—and he only sneers when the sauce smears on your white coat. 

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen!” 

Shit. 

There’s no point in protesting. Face burning, you stalk to your locker. You tear your backpack out so hard that the force slams the door shut by itself—one of the commis jumps—and stomp toward the exit with a scathing remark on your tongue, but. 

The CDC just stands there, contempt glimmering in his narrow, beady eyes as he watches you try to edge around his frame with a sick, shit-eating smirk that tells you he’s getting off on bullying you. 

“I quit,” you blurt instead. 

You shouldn’t mean it, and your stomach roils with shame after you phonetically cross the ‘t.’ 

God, you desperately need to keep a stable living, and the sous market is already so saturated that the only job you could get quickly is at some chain or fast-food restaurant where you’d have to follow a boring, corporate-developed recipe. 

You’re going back to cooking to live. 

“Good,” he spits, but the faint lift of his brows rages at your defiance. “There’s a million other people who’d want your job.” 

Your exhale hisses, jaw wired shut and molars aching with how hard you’re biting down.  

Because no one wants to catch or press charges, you grit your teeth and go out of your way to avoid checking his side with your elbows as you cross from the harsh, sterile LEDs of the kitchen to the gentle night. 

Your face tingles in the cool air, kissing away the irritation scorching your skin. The metal doorframe shudders after a bang, followed by a slew of furious commands and pots being thrown to the floor. 

Parking lot gravel and cigarette stubs crunch beneath your sneakers, followed by smooth concrete accompanied by the slow trickle of Pittsburgh nighttime traffic.  

There’s a bench right along the restaurant wall; the side is eclipsed in shadows and invisible to your CDC’s scrutiny, who probably expects you to come crawling back like a desperate ex. 

But you’re committed. If you quit, so be it. He’s the one who said a million people could take your job, anyway.  

The plate is still clutched to your chest, duck breast now frigid and sliding from the original composition, yet thankfully intact.  

So, you sit on that hard bench, and shiver, and stare at the smudged swirls of mulberry reduction until you can’t tell the colors from the dusty pinks and purples fading from the sky. 

Should have stuck to cherry, you lament, setting the plate to the side and burying your numb face into your colder fingers.  

Shoes scrape on gravel. 

A voice you don’t recognize says your name as a question, set to sharp wit and gravel tones. “That is you, right? Unless Santos used LinkedIn to trick me.” 

You part your fingers and glare up at the unfamiliar man standing over you. 

He’s…handsome. In a way you can’t exactly describe with one word. Fairly tall, cropped greying curls that must have been dark brown at some point, silvery stubble, and lines that tell you he might be kind. 

His face is somewhat round yet defined where it counts. Looks like he lifts, out of necessity rather than to reach an aesthetic. 

Navy-blue bootcuts hug his thighs and fold up over a pair of hiking shoes, one more worn-out than the other. A black tee blends into the quickly settling night, hinting at a solid torso. 

Freckles. All over, from the splash right around his hazel, crow-footed eyes, down his tan and wiry neck, to his defined arms that are propped on his hips in a manner you would place between ‘stern’ and ‘adorable.’ 

“What?” is all the astuteness you can muster. 

“I’m looking for a sous, name of—” 

“That’s me.” 

He claps his palms together with a dry grin. “Great. I’m Abbot.” 

You drag your hands to your chin as an inkling of recognition flickers to life. “As in Everblue Abbot and Robinavitch?” 

Abbot clicks his tongue, tipping his head to the side in faint humor. “Got it.” 

Dumbfounded, you only stare at him and slowly work your jaw back and forth. Everblue was still on your list when it closed. You even tried to replicate their dishes from blurry Instagram photos ten years ago. 

“That’s mulberry, isn’t it? Stain’s more vibrant than blackberry.” Abbot nods at the dried gastrique on your chef’s coat, then gestures to the ruined plate beside you. “Do you mind?” 

“Take it.” You turn your face, dejected. If your ex-CDC despised it, you don’t want to be around when Abbot from fucking Everblue tastes it. “I was planning to toss it, but that’d be a waste of duck. Just don’t eat it ‘round me.” 

Too late. 

Whipping your head back up—there's Abbot, licking grease and mulberry sauce off his thumb with a light hum, no doubt chewing on a slice of duck with a look of intrigue that makes your gut lurch. 

“Interesting,” he says after he swallows. Abbot sits on the opposite end of the bench, stretching out his right leg with contemplation (and relief?) swirling between his scrunched eyebrows. 

Oh god, he’s going to obliterate you in the politest way possible— 

“Shahtoot mulberry,” is what he decides on. He chuckles, almost derisively at himself. “Never thought of that.” 

You frown. “How’d you know?” 

“I’ve worked on a mulberry gastrique for years. You’re only—what, still in culinary?” 

With indignation: “Thirty-two—” 

“—and already perfected it.” 

Stunned silence settles. Your breaths come shallow, blinks quicker because this has to be a fever dream. The owner of fucking Everblue just complimented you. 

You scoff, trying to deflect. “That’s subjective.” 

He holds up his index finger, “Objection: objective. How did you know?” 

You consider him—the relaxed posture, the outstretched leg. Plate balanced on his knee, hazel eyes flickering between the sauce and your troubled face. 

“Used to have them growing up,” you admit, reluctant. “Local mechanic’s Vietnamese wife had a courtyard in the back with all these fruits.” 

Pink-skinned dragon fruit hanging from thick vines of cacti, and brown-shelled pitted things with translucent, sweet flesh. Mulberry tree in the corner, dark leaves and long berries dangling from the boughs. 

The memory brings a small smile to your lips. “After school, I’d go with my friends, and we’d compete to see how many stems we had after ten minutes.” 

Blunt teeth scraping the bulbs off the stem, until the green tapered to white, speckled with vibrant burgundy juice. Sticky fingers with big, toothless smiles, and the warm sun reminding you that there was a place where worries didn’t matter. 

“That’s good,” he remarks, nodding slowly. “Can I ask you a question?” 

You make a dull sound in the back of your throat, “You just did.” 

“What’s your dream job?” 

The answer should be easy, but you find yourself hesitant. “...Eleven Madison?” 

A quiet snort, the slight shake of a head. An expected, basic answer. “What makes a dish popular?” 

Gnawing on the lining of your cheek, “It’ll taste good and look pretty.” 

“Now, what makes a dish excellent.” His tone, now gravel and earnest, suggests that this is less a question than it is a demand. A test. 

“The...” You blink at the plate sitting in his lap and think about the childhood friends you don’t talk to anymore but still hold close. No one has friends later on like the ones you have at twelve. 

A good chef masters technique and flavors, your mentor once said. A genius elevates those. A genius takes their life experiences and conveys it via... 

Wistfully: “An excellent dish communicates with nourishment.” 

Abbot makes a soft, almost pleased sound through his nose, setting the plate back onto the bench. You hear denim shifting, then he’s standing up with a light grunt.  

“Care to teach an old dog some new tricks?” 

You train your attention on the smooth concrete beneath your shoes instead, heart stammering in your chest. “Is this a poach?” 

“Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to know why you roasted that duck instead of searing it.” 

You’re starting to get him; you realize with a stuffed-down chuckle—Abbot is one avoidant bastard. Never meet your heroes. 

“Crispy skin, tender meat,” you say, glancing up to meet his eyes. He peers at you with all the sincerity in the world, and that knocks your breath loose. “Who doesn’t love that?” 

“Ha,” he scoffs, enjoying the cat-and-mouse. “You’re good.” 

“When do I start?” 

“Tour is at ten tomorrow. We’re a block south of Allegheny Hospital—you can’t miss it.” 

— 

The Pitt. 

You can’t miss the closest restaurant to the hospital. It’s a small thing—from the front, a painted window sign set into charming raw brick. From the interior (lock code: 1221), the simple yet cluttered dining area runs deep, and the kitchen runs deeper. 

You learn a lot during orientation. 

The house is split into two rotations. The day shift gets three quarters of the hotline during the sun’s course across the sky for sandwich service. It’s...unorthodox, doing prep and sharing a kitchen with a whirlwind of beef trimmings and clashing characters. 

The night shift, meanwhile, sticks to garde manger for mise en place and daily testing in preparation for the dinner service. Later, the tables and chairs are rearranged by the front-of-house staff, shifting and grinding from the charming crookedness of free-for-all seating to the sophisticated fashion of an elevated restaurant. The remaining stoves are reserved for stocks, sauces, and other components in need of heat, so the chefs can taste for consistency. 

For now, they’re doing the day shift’s commis work to keep themselves busy. 

“So far, dinner service hasn’t opened,” Abbot says. “We’re keeping the place afloat with the sandwich business, which Robby loves because he hates mise—” 

A man on the hotline drops a skillet on his foot with a high-pitched whine of pain (you later learn that his name is Dennis) and a woman swears like she’s the one with a bruised toe (Trinity). 

Abbot winces, and in the distraction, a man’s voice calls from garde manger: “Hey, Jack, is that our new CDC?” 

He hovers his hand over your lower back, guiding you away. “C’mon, Shen, I haven’t broken the news...” 

“Oh, shit.” 

You learn a lot that day. 

A) The day shift sounds like being stuck in the fiery pits of hell with your worst uncle and cousins. B) Michael Robinavitch now makes sandwiches for a living. C) You are not the sous chef because Jack Abbot promoted himself to co-executive chef and night-shift-expo, and there’s a vacancy for the job he was supposed to take. 

And D) he had filled the CDC box with your name after one bite of Peking duck drizzled in mulberry gastrique. 

— 

“I met your old boss once,” he tells you that Sunday. 

You’re standing in the otherwise quiet and empty kitchen—peace is a rare commodity in The Pitt, only occurring naturally on weekends—and you’re surrounded by stationary, Pantone color cards, journal entries, and a budget sheet. 

The atmosphere should feel sterile and awkward. The kitchen’s fairly new, the tile beneath you still pristine, and the countertops aren’t dented yet. You haven’t been here for a full month yet. 

But it isn’t, because Abbot is here. It’s your first time doing R&D-ing a menu, and he’s someone willing to listen and provide sincere feedback. 

He’s beside you in an Army green shirt with the collar stretched and laundry-loved, strong and freckled arms occasionally brushing yours as he shifts on his feet. 

You’ve noticed he favors the left. 

What’s strange is how easy you feel with him. Abbot has this natural, almost magnetic charisma, one that makes you susceptible but still willing to push. Comfortable, with room to test the limits. 

You pencil a wide arc on your sketch paper, following the silhouette of a dish you’ve memorized from your dreams. “Hmm?” 

He shoots you a sidelong eye, stubble gone sterling under the fluorescent lights. “Total asshole. It was at a convention and—Jesus, the ego of this guy...” 

Your laugh comes out stumbling and shy and all too real. You use a colored pencil to shade in the details of roe sitting in an oyster shell. 

“You’d think he was a surgeon with how stuck-up he was,” Abbot grins, the side of his mouth crooking just a little, and it lands into your quickly growing file of things you find fascinating. 

“Sounds about right.” 

“You’re tough,” he says, scanning the budget sheet like he’d rather do nothing else. “I knew you’d fit right in with the night crawlers.” 

“With the wild and the weird?” You stop drawing, trailing your fingers over the crude crags of the shell, looping along the spine of salmon sashimi curling around a bed of urchin meat, circling the smooth pearls of ikura. 

“Says the weirdest and the wildest.” He leans over and studies the sketch. He wears no cologne, but the faint scent of clean sheets and soap and natural musk is enough to make you notice the weirdly endearing flat spot of curls on his head. Side sleeper. 

“Brine’s coming on strong, isn’t it?” 

“Salmon’s brushed with a tangerine glaze,” you mumble, jotting down the scent and taste notes on the side. “Hopefully, it’ll layer with the uni nicely.”  

“Deepen but not cheapen,” he quips, nodding as a shadow of dry amusement passes his face.  

“Do we...have the money for this?” you ask, distracting yourself to sidestep the sudden thought of him cracking a quick joke to make you laugh. 

Crunching numbers usually does the job. 

“Yeah,” Abbot says. Clearing his throat, he pins the sheet onto the counter with a hand splayed at the corner. He runs his index finger down the paper until he reaches the dollar figure at the bottom—his nails are trimmed down and clean, digits long...and thick... 

“Uh, that’s what we’re working with, after the lease and utilities and tax and Robby’s insane demand for bougie Choice-grade beef—” 

You stop him before he can lose himself to the laundry list of expenses. A grin of sheer disbelief manifests on your face. “Still, Robby’s the goddamn patron saint of profit.” 

“Low prices and a baker better than Primanti's.” Abbot’s throaty hum is caught between a suppressed laugh and the same surprise you’re feeling. “Capitalism, baby.” 

— 

Fire courses one, three, five. Assemble two and four in garde manger. Leave dessert to the chef de pastries, who are twiddling their thumbs because your brain has bleached itself of ideas. 

Developing a tasting menu is grueling. Two months in, you still haven’t translated your tangerine glaze from paper to plate, and Robby—despite hating prep work—is clearly miffed that his cooks are starting to get comfortable with offloading onto the night shift. 

“Cooking’s not my problem,” Dana, the head of FoH, had said as she leaned against the back wall with a cig clutched between her fingers. “But these guys gotta do this shit themselves. I know for a fact that Ellis won’t stand slicing hoagies for much longer.” 

Course one starts delicately: steamed, silken eggs in a ramekin. As a commis, you made this after long shifts, when your fingers cramped out of exhaustion from peeling and picking greens. 

You fold in the foie gras Parker had seared for you earlier; the buttery scent bleeds into the air, which already smells like tender beef and caramelized onion. From the cooktop, Robby cranes his head to catch a glimpse. 

Then comes the fresh enoki mushrooms you diced this morning, minuscule white squares that release a subtle, sweet aroma. 

The fat of the duck's liver will melt with the smooth custard of the egg for subtle richness, and the mushrooms gently illuminate both the sweet and earthy undertones to round out the mouthfeel. 

You think about the flickering light in your old Hanoi flat, back your mentor pulled a favor so you could stage at a Michelin-star. Orange rays spilled over the worn tiles of the countertop and made the beaten eggs in your bowl glow like the sunset. You used to throw in whatever protein you had on hand, whether it be leftover chicken or even sardines.  

Steam it for eight exact minutes. Beside you on the hotline, Dennis scrambles another order of onion and Portobello mushroom in his pan, then adds a dash of red wine to reduce and caramelize, releasing another wave of umami into the kitchen. Did Robby teach him that? 

A toss of chives and fried shallots, then a splash of low-sodium soy. The sauce doesn't ripple when you tweeze a final spindly garnish atop the custard. 

"That's beautiful, chef," Abbot remarks once you set the dish on the table. His right hand is curled around a blue ballpoint pen and resting on a closed, leather-bound notebook. 

You survey the front of the house—tables set at odd angles, empty chairs pulled out, scraps of sandwich paper on the hardwood floors. 

Abbot looks both right at home and slightly out of place, sitting just outside of the double doors at the only table still aligned to the dinner floorplan. His dark tee is just casual enough to still exude seriousness, but the playful little grin on his scruffy face scrambles your signals. 

The light from outside is bright for a Pittsburgh autumn, and it feels like the sun itself is eating in this simple sandwich diner and blessing Abbot with a diffused, sterling halo around his handsome salt-and-pepper hair. 

“Thank you, chef.” 

He flashes you a warm, encouraging wiggle of his brows, and just thinking about it nearly makes your hands slip in the kitchen. 

Course two: translucent, longitudinal slices of geoduck siphon, rolled so tight that the final shape resembles a cruffin. Julienned cucumber and red pepper burst from the center like stamen, and you painstakingly pipette a dotted ring of Balsamic vinegar where the flower meets the plate.  

It smells clean, slightly floral. The aroma isn’t so overpowering like the foie gras, or the duck you currently have warming up the roaster, but you know that the refreshing temperature and smooth texture will hold its own. 

“Sick,” comes a low croak from Trinity, who flicks her eyes over your knife in a manner too nonchalant to be uninterested. “Is that Japanese?” 

“Nabbed it from a flea market,” you say, using a small quenelle spoon to shape and place a dollop of puréed fermented black bean, pungent enough to clear the sinuses. Then, you smear it downwards, tangent to the geoduck roll. “I liked the grip, then I checked the blade.” 

“Smooth.” She leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Would you say that was fate or luck—?” 

“Where is my au jus?” Langdon’s frustration is hurtled halfway across the kitchen.  

She grimaces. “Shit.” 

Delivery goes without a hitch. Abbot hardly spares a glance when you set the plate down, too fixated on his notes, but something in your chest swells so rapidly at the sight of the empty ramekin—practically licked clean and sparkling—beside him. 

Still, that makes your breaths tremble with anxious vibrations. The way he’s sticking his tongue out in concentration also doesn’t help. 

Course three. Your blade breaks down the Peking-roasted duck easily. The hot, crispy skin separates to reveal fat dribbling from the dark meat and greasing your fingers until the vents are full of savory, smoky spice and star anise.  

You clench your jaw, a reminder to not get lost in the heavenly smell. Butcher the wings and other bony parts for stock, shred the unused meat for Shen to use in his family meal, which won’t be served until you’ve run through the five courses for Abbot. 

The duck settles as you pull a steamer basket off the stove. The stack of flour pancakes inside is hot enough to make your experienced fingers wince—you swear you had burned away all the nerves by now. 

You separate each papery layer and fan them out a half-moon plate, then dip a basting brush into another pan, which is simmering with tart mulberry gastrique. Glaze each piece of duck with two layers of reduced sauce, then pair one slice to one pancake. Blue microgreens and a wafer-like garnish for presentation. 

Out the double doors, and before Abbot. 

He glances up from his notes like he’s been expecting you, grin cocked in a way you’re starting to know so well—he's already got a quip locked and loaded. 

“Masterful knife skills, chef,” he says, pointing at the blank slab of ceramic that used to present your geoduck flower. “I think the OR is calling you.” 

You chuckle, equal parts bashful and entertaining his joke. “Unfortunately, Doctor, the only thing calling is the hotline, because Dennis is watching my tangerine glaze.” 

Abbot flicks his eyes to the ceiling, all playful. “Oh, shame. And that poor kid...” 

“He can keep a lid on it, chef.” 

You push through the double doors again, and the heat presses all around you like a pressure cooker. Trinity has thankfully kept a sliver of the plating counter clear for you, and she’s flitting between wrapping sandwiches and maintaining Langdon’s cursed au jus while Dennis sautés another heap of onions and Portobello. 

Robby shouts out orders of two French dip, four Italian, six cheesesteaks—all day and Samira is...wafting your tangerine glaze with a contemplative furrow to her brow instead of kneading the salt bread she’s been assigned to. 

“Shit, is it burning—” 

“A splash of ginger syrup,” she blurts, already darting back to her station to re-dust the counter with flour. “Maybe a teaspoon!” 

You fan the scent of the glaze toward your nose—she’s right. The tangerine has the zest and the rind’s slightly bitter bite, but it’s been missing the same sweetness and tang Samira identified.  

Ginger syrup. 

You twist the knob until the blue flames in the burner leap and exchange your saucepan for a small pot. While you bring a cup of water to a boil, you peel a stalk of ginger with the edge of a spoon, then divide it into centimeter-wide slices.  

The water roils; you bring it down to a simmer, when the bubbling calms, and the flames hover just below the grate. An equal part of sugar is spooned and stirred until the graininess dissolves. Simmer ginger for twenty minutes… 

No, he would be irked, wouldn’t he? You’ve been taking your sweet time with the menu, but everyone knows that Robby can’t keep The Pitt afloat forever. 

Even though Abbot’s been telling you to take it easy, you know that he’s itching to open. Slow service is no service.  

So, you improvise. Course 3.5, as you’ll call it. 

A loaf of ciabatta fresh out of the oven, radiating with steaming warmth and Samira’s love. The golden crust crackles beneath the serrated knife you grab from the magnetic strip. 

White truffle oil—savory, delicate, a thread of sweetness—brushed over the soft, white insides. Toast it against a sizzling skillet with the crust side facing the smoky ventilation hood. Arrange on a dark, stone slab of a plate. Sprinkle the seared side with freshly minced basil leaves and dried, crumpled thyme. 

Then there are the frozen, shell-less escargots you know are hidden behind the slabs of beef shoulder in the walk-in. Robby microwaves them to eat during his breaks like a fucking weirdo. 

(Seriously, he’s a Michelin-starred chef! Are the fumes of red wine reduction and Langdon’s au jus getting to his brain and convincing him that eating reheated escargot meat atop untoasted sourdough is okay? Unclear.) 

You steal a few caps of Portobello, halved, and sauté them with the icy chunks of escargot in Dennis’ quick fashion. Steam hisses and curls from the pan, flames stretching from cobalt to orange. 

A genius elevates. A genius sees their life and conveys it through nourishment. 

You think of Samira’s kind hands speckled with flour, the way she always helps with the patience of a saint and a gentle smile. Dennis’ nervous grins, the bags under his eyes, the way he carries himself with a burgeoning sense of confidence. Even Robby, with his sharp commands and imposing figure in the culinary world, despite his strange eating habits (sure, he’s a genius, but untoasted sourdough is just not cool). 

Then there’s Abbot. 

Playful smirk, calloused fingers Abbot. Thick arms crossed and neck corded, five o’clock moonlight clinging to his jaw. A dark quip perpetually loaded on his tongue. Abbot, who—last week—pored over your sketches and scrubbed his mouth with those steady, calm hands and quietly guided you through timing for each course. 

This is for him to taste the soul of the day shift cooks, condensed into Samira’s ciabatta, Robby’s escargot, Dennis’ Portobello. Victoria and Mel live in the mellow, earthy tones of the white truffle oil, Trinity in the seared flat of the bread. 

(And Langdon...well, he’s just come back, so you suppose he could be the herbs. There as a humble, grounding reminder that life comes from the earth, like how he obsessively nags Trinity to keep an eye on the au jus.) 

Your hands don’t shake when you painstakingly spread the Portobello and escargot to form a circle around the toast. There’s no embellishing garnish or ceremony to this—there isn’t supposed to be. 

It’s just raw truth and grueling heat. 

You look up to see Dana leaning over the opposite side of the plating counter. She offers a dry little smile and scoops the stone slab into her hands.   

Two breaths are all you’ll afford. Onto course four. 

Your heart is kicking your sternum as you grab the pot of tangerine reduction you set aside. Pour the ginger syrup into it, stir gently as the white wisps dance above the metal lip. 

Slightly dilute the sauce with water, but only when you notice that the edges are beginning to darken. 

You pull it off the heat. By heavenly smell alone, you know that Samira has sent you a gift of a ginger-tangerine glaze, but you still dip a tasting spoon into the still-bubbling pot. 

First contact scorches, then almost makes your eyes roll back into your head. Ripe mandarins bloom sweetly in your mouth, each fruit pierced by a sharp needle of ginger and wrapped in a thin crepe of tartness. 

Jack will love it, you think as you call out a string of behind and corner to the walk-in. 

You bought a two-pound block of sashimi-grade salmon from the local sushi marketplace to save money—you still don’t know if this’ll work, and despite Abbot’s countless reassurances about the budget, you can’t shake off that deeply-ingrained conscience about money.  

“I’ll pay for it,” was the gravelly mumble, fingers landing gently on your shoulder as you weighed the fillets by hand. 

You did not shiver and certainly didn’t flush. At least, that’s what you recall from the past weekend; you mainly focused on the warmth he radiated and freckles dappling his neck. You’ve been…a little spacey as of late.  

You ended up splitting the bill, which wasn’t balanced. Abbot had acquiesced to pay for the salmon with a strangely characteristic frown that brought a fluttering to your chest, and you lightened your wallet considerably for a single tray of gonads and ikura.  

The three are sitting innocently beside each other on the metal shelf. You try not to think about how Abbot’s hands could easily engulf the trays, how the flesh would give so readily beneath his steady, competent hands. 

Your cheeks burn as soon as the door to the walk-in cracks open, letting a sliver of white light into the backlit-blue space. Back into the fray, this time with the ghost of your executive chef’s rough fingers trailing down your spine. 

(Fuck. You tell yourself that it’s because you haven’t been laid in a while. Which is true because your hours run late, and you don’t exactly have the energy for romancing in a sea of petulant manchildren.  

But Jack stirs your stomach in ways unfamiliar to you. It’s how he’s so earnest. Broad and brimming with unspoken guilt and the need to carry on. Gently leaves his mark on you and everyone around him.) 

Just uni is plain. Any other high-end restaurant can slap a gonad onto a plate, splash some coulis, and attach an exorbitant price tag.  

This is The Pitt. You have to keep up and be inventive and match the pace of a house that serves sandwiches by the day and polished plates by the night. 

You pivot to garde manger. Its three counters are pushed together to form a U-shaped space, and two are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with teary chefs and their piles of onions. 

“Behind,” you say, tapping Shen on the shoulder so you can reach for a deli quart. He sniffles, brows pinched as he fights the burn in his eyes. 

You scrape the pliant, golden urchin roe into the plastic container with a grimace for your poor wallet, then pick up the handheld blender with reluctance. Here goes nothing. 

Within seconds, the gonads dissolve into a cream, and all your money has gone down, down, down into the churning whirlpool. The consistency quickly becomes sufficient—smooth enough to not need straining, yet still thick to maintain substance—so you funnel the puree into the espuma siphon and scrape every inch of your tools so nothing’s wasted. 

You hadn’t practiced your aim that much during your tenure as 10 Blade’s sous, but hopefully you have enough experience from your culinary mentee days to perform this like second nature. 

You load the cold metal cartridge of nitrous oxide into the holder, then twist the cap until you feel the tension release with a quiet hiss. You shake the siphon vigorously, so the gas and puree become a uniform, homogenous solution. 

‘Cooking is art, baking is science’ is bullshit. Have you ever seen a complex molecule? —is what your mentor would say, leaning back against the stainless-steel counter with her arms crossed and hawk-like glint in her sharp eyes— Chemistry is art disguised as science, and cooking requires both, all the same. Maillard, protein denaturation, pH...oh, make sure the reduction doesn’t become too diluted, because it too is a solution with a molarity value. 

This seafood dish is scientific. Exact. Innovative. Surgical, but not sterile. No, this has character, just like how the works of Da Vinci married science and art.  

You grab a shallow bowl and pipe the uni espuma into the center, letting the dollop build upon itself till the circumference can comfortably notch within the shell size you’ve eyeballed in your mind, which should (in theory) be approximately the size of your palm.  

Really, everything about this course is theory, just like how Einstein theorized about the relativity of time and how medieval healers mythicized the existence of the vena amoris in the ring finger. 

Which proved to be anatomically wrong. But you won’t be wrong. 

Parker keeps a spare set of knives beneath the counter—you flick the clasp, and the leather unfurls with a satisfying snap. You smooth your fingers around the understated, wooden hilt of the sheathed yanagi-ba, which is a long and thin blade for cutting boneless fish. 

The salmon block is cold beneath your fingers, and the blade’s edge slices the flesh in one fell stroke. That’s all you need. 

You grab a pair of tweezers, which every chef should have hung from the fabric of their apron pockets, and hold your breath as you arrange the sashimi around the golden bed of thick foam.  

It stays. Thank goodness. 

Dip your basting brush into the glaze, coat the sunset-pink meat with it. Crack open the plastic tray of cured salmon eggs, spoon out the brine-rich, vibrant pearls of orange. They make their nest in the espuma dollop without a hitch, closing out the dish you’ve dreaded making for a long time.  

Hopefully, Abbot will agree that a little improvisation never hurts, lest he pretends to be a guest with texture sensitivity or an allergy. If so, you suppose you’ll just have to find a rock to die under. 

“Hands—” Princess swoops in with a breeze of jasmine eau de toilette and swiftly marches through the double doors with the bowl clutched in her hands “—please. Uh, okay.” 

Final course. 

Tacky sweat now pools at your nape, slowly dripping into the collar of your shirt and making your apron rub against the juncture of your neck in an odd way. You’re in and out of the walk-in, hauling the pot of stock you asked Shen to prepare yesterday to the hotline. 

Lotus roots knock against the sides of the pot, along with knobs of pale ginger and crimson goji berries. You flick the burner on high, the familiar series of clicking and gas combusting reassuring your mind. 

This must be what the flow state is like. 

The Pitt renders into background noise like fat dripping out of the creases of an animal. It’s just your hands flying as they dispatch slippery shrimp heads and shells, pulling out the dark veins, mincing the cold, crisp meat.  

Far-away, you hear yourself calling out for ground lamb—it’s on the second shelf, next to the beef—while dicing chives, and blinking to find it already before you.  

Mash the lamb and shrimp together, toss in an approximation of white pepper and garlic salt. Corner, need the—yeah, thanks. 

Rinse a shiitake in the cold, drumming sink. Behind, sorry Cassie! Tear out the stipe with a utility knife, because it doesn’t have to be pretty. 

It has to be humble. 

It has to let the mundane, expected chaos of life seep in. You pack the mixture of lamb and shrimp into the concave underside of the mushroom cap, each press reminding you of the way your flatmate in Hanoi would fold wontons like it was easier than breathing. 

Stick it in a steamer basket, fit it over the lotus-root stock roiling in the pot. Three minutes on the magnetized timer stuck to the ventilation hood. 

You spend it brewing jasmine tea with the water heated to an exact 170 degrees, in a pot you didn’t know was here with leaves you stuck into your backpack this morning. 

You rinse the dish with the tea—ritual purification. The warmed bowl fits between your two palms like a compliment. You only swipe a towel along the exterior, which squeaks with how good the dish crew has scrubbed them.  

The delicate floral notes of the jasmine will lash onto the rich, full mouthfeel of the lamb and shrimp-stuffed shiitake cap, which you’re now lowering into the bowl. You then ladle the stock over it and use a pair of chopsticks to place a final slice of lotus root over the round mouth of the bowl. 

No garnish. The simplicity speaks for itself. 

One metal soup spoon, the edges thin and sharp enough to cut the gummy texture of the mushroom. Place the bowl on a saucer, arrange the spoon to lay tangentially. 

Step out of the double doors with the whirlwind of a month clutched in your fingers, into the light and the cool, air-conditioned front of the house. Pivot on your heels to find Jack Abbot already watching you with a strange look on his face—half pensive and all mysterious—and a quiet smile. 

The dishes have been cleared from the table. It’s just him, honest and grounding, and his little black notebook.  

“What’s your dream job?” he asks as you set down the plate, and you’re reminded of a yellow streetlight and a cold bench outside a scorned kitchen. 

“The Pitt.” No hesitation now. 

You’ve found your place in a galley kitchen, one where the scent of rich, expensive sauces kisses the practical tang of a stovetop griddle and lingers in the grout. No amount of baking soda paste on a toothbrush can scrape you out now. 

He takes a single sip from the broth, pauses with his head cocked just to the left, and sets the spoon face-down on the saucer. With this odd, pensive curl playing on his lips, Jack clicks his pen—the quiet sound deafens the thundering of your heart—and scribbles a couple of words. 

Then he shuts the notebook, places it on the table, slides toward you, letting his touch linger on the leather cover until you reach for it. “Good, chef.” 

— 

Course 1 – steamed eggs. Clever use of foie gras & enoki. Pleasant silky texture, good balance of salt & umami & subtle sweet/earthiness. Notes of “home,” “routine,” “comfort.” Coming home bone-tired & need reassurance that she’s hanging on. 

Course 2 – geoduck. Cucumber & red pepper lend freshness, Balsamic & black bean amazing Sheer beauty, delicate presentation. Like waking up in summer with the fan still on & sun on arms, cold spring water.  

Course 3 – roast duck. Exceptional mulberry gastrique. Honey-sweet, delicate tartness, salty, fatty enough to melt w/ enough substance to fill. Refined & elevated. Prodigious. Nostalgic, berry juice sticky on fingers, stained teeth, heart waiting at home. 

Course 4 – ciabatta, escargot, Portobello. Welcome surprise. Rich, soft, buttery, crunchy symphony (?) all at once. Very Pitt-esque, chaos tamed. White truffle oil masterful reminder of night shift. Must keep in menu. 

Course 5 – uni, salmon. Methodical yet artful. Improvised espuma, very thoughtful. Unmistakable ginger in tangerine glaze—Mohan? Undertone of stinging warmth. Top layers of sweetness, rich brine, airy yet custard-like texture. Foil to steamed eggs.  

Course 6 – shiitake, lamb-shrimp paste, lotus root stock. Broke my heart. 

Dessert - TBD 

— 

“I roomed with another commis in Hanoi—Chau,” you tell him, thumb pressed into the inward concave of the spoon, fisted fingers supporting the back. “Her name meant pearl—that's where I got the oyster idea from.” 

In your hand is a small Oliver loquat, droplets beading on the slightly fuzzy skin. Jack mirrors your hands, but his loquat looks so much tinier in his thick, steady fingers. 

He hums in interest, shifting his weight ever-so-slightly so that it rests mostly on his left leg, and that makes the firm, heavy swell of his bicep brush yours, which sets off a whole rack of misfired signals in your mutinous brain and traitorous belly. 

You would tell yourself that it’s just the dark, nearly threadbare cotton of his laundry-loved shirt stretching over his sturdy figure like an open secret, but you’d be lying. You think that you’ve liked him from the very first day. 

The stem has already been picked off, leaving a little ring of protruding skin around the top, which is convenient for peeling. Mother Nature’s plan, and the whole works. You slip the edge of your spoon beneath it, using your thumb to hold the skin so it doesn’t slip, and drag the soft, ochre peel all the way down. 

“You don’t get your nails all dirty like this,” you say, repeating the soothing, familiar motions until the flesh is bare before you. “She always had cute manicures with art and everything. Always wore gloves too—she liked that they made her feel confident.” 

Your flat is dimly lit but still homely; the various lamps you’ve turned on lend a certain je sais ne quoi to the open floor, like the sense of sweet clementines and your partner’s comfortable body heat. 

Abbot listens intently while curls of yellow skin flutter into the sink. You’ve barely started the heaping bowl of them, which you will press when the prep is done to figure out a dessert that will lean on the succulent, slightly tangy flavors. 

You had invited him over to help with R&D. So far, you’ve collectively thought of jam, ice cream, sorbet, panna cotta...and have exchanged a rough total of twenty quick glances, three quiet giggles, and two full-length culinary tales with each other as you washed each individual fruit. 

You turn the fruit so that the calyx points up, then dig the tip of the spoon beneath it. The pale amber mesocarp parts for the metal, and with a small twist, the shriveled remnants of the blossom pop away from the seeds. 

Feeling his gaze turn heavy—you've become rather adept at detecting his moods, whether it be intuition or just a subtle shift in the air—you tilt your head to meet his eyes, which are as you predicted: lowered, soft, an unnamed yet known thing swimming deep inside those hazel pools. 

He sucks in a hushed breath beside you, the rhythm unchanging save for when you blink expectantly at him. It just—sharpens in a way, like he’s suddenly caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.  

(Jack Abbot supposedly doesn’t do favorites. 

“I’m not playing buddy with you,” he told you himself after the run-through. It was hard to believe; his half-cocked grin glowed with satisfaction. “We just have a naturally harmonious relationship because we’re supposed to work well together.” 

“I believe you.” 

“But I will admit that you are an excellent chef, and it is an honor to be the one who formally invited you to the night shift.” A pause, then a half-sardonic, disgruntled mumble of, “God knows Robby would’ve messed you up...” 

“Heard, chef.” 

His grin had widened, but this time the amusement was stark on his face. Your jaw had feathered trying to suppress the urge to match him. You also didn’t know if you were imagining the tinge at the tips of his tan, freckled ears.) 

For a man you know hides himself behind his knife-sharp observational skills and level-headedness, his shell is starting to become awfully soft around you. 

A sudden rush of confidence washes over you. Prickles at your neck, itches that sweet spot in your brain that always feels gratified when things are set in motion.  

The naked loquat, slick and cold in your grip, trembles as you hold it up to his lips. Pink plush gives in so readily, almost helpless to your urging. And you don’t pull back. 

He captures your gaze through his eyelashes, the lines branching from his eyes all mellow, brows furrowed like he can’t decide between forgiving himself for the indulgence or abstaining to punish himself for letting something so tense get so far—between an EC and CDC, no less. 

But he’s made it very clear that there is virtually no power imbalance between your positions. You’re fully in charge of food stock, menu choices, staff. The only thing he really manages is the expo table—only there to maintain an ever-watchful eye. 

Jack is a line cook, through and through, and a co-executive in name only because Robby would supposedly get all up in everybody’s asses if he oversaw night service. 

You stay, steady and grounding—you're allowed to want, is what your silent motions scream—until the end of the pulp slides into the warmth, until his teeth scrape your nails so softly and hesitantly, until those hazel pools lighten with acceptance and the unabashed want you knew was there and were seeking for all this time. 

He doesn’t look away. You suppose he’s always had a staring problem, anyways. 

Sill, you feel like your sternum is cracking wide open and spilling hot viscera all over your skin.  

Your fingers fall softly, like feathers fluttering to the ground. He chews the sweet, tangy pulp off the seeds till they clack together in his mouth. 

Still, he considers them, working his jaw, lean muscles in his neck shifting as he soaks in the flavor. 

“You…you’re supposed to spit them out,” you say, quiet words harsh on the already-tense mood. 

Jack—when did he become Jack, you wonder—fixes you with an unapologetic twitch tugging at the corner of his scruffy mouth, putting you in the kind of headspin that makes you want to fly to the dark side of Jupiter and live out your days alone. 

He turns around to your cabinets, intuitively selects a door to open, and pulls out a bowl to discard the seeds in. Knowing his way around your very unfamiliar kitchen should not be as attractive as it is, but you’re a chef. 

“Are you gonna keep staring, or—?” 

“Right,” you jump, flicking on the water to rinse your fingers, then reaching for another loquat to work on. You slow as your touch grazes the fuzzy skin, spoon trembling in your knuckle-paling grip. “Just use the edge to dig out the seeds too, it doesn’t have to be neat since we’re processing—Jack?” 

He doesn’t move. 

Just…gazes at you with this strange blend of admiration and fondness and soft, unexplained warmth puddling in his hazel irises. They’re flecked with the same shade as microgreens, the kind that would normally drive you crazy if you had three seconds to plate and your old CDC breathing down your neck. 

But this isn’t 10 Blade. This is just Jack Abbot, the man you’ve become familiar with in just a few months, as if you’ve known him your whole life. As if you’ve been looking for him, for all that time.  

“Nothing,” Jack says, but the way his controlled breath stammers a little makes your heart rabbit against your lungs. 

You must look skeptical, because his mouth thins and flattens dramatically, and he dryly admits, “I’m endeared.” 

It should be accompanied by an eye roll, but he’s holding back on the usual avoidant theatrics. The sincerity almost burns at your waterline, and you duck your head down to sharpen your attention to the task in front of you.  

“Really?” Your mouth crinkles in an effort to hide a smug smile. “By me, out of my chef coat, in…” 

You make a pointed, cursory gesture to your very comfortable clothes— “grey sweats and a swap-meet chemistry shirt that says, ‘I wear this periodically.’” 

 “Yes.” Without hesitation. With the slight, enamoring crinkle of his crow’s feet and the faintest play of a smirk on his lips.  

You swallow, stunned. 

You swear his razor-sharp gaze follows the line of your throat as it shifts, then tries to dart back up to your eyes, only to be caught like a rabbit in the brambles of your lips.  

You’re suddenly aware of how close he’s been standing—practically joined at the hip, the defined swells of his arms fitting against the curves of yours—and how hot his skin runs. 

Eyes flicker down to the slight pout of Jack’s bottom lip. You study the softened creases of his smile lines, rough silver stubble around them. The air feels too thick to breathe. 

“I think we should make that our uniform,” Jack murmurs, voice dipping into gravel as he finally lets that roguishly charming smirk out. “What do you think?” 

You suck in a tight breath, now fighting the unreasonable, sharp need sparking, stirring in your core. “I…think you should do what you want to do, chef.” 

You’re about to rip your attention away to inwardly chastise yourself for falling for this ridiculously witty, stupidly competent, magnetic (and every synonym in any language, really) silver fox of your executive chef (an ethical dilemma you’ve long since given up on). 

You’re about to quash down the rising tide of feelings that play your heartstrings like a fiddle. You want to compress them into a tofu block and dice them and maybe stick them in a blender with garlic and durian, so Jack Abbot can’t identify the slush by taste alone. 

Then, you catch it. The quicksilver, dark smudge of desire darting across the enamoring wrinkle in his brow. 

“Then can I kiss you?” 

In any other situation, you’d perhaps clutch your chest at how smooth he slid his approach into the conversation. 

But your flat is dim in the clementine lamplight, and the quiet, crackling air between your lips smells like the sweetness of loquat. Your heart is melting into a pulp. For once, you aren’t afraid of letting someone in. 

You can have him. 

It must be you who moves first. For a man so assured and grounded in the whirlwind of The Pitt, Jack falters for a second too long, worry and self-doubt apparent in the scrunched set of his growing frown. 

The gap closes with a final, shivering breath and a mountain of relief crashing down on both of you. A strained sound from the back of Jack’s throat escapes, then peters into a deep rumble of satisfaction as he sinks into the kiss. 

His lips are soft. Sticky, sweet, with a hint of the loquat’s tang caught in the areas where his skin is just this side of chapped, and god, the realness lands.  

The spoon in your hand falls into the sink with a dull clatter. Negligible compared to how Jack smoothly maneuvers you so that your lower back presses into the cold edge of your counter, corralling you so tightly that you fear your heart will light up in flames. 

Mouths slide together, finding a rhythm between bashful giggles when noses press to cheeks at odd angles and whispered apologies lost to the pounding of your hearts. A broad, callused hand sears along the curve of your waist, and he slips his hot tongue across the line of your bottom lip before breaking for air. 

You miss it immediately, traitorous stomach flipping on its head. You suddenly want the imprint of his hands on your hips, arousal beginning to tug at the crux of your legs. 

“Thought about this so many times,” he groans, palm meeting your side again with a firm squeeze, right knee sliding just below where your cunt begs for friction. “Wanted you from the very first day.” 

You make a sound, low and shuddering and nakedly sweet in a way you didn’t expect from yourself. Jack looks so fucking pleased and high on his own horse when you paw at the dark cotton of his shirt, leaving behind smears of damp fingerprints, and you know then that you’ll stop at nothing. 

He must know—he's becoming attuned to you now, in the way only chefs and co-dependent partners can be. One look, a glint he catches in the glass of your half-mast eyes when you tip your head just so. 

He kisses you again, sweet and longing. Savors the flavor of your lips, draws his thumbs in soothing circles. Inches his thigh closer, until he swallows your shallow gasps and takes that as permission to slip his hands beneath the back of your shirt. 

“You’re so soft,” Jack murmurs with all the admiration and gentle, yet fierce yearning in the world pouring from the faint quiver of his lips. He pecks the corner of your mouth. “Can I lay you down, sweetheart?” 

Your ribs crack wide open; you can only afford to nod in fear of spilling out and driving him away. 

“Words, please?” 

How could you resist? You’re helpless to the call, tilting your head forward to nose at the hollow of his collarbone; he tilts his head back, exposing the column of his throat—patchouli, green tobacco leaves, cozy aftershave—so thoughtlessly. 

You feel intoxicated. Physically, mentally, chemically.  

Fighting back a groan of desperation: “Want you to touch me, please.” 

The world spins. One breath, Jack’s stealing a messy kiss, smearing spit all over your swollen, nipped-at lips. The next, you’re stumbling backwards, sinking into the cool, plush cushions of your couch as his steady hands pull your hips flush to the bulge in his jeans.  

You moan, quietly, for real this time, squirming beneath the close, solid press of his body in search of more friction. The soft gasp leaves you in one fell sigh—Jack… 

I am touching you, he rasps, voice so gruff and delicate that you’re sent into tachycardia. He strokes the tip of his nose along the line of your clavicle, inhaling shakily as deft, experienced fingers begin to drift under your shirt.  

“Not like that” —nudging his hands lower, until the rough palms graze the softness of your sweatpants— “like that.” 

“Fuck, you’re killin’ me,” he groans, thick lashes fluttering against your prickling goosebumps. “Are you sure?” 

You card your fingers through the feather-soft feel of his grey curls, patches of which still hold that dark, wiry copper it used to be. You guide him to raise his head, and he peers down at you with wide, searching eyes, and you realize that he would be satisfied with anything you gave him. 

He could stand in the corner and come with the lingering taste of your mouth if prompted. You could stay here, dry humping like a pair of goddamn teenagers, and he would think he’s the happiest man in the world. 

“Yeah,” you say, though it cracks in the middle, for the admission is so tender that it could be a bruise. “I want you.” 

He’s silent for a single, disbelieving heartbeat. Two throbs, blood rushing from atrium to ventricle, valves fluttering open then snapping shut, then from ventricle to bloodstream. 

By the next cycle, he’s onto you again, crushing his lips to yours like a man parched, starved, trying to quench whatever need that gnaws on his bones. 

“You’ve no idea,” he grunts out between kisses, “what you do to me.” 

You fumble with his belt, years of meticulous training in immaculate knife skills and plating thrown out the window as hot arousal pools in the gusset of your cotton underwear. 

(Shit, you think offhandedly, should’ve worn the cute lace ones.) 

Jack rucks your stupid shirt up, stopping just beneath your breasts, and lays a scorching path of kisses and nips down the length of your belly. You arch toward him—push and pull; he pins you back down. 

Then he rises, lips all pinkened and swollen, flushed from his cheekbones to his fucking neck (good grief). Pulls off that cotton shirt with a mind-numbing stretch of his corded, unbelievable arms.  

“Sorry,” he pants, scruff catching in the orange lamplight and making constellations shine on his skin, “can you give me a second?” 

You manage a dazed yeah, shutting your eyes for a reprieve. Belt buckles clink, leather rasps against denim. Then comes the sound of a stifled, relieved hiss, and a quiet thud on your carpet. 

You crack an eye open to see half a metal calf plus a foot resting against your coffee table. Oh. So that’s why he favors the left.  

“Does that…change anything?” he asks, fingers hovering beside your knee. It’s said with such undisguised intimacy that it kisses the border of inaudibility. 

“No,” you say, certain. You shift your knee so that the cusp fits over his knuckles, which are crosshatched with little scars from mishaps. Your hands match, in a way. “Just wish you’d told me, so you didn’t have to stand on my tile. It’s hell for flat feet.” 

He chuckles, all breathy, wondrous, and endlessly endeared. 

The cords of muscle in his shoulders ripple when he lowers himself back down, divots phasing in and out of his smooth skin as he kisses your tummy once again, eyelids fluttering shut with every press of his wanting mouth. 

Warm, deft fingers slip beneath your waistband. He helps you shimmy out of your sweatpants and underwear, making this little face where the right corner of his mouth twists in mirth at the sight of the plain cotton. 

(Inwardly, you preen. Maybe not wearing lace panties was a good thing then.) 

The clothes form a neat pile of indeterminate shadows on the carpet. You can’t tell where his garments end and where yours begin, but the thought dissolves when Jack rubs his palms over the bare skin of your ass (you can feel the callouses just beneath his index finger from years of cooking). 

You shiver, caught between the air-conditioned atmosphere of your flat and the body heat rolling off his bare chest. 

He takes your right hand. Exhales tremble—both your lips are parted in anticipation as he guides your middle and fourth finger into the cavern of his mouth with a throaty groan. 

You feel it in your bones, vibrations jumping between the IP joints and traveling up your arm as frisson. Stubble scrubs against your palm. Instinctively, you apply pressure to the roughness of his tongue, and the muscle dips suddenly as he sucks on your digits for a singular moment that feels simultaneously too long and short. 

He releases you with a soft, wet pop—a thread of spit, starspun in the warm light, trails between your fingers and his reddened lips. Whispers like a secret he isn’t supposed to tell: Can you touch yourself? 

Oh god. You’ve died and you’ve somehow done enough good in your life to reach the pearly gates. 

A whimper escapes your lips. You’ve found yourself so helpless to the way his dazed eyes gleam and plead with those blown-out pupils, and you’re giving in to his request so readily, thoughtlessly.  

Fuck, you’re beautiful. The praises dive into one ear and nestle in your hazy brain, feeding the fire growing in your too-empty, fluttering cunt. Keep doin’ it just like that, okay? 

You nod, head spinning at the dull sparks elicited from your slick fingers circling your own clit. 

Rough, scorch. Jack’s nose bumps into your languid knuckles, scruff prickling your inner thighs as he licks a long, firm stripe from your pussy to your stammering fingers. 

Head knocking back, hips jumping in surprise. You loose a harsh, startled moan into the otherwise still air, and the bastard has the gall to smirk against your folds before he dips his tongue into your sex with a wanton moan. 

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, ribs rattling with the force of the pleasured synapses firing in your brain. 

He shudders from between your legs, mouth pulling slick, filthy sounds from your cunt as he presses deeper, closer. Salt-and-pepper curls smart over your knuckles. 

Then comes the tentative, gentle stroke of two thick, coarse fingerpads. 

They swipe through the wet. Join his tongue in their ministrations. 

Slide right into the seam of your pussy, making room for himself in the pulsing walls and fitting so snugly, like your body doesn’t want to let him go. 

The groan he lets out vibrates you to the bone, nudging you closer to the ledge. “‘S tight.” 

You roll your clit with the newfound fuel for urgency, gasping when Jack laves over your wet, frantic digits, when his fingers set a quick, efficient pace against a spot that makes your eyes roll back— 

When his free hand, warm and grounding, grasps the curve of your hip and squeezes just so, reminding you to come back to Earth as your senses narrow to the pinpoint of stimulation in anticipation. 

“Jack,” you mewl, almost a prayer as your rhythm stutters, as everything builds too high, as Jack’s damned tongue flicks over your stalling fingers—presses the searing, harsh flat of it flush to your clit, shit— 

That’s it, he coaxes, curling into that spongy, sensitive spot. The gentle motion makes the filthiest squelch as he bullies his fingers deeper into your still-cumming pussy. Such a good girl. 

You whimper, breathless and basking in your orgasm-addled haze—‘m so sensitive.  

Your ears ring. Your limbs are heavy. There’s a distinct notion that you’ve never come harder. The praises spilling from him swim around you: 

Tasted so sweet. Did so well. Looked so pretty, sweet girl.  

“Mm, Jack?” you croak. 

He’s moved his attention from your cunt to your neck and jaw, worshipping your skin with slow, loving kisses. “Yeah?” 

The hand you used to touch yourself tugs at his waistband, and the other combs his curls, which are gradually becoming curlier with the humidity of exertion. 

Pulling him in, you melt into the cushions as he kisses you back. He tastes like you, lips and tongue and teeth and all.  

Despite the bodily urge to let the heaviness take over, you manage to pop the button of his jeans and unzip him. You swallow his gravel-grit moan at the release in pressure, desire once again flickering in your empty core. 

“Again?” he mumbles, lips curving into a teasing smile against yours. 

You smooth your hand over his defined chest, caressing just to the left of his sternum with leisure. “Want to make you feel good, too.” 

“I’m clean,” he says, lifting himself up to peer down at you, concern and curiosity swirling in his face. “But we don’t have a condom.” 

“Me too,” you sigh, eyes tracing the gentle set of his eyes, the crooked line of his mouth. “Can’t exactly predict this.” 

He hums, the barest tilt of amusement dawning on his face again. “Sorry.” 

Not sorry. The stupidly endearing twitch of his short, silver whiskers tells you so.  

“You could always pull out.” 

Jack pauses, eyes frozen, a purse dawning on his lips. The idea clearly appeals to him, because the heartbeat beneath your palm picks up, and his pupils dilate until you can only see a thin sliver of hazel. “Are you sure?” 

“You’re a chef.” A teasing smile plays on your mouth now, and his attention flickers down to it—rapt and automatic, always responding to your needs. Another coil of affection and desire unspools and tangles itself around your stomach. 

You take the opportunity to reach around and shuck off your own shirt, the collar of which is dampening with perspiration. His gaze falls, following how the shadows of your body morph as you stretch back onto the couch, leaving you in just your bra.  

“You’ve got the timing down.” 

“Trust me that much?” he wonders, but his hand is already urging at your side until you roll over, prone beneath him.  

A rustle, a shift of weight on the cushions, and he returns to you by sliding soft, threadbare cotton beneath your hips—his shirt. The thing in your chest writhes at the attentiveness, squeezing around your heart. 

“Yeah, I do,” you respond, sweet and soft and devastatingly true.  

You sense his fussing around behind you pause, and his breath catches, if only for a moment.  

“‘S a pain to clean couches,” he mutters after that lapse, voice thick as if he’s chastising himself. A brief, silent chuckle shakes you. 

It’s kind of adorable. 

“Surprise dish, chef?” you ask, fluttering your lashes over your shoulder. 

He braces himself against the back of the couch as he shimmies out of his jeans, curses under his breath a little with impatience biting the edges of his words. “Mm, you can say that.” 

Broad hands cusp your thighs to press them together. You can feel the mixture of your arousal and previous orgasm dripping from your sex, tacky; Jack clambers over you, biceps bulging in your peripheral as he slowly spreads his weight over your back. 

His bare chest, flush to your spine, is a furnace. You feel the warmth in your bone marrow, the security within the cage of his arms, which are braced on either side of your head. 

An insistent, scorching hardness presses to your ass, precum dribbling onto the curve of your lower back as Jack scrabbles for the self-control to not rut against you then and there.  

“This okay?” he asks. The question rumbles through you, providing the love needed for that safe, sated feeling in your chest to bloom again. 

You nod, inhale shivering, “Yeah.” 

Jack’s register scoops into the gravelly range: “Good.” 

A chaste kiss to your cheek, one imprinted with the faint grin on his face. Another over your mouth—though the angle is awkward and his nose gets smushed into your face, you can’t help the small, giddy laugh that escapes you.  

All the while, he lifts his hips, skates feather-light trails of singeing fingertips down your spine—you prickle, feel your pussy getting impossibly wetter—until his hand is sandwiched between your bodies, until he stuffs a throaty whimper next to your ear as he guides his cock into your fluttering hole.  

First contact is caught between choking on air and whimpering. The head hitches, smooth glans and hot skin meeting home, stretching you open. 

As he slides deeper, the sound he makes hisses between his clenched teeth. Your exhale shudders, petering into a quiet whine. 

He works himself in with shallow, thoughtful little thrusts designed to help you adjust. You feel so full from the pleasant ache throbbing in your cunt and going straight to your brain. 

Then his hips meet the globes of your ass. The hand that guided flies to your thigh, and he releases a strained, heady moan that tangles with your quiet exhale of satisfaction. 

Fuck, he feels so good in you. It’s all slick walls and pulsing veins, the hefty drag of the head as he rocks deep into your cunt like he’s trying to carve a space for himself in your stomach. 

(You wouldn’t mind. With the nature of your job, you’d keep him well-fed and warm.) 

“‘S like she can’t let me go,” Jack mumbles, day-old stubble rasping at your earlobe. That damn half-cocky, rumbling voice makes another cocktail of pure need shoot straight for your swollen, neglected clit. 

Bastard knows he has that effect on you, all too well. Thick fingers wedge themselves between your pelvis and the covered cushion, wriggling until he can touch the heat of your cunt, cupping where your soaked seam spreads for his fat girth with another tight gasp of arousal. 

You’ve been pliant. You’ve been more patient than a saint. But Jack’s savoring the velvet suction around his cock, and despite your typical reservations against devouring too quickly, you need him to move. 

Tipping your hips up, you find a new angle that makes his fingers slip up to your pulsing pearl of nerves and his cock prod so deep that your eyes roll back with a breathy keen falling from your lips. 

He tsks but finally takes the hint and begins to thrust harder while teasing your clit with slow, reverent rolls between his skillful fingers, interspersed with light, sharp swats to just feel the way your walls tense and jump around him. 

You manage shallow sips of breath between every time his cock teases your g-spot. Pulsing veins drag along the ridges inside your cunt and fill you up so good that you fear feeling hollow after this. 

It’s a call and response, one the both of you are helpless to. 

You moan when Jack crowds right up against your cervix, so deep that you feel the throb in your chest, and he reacts. Adjusts. Makes you involuntarily clench around him again, like he’s memorizing the way your pussy sucks him in. 

And he twitches whenever that happens, a mindless flutter of pressure and new heat pouring into you in waves. You arch back, desperate to sate the sharp arousal pinching in your core, desperate to have him plunge so deep that he steals your breath. 

His comforting, heady scent mixed with the faint musk of sweat envelops you as he drives you closer to the brink. Your head spins, nervous system stuffed to the brim with the friction between your legs, your gut quickly winding with each raw gasp falling from your lips. 

Leisurely, softhearted kisses travel from your jaw to your shoulder. Jack mumbles sweet nothings of so pretty and you’re doing so good into your skin, labored breaths splintering for breathy groans. 

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers, hitching your clit between two fingers and rubbing that nub with his calloused touch, “know you got another one for me. Wanna feel you come around me.” 

His name falls from your mouth in wet pants, voice strained beneath the weight of your impending orgasm, head turned to press your forehead to the cushion. “Close, Jack.” 

“That’s it.” Jack rocks into you with newfound urgency, fingers skating flinty over your slippery clit, cock driving the obscenest of squelches from your pussy, which are immediately muffled by the press of his hips against your raw ass. “Eaaasy, I’ve got you, honey—fuck, you’re so pretty like this, so good—” 

Stuffing your pitched moan into the couch, you rut backwards like chasing an orgasm on his cock has been your life’s mission all along. Stubble scrapes your shoulder, soothed by hot, broken breaths. 

You turn your head, fitful, mouth hanging open as you tumble toward the edge, as Jack looks straight into your dazed eyes with his pretty hazels reduced to slim rings, as he sinks his teeth into your fucking shoulder with a possessive shadow flickering over his face. 

Oh— 

You cum again with a loud, choked whine, caught between an exhale and a sob. Ecstasy tremors through your body; your legs quiver, eyelids squeeze shut, ass pressing flush to his pelvis as you contract hard and coast on the waves of pleasure. 

His cock throbs, and in the smudgy haze, you register the faint, yet distinct sensation of his heavy balls tightening where they’re pushed against your thigh before he’s pulling out with a grumbled string of curses and painting your ass with hot, spurting ropes. 

“Shit, fuck,” he snarls, hands jumping to your waist with a mind-numbing grip. You’ve never heard music like the sound of your name escaping Jack Abbot’s kiss-bitten lips with a gritted moan. “God…” 

Fingers loosen from the newly-made dimples in your flesh, smoothing down the twitch in your thighs—the insides are sticky with your slick and cum, and his spit and pre—and stopping at your knees. 

“Thank you, baby,” comes the unsteady, gentle murmur. Jack assuages the ache beginning to burn in your muscles, slowly lowering you back down until your mound has met the shirt-covered cushion. 

Jack brushes kisses along your temple. “You were so beautiful.” 

A long, slow meet of your lips, all languid movements and casual, heatless swipes of tongue. His lips curl up in a way that makes your racing heart skip more beats than it should. “So good.” 

Pulls away, caressing your flushed cheek with fondness shining in his eyes. Continues blazing a path down, devoting himself to your sweaty, still-heaving body. 

Shoulder, “The greatest chef I could ask for—” 

Mid-back. He dips his tongue into the divot of a line running down your spine, whispering,  “—and the sweetest girl—” 

The crest of your hip, “—with the most heavenly sounds—” 

The flat of his tongue glides searing over the curve of your ass, right through the mess of cum still warm on your tacky skin.  

He groans at the taste of it mixed with the salt of your sweat, laps and scoops and swallows until your core tingles with arousal once more, until you can’t feel the splatter of his seed on your ass—only his tongue and teeth.  

Your breathing picks up again, pulse rushing as he reaches his fill of cleaning you up and blazes another path of kisses to your fluttering, wet core. 

You squirm as his exhales hit the slick still shining on your folds. Jack can’t have that, not when he’s still developing your flavor profile.  

Familiar, steady hands plant on either one of your thighs. Thumbs spread your cheeks open, your empty pussy and swollen clit eager for more stimulation, even if tears will swell in your eyes. 

You’re not ready to let go of him just yet. This isn’t a matter of how much you can bear taking. This is about how much he can give. 

“Please…” you whisper, words pitched and so quiet that you fear they’ll be inaudible. His name has become a comforting prayer, a syllabic synonym for reliability. 

Jump, and he’ll catch.  

“I’ve got you, baby,” he rumbles, scruff scratching your sensitive inner thighs as he pecks your seam. “I’ll always have you.” 

Love is at the tip of your tongue as he drinks from your needy cunt once again. 

— 

“Here.” Bubblegum pink flashes in the air, and you catch it out of sheer instinct. Pepto-Bismol—man’s best friend. 

Most, if not all, chefs that partake in service have stomach issues because of high-octane moments like your old CDC blowing a full gasket if someone shucked two lentils below his quota. Multiply that by one and a half turns per six days a week, and antacid producers are forever guaranteed a profit margin. 

You shoot a tight grin of gratitude to Jack, who only dips his thumb and index finger into his mouth to moisten so he can flip through today’s guest list. 

Opening night. You smear your hands down the front of your white coat for the fifth time this hour.  

You’re pacing around the front of the house, which has been closed during the day shift so you could fortify yourself for tonight. Jack’s been parked at his usual table by the double doors to mentally rehearse timing for the turn-and-a-half.  

The late noon light is awfully poetic on his solemn, concentrated expression. The illuminated windows stretch across the swept floor until the rays slant over his face, highlighting the structure of his jaw, the plush shape of his lips. 

His stubble glows half-golden, and you think back—with a quick burst of heat in your cheeks—to how it felt scraping between your sensitive legs.  

“Just drink it now so you don’t shit mid-service,” Jack says, droll and unaware of your sudden turn of thought. His attention flits from the pages to your uneasy face, indecision clear in the lines by his mouth. 

You haven’t…talked about the other night. Not in depth, anyway. 

It’s apparent that you find each other attractive. Obviously, he licked his own cum off your ass and then licked you, but further conversation has been stunted by restaurant prep. 

You still spend your working hours in close, comfortable contact, and he squeezes your waist instead of calling corner, and you cheekily peck his lips if you walk into the freezer at the same time.  

So things aren’t awkward, per se, but things have certainly been left unsaid that you both are trying to say now.  

He puts the packet down, tucks his highlighter behind his ear, which makes your stomach settle for a split moment to feel how endearing that habit has become.  

“C’mon, chef, don’t give yourself an ulcer,” comes the quip, straddling the line between lighthearted and serious. “God knows the Pitt doesn’t need another Robby.” 

You huff out a light laugh, twisting off the cap. “One swig or two?” 

“How confident do you feel?” Slowly, Jack rises and slinks toward where you’re wearing a path into the floor. 

You meet him with your other hand squeezing the firm muscles behind his elbow, fingers slotting perfectly into the divot of the joint, eyes trained on the bottle in your grip. “Like…three and a half?” 

“Alright, that’s a little too much,” he chuckles dryly, shifting so he can fondly snake an arm around your shoulders. “One is fine, because you’re gonna kill it.” 

“Ye of little faith,” you murmur in fake offense. You still raise the lip to your mouth and take a swig, wincing at the thick goop of wintergreen and chalk sliding into your troublesome system.  

“Oh, the lady doth protest,” he fires back, that teasing grin lighting his face. 

Rolling your eyes, exasperated amusement pulls at the corners of your lips. You twist the cap back onto the PB bottle and set it on a nearby table, the plastic soundless against the sun-warmed wood. 

You’re about to turn back to the cold bath of LEDs in the kitchen, shrugging away Jack’s arm, when he hooks two fingers into the pocket of your chef’s coat and tugs you back to him. 

You must be magnetic. When returning to him (like the tide), the edges of his expression tilt upward; fondness softens and glimmers in his eyes, which dart down to your lips, and a faint tinge of a blush colors his freckled cheeks. 

A swallow works through your throat. 

“Need something?” you ask, keeping your voice level, though it’s too casual to mean nothing. 

“Hm” —he studies the far wall, mouth pursing as if he’s hiding a laugh— “maybe a good luck kiss?” 

Of course. 

Craning, you press your lips to his scruffy jaw, the action quick and clean. His skin thrums beneath your touch with heat and excitement, and when you pull away, he’s got this look on his face—all dazed smiles and unfocused eyes. 

You cough lightly, which makes his broad shoulders twitch like he’s just caught himself falling asleep on the job. 

Jack’s faint smile grows until a full-blown smirk sits on his face, and he crosses his arms in the way he knows drives you crazy. “You’re gonna kill it here.” 

— 

Zero turns runs smoothly. 

Under the heavy, watchful observance of Jack, the night shift neatly hits the efficiency and teamwork goals you’ve set for yourselves during the pre-service meeting.  

Garde manger’s geoduck petals are thinner than yours, which allows the crisp flesh to absorb the surrounding flavors easily. They’re doing most of the plating, like rolling up the buds of translucent slices and painstakingly decorating the ceramics with sauce, but you’re stationed at the central counter to oversee presentation. 

That was your biggest mistake. 

Somewhere in the midst of the first-and-a-half turns, you’re craving a menu change and a second swig of Pepto. The hot dishes have suddenly piled up. The colds are following close behind, and now you’re certain that you’ll spend this weekend simplifying the aesthetics. 

And Jack—ridiculously competent, brutally experienced Jack—keeps the energy high, to the point where you dread the next ‘yes, chef.’ 

Ten plates are waiting for your approval, the nearest one emitting the faintest curls of white when the guest should be taking a steaming, scorching first bite. You hate re-firing; you finger the edge of the counter as irritation simmers in your gut at the sudden pile-up of dishes. 

You took it too easy, and now you have so much to do with so little time to do it. Fuck. 

Glancing at Jack, cool and composed and level from his perch at the expo station, you worry your cheek between your molars. Maybe you aren’t cut out for this. Maybe… 

Maybe he made a mistake. 

“Duck for table five, fired!” Parker calls, bent over her own dish and lining up the pieces with the pancakes. 

When she finishes, she slides the plate to join the procession line already waiting for presentation. Your pulse ticks up again, spiraling thoughts slamming the pedal to the metal. 

Nazely chirps, “Need help with plating for pastry.” 

Your breaths feel like they drag against your throat, but your hands and forceps hold fast to steadiness, even as you become aware of the droplets of sweat racing down your nape.  

“Four uni, two geoduck all day,” Shen says, setting glazed porcelain onto the stainless steel counter with a dull thunk.  

You grip your tweezers tighter—the dull hilt digs into your palm, hard enough to bruise— 

You glance back to the expo table. Jack’s already watching you with those characteristic 11s between his brows. 

You should feel guilty for being caught red-handed in your slapstick act of incompetency. But the hazel doesn’t have any fire behind it—just concern, breath-halting and real.  

He scans the chart one last time. Steps off the platform. Your stomach turns with something fierce and sour.  

“Ellis, fire two egg, two duck, four escargot toast—all day,” he commands, his firm voice carrying through the controlled chaos of the kitchen. “You’re doing great.” 

Fingers make quick work of his coat sleeves, which are folded with brutal, practiced efficiency to his elbows. He strides to take his place beside you, still surveying but reaching for the tweezers hanging out of his pocket. 

“Nazely, just a quenelle of yuzu sorbet will do. Three loquat brûlée egg tarts, please.” 

Yes, chef. 

“Shen, keep that pace.” 

Thank you, chef. 

“Chef,” he murmurs, leaning into your side. “I’ll do hot, alright?” 

“Who’s calling expo?” You keep your tone level, but slight tremors still shine through. 

You drop a final microgreen onto your current plate and push it to the side. “Hands, please.” 

“That’s for twenty,” Jack adds, not looking up from his task. Earnesty bleeds into his voice, just this side of intimate. “I’m here for you, chef.” 

God, it lands. 

You push out a shuddering exhale, one that peters into a smooth stream of air by the end. The discomfort and doubt wriggling in your gut ebbs away at the gradual diffusion of his cologne and body heat beside you. 

Somehow, he remembers. Somehow, he’s here to be your guiding light. 

You work in partial silence, hands flying between deli quarts of plucked greens and miscellaneous decorations, tweezers making indistinct clipping sounds with every move. Warm hands brush yours when you both reach for the same container of meticulously chopped cilantro. 

If that immediately bathes you head-to-toe with boiling heat, he doesn’t comment. Or maybe he noticed that you’ve been a little distracted by how commanding he is in the kitchen, and he’s choosing not to say anything. 

(Perhaps the downward turn of tonight’s service is really the work of Jack Abbot. Really, the sight of his arms clad in that white coat is obscene.) 

Between reminders of ‘every second counts’ and ‘hands for table four, fire two escargot and the last uni,’ you can feel the pass of his gaze over your countenance of concentration. And when you glance up, the faint weight disappears as soon as it comes, but you never miss the feathering in his scruffy jaw, nor the miniscule, upward twitch of the lips you kissed hours ago. 

Jack breaks the silence first, voice low and smooth. “Three more tables left, chef.” 

The relief unspools in your stomach. Without thought, your frown splinters into a soft smile. 

You’re both out of the woods. 

— 

“Chef.” 

A startled shiver possesses your body, and you leap off the back wall of the restaurant. The night is freezing compared to the scorching tempers still lingering in the empty kitchen, but Jack looks at home in the dimness with his black tee melting into the darkness. 

He stands to your side, facing you with his hands behind his back. There’s a faint line running down between the muscles of his half-hidden forearms, the one that—anatomically—appears when the fingers are flexed. 

“Shit,” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut to still your heart and ignoring the sharp pang lancing through your stomach. “Maybe let the door squeak so I don’t have a heart attack.” 

“Sorry,” he says, though it hardly sounds like remorse. Jack holds out one of his hands, and you almost chuckle. Almost. “Just thought you’d want this after…that.” 

The bottle of Pepto-Bismol, just a swing shy of full, is glaringly bright. Still, you wrap your fingers around it—grazing his skin in the process, and you don’t fight the way your heart skips—and tilt your head toward the steps by the back door. 

Chalk coats your tongue, followed by the strange, warm-cool burn of artificial wintergreen flavoring. As you twist the cap back on, you plop beside him, exhaustion catching up to your body and knocking half the air out of your lungs. 

“Some first service,” you murmur, shutting your eyes and listening to the crickets, the rustle of a nearby tree, the faint rush of nighttime Pittsburgh traffic. 

“You did good,” he says, just as quiet, but not half as uncertain as you are. You feel soft, warm lips pressing to your temple, then the weight of his arm around your shoulders, driving away some of the chill beginning to bleed into the air. “Here.” 

Smooth plastic nudges at your aching hands. 

You look down—it's a tupperware container, one of those rectangular ones you’d often find at Chinese restaurants so you can take the stir-fried noodles to-go. The clear lid is translucent with thick steam, and the body of it is comfortingly warm. 

“Leftovers?” Blearily, you blink again at the tupperware, then to Jack. 

Jack shakes his head, peering at you with pure sincerity pooling in his hazel eyes. “Made it before service. I was waiting because I knew you’d be tired or hungry after.” 

Though the weight is foreign in your palms, the heat is oddly familiar. “Did you...use Robby’s escargot microwave?” 

He snickers, oddly pleased with himself. “Maybe.” 

“You’re terrible,” you say wryly. There’s no bite behind it; instead, you find your voice rather affectionate and tender. 

The lid separates with a crack, and wisps of steam curl from a generous helping of rice, water spinach, and—fuck, that’s the scent prime aged wagyu. The rich, plump slices of meat polarize the image of a humble meal in a takeout box. 

Despite the sudden alarm, your mouth can’t help but to salivate. 

“That’s the same wagyu we used to make at Everblue, just ten days more aged,” he says, producing a fork out of thin air and sticking it into the pile of warm rice. “I remember you telling Santos that you wanted to try it.” 

(Is it possible for a heart to break in a moment of joy?) 

You swallow the flood of saliva and the burning in your eyes, picking up the fork and shoveling a heap of rice onto your fork. “It looks good.” 

A firm thumb circles your arm, tracing the curve of your shoulder and then arcing over the dip where your humerus begins. His chest swells with a sharp intake of air, but pauses for a heartbeat. 

“I actually” —Jack cuts himself off when you swivel your head up to look at him, fork halfway lifted to your open mouth. “I wanted to know if we could see each other,” he finishes quickly, words blurring together. 

“Like—huh, wow,” you start, panting at the absurd temperature of the rice, as if he grabbed it straight out of the pot, “I mean, I’d tell you to buy me dinner first, but...” 

Gracelessly, you stab a piece of wagyu as your stomach reacts to the first taste of nourishment and reminds you that post-service always leaves you ravenous. The aged meat melts on your tongue in smoke and fat and salted butter, and you groan at the pure euphoria exploding in your mouth. 

“I s’pose I’ve already done that,” comes his wry mutter, nose crinkling at the realization before an amused smile breaks on his face. 

You go warm behind your ribs at the endearing sight, at the way he knocks his head back a little boyishly. Your cheeks warm too, stinging in the chilly air, and you’re reminded of that night—months ago—outside 10 Blade. 

“Thank you, Jack,” you blurt, devoting all your attention to the rectangular block of a balanced meal in your lap. “For giving me a chance.” 

“Don’t,” he responds, the shadow of a frown passing over his handsome features. You want to kiss the wrinkle between his brow and trace his crow’s feet. “That was all you.” 

“Convince me,” you quip, a teasing grin dawning on your face. 

“Mm, I have some ideas. Candlelight dinner, maybe at your old restaurant so your boss can see you thriving...” 

Giggling, you bump your shoulder into his, but it only makes the arm around you snake tighter, until you’re snug against his side. 

“Maybe we’ll go back to my place this time, and talk some shit,” he continues. Jack’s voice deepens conspiratorially, scooping into the gravelly range, “And because we skipped dessert at 10 Blade, we’ll have it on my countertop.” 

The innuendo isn’t lost on you. Warmth curls in your belly like the low flicker of a burner’s blue flame.

He meets your eyes, bright and curious and heart-stoppingly eager, and you think you’d make anything for this man. “How’s that sound?” 

You laugh, sweet and flattered. “It sounds like three Michelin stars, chef.” 

You wish he pulled his sleeves down from his elbows before the door swung open. You wish he hadn’t left his hand on the knob and let his shoulders hog the doorframe’s width. 

He had let you brush past him into the house, let you get a glimpse of that travesty of a faint blush on his scraped knuckles, the devastating veins thrumming under the surface of his forearm. 

It made your mind go weird, in that oh no way. 

Thinking back, the crazy thoughts probably started after your last date asked if you’d ever see you and him lasting. (You did.) 

Fuck, he was cute: short dark hair and nerdy, like Mark was, except his eyes were more hazel, and he wasn’t as tall. He had the same terrible humor that still made you giggle madly, and paired with an awkward charm, you were heads over heels. 

Until he answered his own question with, “You’re too busy for me, so I don’t,” and shattered your heart all over the dented table of that shitty diner he took you out to.  

Shut you down before you could say you’d try to balance your schedule for him. So. 

You told yourself that it wouldn’t have worked out anyways. Heroes and civvies end in some tragedy, whether it be death or too many missed dates. Still, you’re fairly down on your luck, and you’re obviously projecting your ex’s desirability onto Mark. Who is clearly taller, and a lot buffer. 

You kind of wanted to push Mark against the wall. If it had to do with tension or the rebound demons, you didn’t want to know. 

Because Mark Grayson is your friend. “HBFFs,” is what he would call the two of you, framing it between his hands. “Heroes and best friends forever.” 

William would kill you both if he heard that. “Okay,” he’d say, clutching his hands together and fluttering his lashes like he has main character syndrome, “I get it. Mark’s so much taller and buffer and cuter than I am. Go and be with the man of your dreams, I guess.” 

Mark Grayson is not the man of your dreams. Seriously. Scout’s Honor. You’ll recite the whole oath if you have to. 

He’s been there through your growing pains and terrible phases; held onto your hand when he was scared to get lost; and shared a curtain at the GDA hospital after that one fight that left the two of you in physical shambles. 

And things changed then, if only a little. Mark was still the guy who put Gundam figurines on his birthday list and binged the entire new season of Séance Dog in six hours (no water, no bathroom break). 

He had a terrible migraine after that, calling you at three in the morning with tears streaming down his face and sniffling. 

No, the migraine’s fine, he said. The finale was just so good. And then you bribed him with a compendium to take an ibuprofen, drink fluids, and go straight to bed. 

He listened. Immediately, actually. You had him tucking in and mumbling good night over the phone in two minutes. 

Like he wasn't a half-alien, crazy-ass kid from the North Side, and you weren’t the other crazy-ass with telekinesis. Like you were just two people who grew up with each other. 

You’ve accepted it, the fact that your best friend (don’t tell William) is always in space or on the other side of the globe, talking about volcano heads in Shibuya or hostile squids on Mars while you hurl random objects to villains at home with the power of your mind. 

The truth is: you missed Mark Grayson. 

Seeing him grinning at you on the other side of the doorframe made something in your brain wake up. Like a chemical reaction, except a lot more explosive and unexpected than your high school labs. 

You want to go back, before the Teen Team and the Flaxan invasion. Back to when he first got his powers and snuck into your room via window—which was a bad idea, because Mark took a hardcover calculus textbook traveling at Mach ‘Fuck Telekinesis’ to the face. 

Things had been simpler then. Just two kids roping each other into playing vigilante and sleeping past their alarms after spending the night kicking ass downtown. You hadn’t used your powers to such an extent until you became a superhero—it made something tickle in your stomach, just on the edge of wild and unrestrained. 

It could’ve been adrenaline. It could’ve also been spending time and being more batshit than usual with your best friend. 

But back to the topic at hand: missing Mark. 

Since Cecil picked the two of you up, you haven’t much time to just relax with each other. Things were just reduced to texts, the occasional call, and maybe a flyby if you were on the same block (which only happened when the stars and planets miraculously aligned). 

So, this party at Rick’s is important. As in, you’re taking it more seriously than Cecil’s stupid orders. 

You follow Mark through the living room and kitchen to the back door of the house, smiling at him when he slides the screen open for you. The smell of chlorine and barbecue hits you hard. Some diva pop song is blasting on the patio speakers, hard bass and vocal riffs. William is already in the water, along with Eve and Amber. This is awkward—two of Mark’s exes in one pool. 

“After you, Your Highness,” Mark croons, bowing with fake reverence. He grins back at you, close-mouthed like he’s trying not to laugh. Knows you’ll take the bait and kick off an entire afternoon of banter. It’s just a matter of time—or, seconds. 

“Thank you, Sir Grayson.” 

Mark chuckles, stretching up to his full height with an unrestrained smile splitting his mouth open—more confident now that you’ve kicked off. Half-smug and wilder than you remember, but softhearted all the same. 

Your heart slams into your ribs. You try to ignore the way his sweater leeches to the exact definition of his shoulders. 

Fuck. Your face heats. You need to slap on sunscreen and get into the pool, now. 

“Aren’t you hot?” you ask, moving to the patio. He dogs behind you, steps almost biting at the heels of your sandals. You wave at William, Amber, Eve, and then at Rick, hiding under the tree shade in the corner of the yard and grilling with his hair still damp. 

Mark shrugs, hand cupping his neck. Those damn veins under the thin, soft skin of his inner wrist wink at you, taunting. You want to sink your teeth into the solid slope of his forearm muscle and see if it leaves a trace of your bite. 

But that’s freaky, and you have a certified vanilla reputation to maintain. 

“I mean—” he hooks his fingers under the hem of his sweater, pulls it up to casually reveal a flash of skin, along with a dusting of light hair under his belly button “—the only other thing I’m wearing are my trunks.” 

Is it socially acceptable to pass out from heatstroke at a hangout? 

You almost slap your hand to your mouth in comical shock. It’s not like his hero suit leaves much to the imagination, being skintight and all. But fuck, he’s doing too much. 

You cough, remembering that you’re also only wearing your swimsuit under your clothes. Stilted, “Right. Same.” 

“It’s almost like we’re telepathic.” 

“I’m telekinetic, not an ESPer,” you say, tilting your head down to look up at him pointedly. 

“It’s gotta count for something, though,” he sings. 

Side-smile this time, crooked up at the left, whisker dimple just beginning to indent into the apple of his cheek. He shoots you two enthusiastic finger-guns with an exaggerated wink. 

You shake your head, helplessly amused. You pull off your shirt and shorts, standing on the concrete in slippers and a two-piece. 

When you sneak a glance back—one of your many spontaneous ideas that never get you anywhere good—Mark's just standing there, equally as undressed as you. Tan skin dipping between muscle, freckles splashed on his shoulders, sweater limp in hand. 

He kind of hangs there, not really knowing what to do. Face frozen somewhere between a casual flash of teeth, utter shock, and awe; brows just above their normal position, eyes wide and lowered, attention pinned. Like he’s the deer and you’re the headlights, and not the other way around. 

You don’t gulp and stare. You don’t. Seriously. Scout's Honor. 

William’s voice breaks into your mini zone-out, startling. “You jumping in or what?” 

You scoff, welcome for the distraction, “Dude, I’m not getting sunburned!” 

You and Mark throw your clothes onto the patio couch at the same time. Huh, telepathic. 

His sweater lands on top of your things—you wonder, briefly, if the scent of his detergent and cologne will stay on the fabric. (Secretly, you hope it does. Please, please, please, just this one time.) 

Mark pads over to a pile of bags next to the couch, pulling out an aerosol spray of sunblock from a pink tote. Must be Eve’s—although they ended on good terms, the thought of his ex drives something sharp into you. He shakes it at lightning speed as he comes back. 

“You first?” 

You don’t think his smile has left since you first saw him. He’s still shaking the can; you hope it doesn’t explode on you. 

You shrug, striking a starfish pose, spread-eagle shadow stretching across the wet pavement. You probably look stupid as fuck—mismatched two-piece, sunglasses pushing back your hair. 

It still makes Mark’s smile shift to something softer, fonder. 

Your breath hitches, just a little. Only noticeable if he was looking closely, which is impossible, because why would Mark be paying attention to your vitals? 

“Do your worst, flyboy.” 

The aerosol spray is fucking cold. Despite the suffocating press of summer in Chicago, you swear your teeth are going to start chattering like a Victorian child with the immune integrity of a wet straw. 

“I take it back, don’t do your worst,” you shiver, stance beginning to waver. William is jeering something from the pool about how you ‘look like a wet cat,’ pulling a mirthful scoff from Mark. 

Seriously, who’s side is this guy on? 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, spritzing the mist onto his hand. Gestures to the strap of your top, smile smaller and more serious. You’re kind of endeared by the way he’s treating the task of helping you with sunblock like a mission, one that’s more important than defending the Declaration of Independence or killing kaijus. “You don’t mind, right?” 

You slip the right strap to the side, obliging. Mark slides his sunscreen-covered hand over the space, palm burning along your shoulder, melting away the chill. He slides the fabric back into place himself, then moves on to the left, worming his hand under the strap until you’re sure that you’ll pass out from the sudden wave of heat rolling through you. 

He skates his hand over the blade of your shoulder, then up to the projection of your acromion process. His thumb brushes against the flutter of your jugular, slides back down until it’s pressed to the sharp edge of your bone again. Cheekily, he snaps the strap against your skin when he pulls away. 

Funny, you think about saying. Didn’t know we were giving free massages to our besties.  

“Thanks,” you choke out instead, barely meeting his eyes. “Um—want me to do you?” 

He turns pink, but it’s only due to the hot, stale breeze picking up. At least, that’s what you think. 

“No, it’s…” He hesitates with that stupid lost puppy look on his face. “It’s okay. Half Viltrumite, remember? I’m practically—” 

You wish you had that can of aerosol sunblock, if only to spray it in his face. Still, you smile, hopelessly, and shake your head. “I’m gonna stop you there.” 

“Come on, just let me say it.” He punctuates that with a pout that makes your lungs want to play ping-pong with your heart. 

You should get checked for palpitations, or spiritual possession. Who knows, even if you have zero ESP, you could still be a viable host for some dead, horny schoolgirl. 

“I’m,” Mark starts, leaning closer to taunt you, smelling like citrus and woodsy cologne under the blanket of sunscreen spray that must have clung onto him. His mouth exaggerates every syllable, and you watch the plush of his bottom lip as it moves to form: “In-vin-cible.” 

With a groan, “You suck, Mark.” You hold out your hand, brows raising. “Just give me the can.” 

“Alright, alright,” he breathes out, shrugging. “Didn’t know you were into bossy, but…” 

“Shut up.” 

For a second, you almost think he’s going to retort with ‘make me.’ He looks like he would, skeptical but still mischievous tilt to his mouth and all. 

But he just tosses the can over and turns around, holding his arms out to the side in the same spread-eagle pose you struck earlier. 

You get a really, really good view of his back. The defined shift of his shoulders, powerful and wide enough to make a swimmer jealous. The way his neck—you swear it got thicker—bunches up, trapezius bulging, how the dips between his muscles just whisper the suggestion of how easily he could put you into a wall or throw you onto a mattress— 

(Sorry, that was horny schoolgirl possessing your body.) 

And you aren’t…paying attention, but one of your friends did say that Invincible was Chicago’s ass. Maybe she’s right. Then again, you’re trying not to ogle. Is saying that they looked at you first a valid excuse? 

You decide that being told to make him shut up is infinitely better than the torture of getting a free pass to stare at his backside. 

“Today would be nice,” Mark mutters softly. 

Right. He’s your friend, and an objectively bad one, with the way he’s always verbally sniping at you. 

“Dude, I need your workout schedule,” you say, pressing down on the nozzle. Sunscreen sprays onto the expanse of his back, and you really regret it, the way it coats his skin in a shiny coat. You feel sticky all over, and kind of wrong for looking at him in this way. The effect of romantic frustration, you suppose. “Is that what the big thing at HQ is for?” 

His back flexes with his laugh. “Yeah, Cecil had me benching like, a million pounds.” 

You whistle, though it sounds more like a sputter, “Wow. You’re like, really jacked. I might start calling you Superman.” 

“I think I’m already a super man, ever thought about that?” 

You can hear the stupid smile on his face, probably complete with closed eyes and a lopsided mouth. It's just this side of smug, in the way only Mark Grayson’s humble ass could be. 

You let up on the spray. “Only thing I’m thinking about is how unfunny your jokes are.” 

Mark scoffs, waddling around to face you. Keeping your eyes pointedly above his shoulders, you continue your mission to spritz sunscreen like it’s the most important thing in the world. Which it is, because you might just explode everything in a ten-mile radius with your powers on accident. 

“I’m not unfunny.” He’s so sulky when he says it, thick eyebrows and lips angled down. If pouts could kill, and all. “Just watch, you’ll see me on SNL one day.” 

“SNL?” you crow, then sniff for extra measure, “SN-Smell?” 

“Thanks for the free joke. I’ll make sure to mention you when I’m on TV,” Mark says, deadpan look cracking under the urge to grin. “Oh wait, I already am—like, every day.” 

You scoff, faking offense. “So am I, dumbass.” 

“I guess we’re the perfect pair then.” 

And it’s so unfair how your brain skips a signal when he beams at you. Which neuron even decided to let your dumb and annoying(ly hot) best friend hijack every impulse in your body? 

Your sudden onset of Mark-induced brain fog leaves you frozen for what feels like an hour. Just you and him, shiny with sunblock and cheesing like there’s no tomorrow. There’s a glob of foam on his collarbone, from where the nozzle must have sputtered out. 

Without thinking, you reach out and smear it away with your thumb. Good grief, his skin is warm… 

“There, you’re done,” you say, stepping back and forcing yourself not to admire your work. “I’m gonna help Rick while it sets.” 

He shoves your shoulder, but there’s no mean bite behind it. “Boo, stickler.” 

— 

Ten minutes later, you’re gnawing on your last straws of sanity. 

Really, how dare he lounge around the pool with every limb dwarfing the foam noodles he’s tangled himself in?  

“You two always seem to miss each other,” Rick muses, absently poking a Polish sausage with the tongs.  

You’re shoving onions around the flat grill with a vengeance, trying to do anything but notice Mark. “What do you mean?” 

“Like, you always alternate hangouts. Mark can come but you can’t, and then another time, it’s the opposite.” 

“Product of Cecil’s sorry ass Google Calendar,” you grumble, scraping your spatula between the caramelizing onions and scorching metal. 

Rick offers, “If it’s any consolation, he always mopes about wanting to see your face again.” 

You swear a few nerves wither in your brain. “Huh?” 

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging like the fact is so easy to digest. “Hey, I miss hanging out too, but bro isn’t that slick with his crush on you…” 

He pauses. 

“Oh fuck—forget I said that,” Rick exclaims in a low, furtive voice. “Coaches don’t play, right?” 

You take a few moments to blink, catch up, and respond: “I think you’ve deeply misunderstood the phrase, Rick.” 

He only squeezes his mouth into a wobbly line, eyes wide like he’s inwardly criticizing himself for having a big mouth. 

A wave of water crashes over your feet and sandals, so frigid that it almost begs your skin to shrivel up on the spot. 

Whipping around, you glare at Mark; he’s whistling to himself in a manner that’s far too casual to be innocent. 

Menace. 

“I know it was you, Mark,” you call, setting down your spatula to prepare for kicking off your sandals. 

He wades over, still tangled in his pool noodles, dark hair all carelessly spiked and plastered in a way that’s totally unfair. “I don’t know what you mean…” 

If you know one thing for sure, it’s that you’ll never match his speed. In a blur, Mark is flying up, wrapping his arms around your bare waist, and hurling himself back into the pool—with you in tow, the asshole! 

“Fuckin’ nerve!” you sputter, flailing against the cold water lapping at your back. 

Mark laughs, low and warm by your ear, solid chest heaving against your back. Woah. “Fifteen minutes are up, ace. I counted all 900 seconds.” 

“You can still do math?” you bite, the fight leaving as you resign to being dead weight on him. 

“Ye of little faith,” he whines, unwinding his arms in dramatic petulance. You use telekinesis to drag the nearest pool float towards you—a donut—because you’re too stunned to trust yourself to tread. 

Like any natural sequence of events, Mark makes the wonderful choice to share the floatie. Too many concussions impacting his empathy, it seems—surely, he must sense that you aren’t surviving today, and now he’s expediting your doom. 

He throws his arms over the plastic, hands hooked into the hole, and you think to drown him on the spot before Amber paddles over. 

“Seeing anyone?” she asks, posture all casual as she clings onto her baby pink noodle (it's probably made by Eve). “I just finished telling Eve about Kyle’s crazy stir-fry.” 

Your chuckle wavers at the edges as images of your cursed love life flash through your mind. “Yeah, just…one casual asshole after another.” 

Amber lets out that low hum of understanding. “I could set you up, if you want. I know a really sweet guy going to UChicago.” 

The donut warps suddenly; Mark’s fingers squeal against the wet plastic. He puts on a basic, polite grin that doesn’t match his stiff body, and chirps, “Y’know, I’m also a sweet guy…I dropped out of Upstate, but still…” 

Neither you nor Amber decide to dignify his out-of-pocket interjection with a response. 

“Thanks, but I’ll have to say no,” you say to her, sullen. From your peripheral, Mark bats his lashes like info on your love life is his oxygen. “Dating’s left a sour taste.” 

He deflates. Probably because he relates, right? 

“Yeah,” she sighs, head tilting back to dip her hair into the water. Then she leans in conspiratorially, eyes narrowing. “And let me guess: hookups not doing it either?” 

Nodding, you tune out your best friend’s incessant glances and pretend you haven’t been ogling him all afternoon. “Like, I’m repressed but not desperate.” 

White lie. You’re repressed, indeed, but you may be more desperate than you think, especially with Mark’s biceps flexing right beside you. 

Good fucking lord—you’ll need three melatonin tablets so you don’t DJ it to thoughts of your HBFF before bed. 

“Exactly,” she nods. 

A rain of droplets rips away your attention—Mark is floating above you, face all scrunched up, water trailing the dips between his abs (sick and twisted). 

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?” Amber’s brow arches into a shape that would make Hollywood stars envious.  

“Chips,” he mumbles, mouth set in a pout. He starts toward the door, showering pool water all over the steaming concrete. “Soda. Maybe a mirror so I can talk to myself about bad dates and sex, too.” 

She rolls her eyes and snarks beneath her breath, “Serial monogamist.” 

You scoff, though the insult doesn’t humor you like it should. “I should—get napkins.” 

Amber sets her gaze on you, a shadow of seriousness possessing her features. “Don’t tell me you’re going after him.” 

“I’m not,” you protest, but you’re already wading towards the steps. “I just hate chip dust in pools.” 

“Gross!” Eve hollers, midway through charging up a water gun with William—likely targeting poor Rick as their first victim. 

“I mean, yeah, that’s disgusting,” Amber agrees, “but you’re sure it’s not your big crush?” 

Heat licks up and down your face, and you throw your towel over your head to hide it. Where did she even get that impression? You haven’t been that obvious with the staring… 

“I said I’m not looking for anything!” 

“Babe, there’s a difference between romance and sex,” Amber drawls, paddling up to the shaded edge of the pool and resting her arms against the concrete. “Mark’s hot—objectively. Would you commit? Maybe not, but you’d definitely ride along...” 

“Didn’t need the image,” you grit as you stomp into the house and slam the back door. 

Inside, the AC quickly strips you to the bone, frigid air kissing the exposed skin that isn’t armored by your towel. You find Mark sulking beside the pantry, mouth pinched as he puzzles over Cheetos and BBQ Lays. 

Nonchalantly, you peer into the fridge, paying little mind to how the chill caresses your still-damp skin. The thick silence stretches without hurry until Mark coughs a little. 

Whirling around, you expect him to at least be facing you and ready for a conversation, but—yeah, he’s still hellbent on studying the chips like the choice will make or break his calculus grade. 

(Which he almost failed.) 

You shut the fridge. “What’s wrong?” 

He sighs, shoulder wiggling with the vigor of his obnoxious chin rubbing. Leave it to Mark to make a whole production out of acting casual. 

“Nothing,” he mumbles, unconvincingly. 

“If you wanted to talk about relationships and sex—which I don’t know why you’d want to—I’m listening now,” you say, exasperation letting your hands flop to your sides.  

“It’s not that,” he all but exclaims, equally exasperated.  

“Then what is it?” 

And just to check, because he’ll die if he isn’t dramatic about this, he peeks over his shoulder to make sure you’re still paying attention before he answers: 

“You just…deserve better than whoever those guys were, okay? It sucks.” 

He slouches as if he’s been kicked on your behalf. It lands like a smash hit to the heart. You’re suddenly glad he’s turned around, because you’d probably become one with the kitchen grout if his big, brown eyes were watery and sopping and cute-cow-like and aimed straight at you. 

“Mark, you hardly know anything about my dating life.” 

He huffs, the bumps of each vertebrae starting to appear with the deepening of his posture. “Well, tell me all about it.” 

You blink, not quite expecting it. “I—okay? This guy Robert stood me up on our first exclusive date.” 

No response. You scan the tile floor beneath your feet.  

“Matthew was a cheater. Scott never initiated and called me desperate. And Seb—” your molars grind as your throat catches “—I don’t know, I really wanted him to last.” 

“I’m sorry about that,” he says. You flick your eyes up and startle slightly because he’s right in front of you, but he’s so light on his feet that you didn’t notice him moving. 

“It’s fine,” you blurt, quiet and quick. “I just...well, there’s no incentive to try.” 

“Hey.” 

You turn to follow his voice, unassuming. It’s second nature, to look when he calls. 

A thrill runs up your spine. 

Oh. You’re kissing. Mark is dipping his head, feet gently lifting off the ground like he’s about to depart for cloud nine. 

It’s short, chaste, like a textbook first kiss on TV—freeze frame, cut to outro. Roll the credits, the whole works. The bassline of one of the songs from William’s playlist picks up, the thrum matching the pounding of your heart. 

Everything just...slips your mind. You’re leaning into the kiss, you realize. Feet lifting off the floor to get closer, a string of firecrackers exploding in your chest. It’s so cold in the house, AC icing the water droplets still on your skin, but you can’t help but feel feverish. 

You don’t know how you’re supposed to go back to the twelve-inch bare minimum between your mouths after this. You don’t even know how you were able to tolerate being that far from your best friend before. 

You only pull away once you process the fact that you’re about to slip your tongue into his mouth. 

Holy fuck, what’s wrong with you? Friends don’t do things like—like this! Kissing and standing so close that you can see individual freckles, sliding warm fingers under swimsuit straps and rubbing sun-warmed shoulders together. 

“What—” your mouth dries just as your vocabulary spills across the floor, imaginary letters clattering on kitchen tiles “—what'd you do that for?” 

Mark has a guilty look on his face, looking everywhere but you. “Sorry,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like he means it, “I just thought...you know, what’s better incentive than a kiss?” 

He’s kind of right, though you hate to admit it. Your chest feels as if someone’s twined fairy lights around your ribs. 

“Huh.” You frown, though it doesn’t have much bite behind it. You restrain the urge to brush your fingers over where Mark’s lips have just been. Would the warmth still be there? 

“See?” 

You nod in tandem, like you’ve gotten in on a secret joke. He smiles at you, sweet and sincere, and your stomach does a sharp little kick. 

You collect your thoughts, careful not to brush his skin when you reach around him for both the Cheetos and BBQ Lays. His sternum hiccups before you hear the hitch in his breathing. 

The tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you have half the mind to lean back in before someone bangs on the back door and starts talking about needing “plates and a soda ASAP!” 

“We can…” You swallow and blink like a headlight-guilty deer as you back away. “Talk about it later, okay?” 

Mark nods and reaches for both bags at once, an easy grin filling his face. Shyly, “You’re a pretty good kisser, though.” 

You’re helpless to the bashful tilt of your mouth, grabbing a fistful of napkins and a two-liter soda you saw in the fridge. “Learned that along the way—” 

“—with your four evil exes?” he quips. “Please don’t make me go Scott Pilgrim on them.” 

He thinks he’s so endearing (he is). 

— 

Mark’s arms wrap around your waist, and his shoulders are firm and warm beneath your thighs. 

Your stomach stirs at the sight of his shock of dark hair brushing your belly, and that unconsciously makes you shift. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, plush mouth smushed to your skin. “It’s really comfy here.” 

He had cracked his head against the edge of the pool, roughhousing with William. Well, they called it ‘chicken’ when it was more like ‘William sits on Rick and Mark floats in the air.’ 

Eve sent him home, and naturally, you drove him back to make sure he wasn’t more directionally challenged than he usually is. That would be bad. 

You had dried off, threw your pile of clothes in the backseat, and plopped your ass onto a towel behind the wheel. And when you got here, you had made all but two steps past the threshold before he tackled you to the couch. 

You know it’s hard to concuss a Viltrumite—you’ve only done it when you were on the Teen Team and accidentally dropped a shipping container on his head. 

(At least he waited until after lunch to fool around, because you really would have concussed him if you went home hungry.) 

You just can’t stop thinking about the kiss, though. Even with him cuddled up against you and pouting about his nonexistent bruise, you’re…nervous. 

Like, first crush nervous. The kind of anxious when you have three seconds to react to being asked out and don’t want to make a bad impression. 

“We should shower,” you say, hesitantly trailing your fingers along the soft tips of his hair. “Your mom won’t be happy if her couch smells like swimsuits.” 

(Thank god for real estate. You inwardly leaped for joy when Mark told you Oliver was so grounded that Debbie took him to a sale so she could keep an eye on him.) 

“Okay,” he sighs, a bit nasally because his nose is also bent against your stomach. “Help me up…” 

So dramatic.  

He guides you up the stairs, knuckles kissing the bare small of your back, then into the bathroom. 

“Why are you looking at me like that,” you say, watching him watch you through the mirror. 

Mark is rubbing some oil cleanser over his skin, which is supposed to unclog and refresh his invisible pores. At least, that’s the word of mouth from Debbie’s Chicago Ahjumma Facebook group. 

Blinking innocuously, he holds out the bottle for you. 

“I have one at home.” 

“Not this version,” he says, shaking it a little. “You have the anti-inflammatory, this one’s hydrating.” 

As if it makes a difference for him. Being Viltrumite and Korean forms an impossible defense against acne. 

“Fine.” You take a pump and smear it onto your face, emulsifying the cleanser as you shoulder him to share the mirror. 

“We should totally conserve resources,” he remarks offhandedly, breaking the strangely domestic silence.  

You massage the sides of your nose. “Hmm?” 

He flashes a sheepish grin through the reflection, bumping his side into yours. “Save water?” 

Your heart swan dives, plummeting towards the apex of your thighs. You hiss, “That’s totally code for having sex.” 

“…Incentive?” His brows tick upward for extra effect, but your gaze is tumbling down, down, down to the peak of his faint happy trail. Your veins feel like they’re full of gasoline, and you rip your gaze away so nothing sparks and sends you to hell. 

“I thought we’d talk about…that later,” you manage over the thunder of your heart, gauging his reaction through the elegant silver arch of the faucet.  

He shifts on his feet, inching closer in the silence as he mulls over his next excuse. “Now is later.” 

Good grief, you have a solid idea now of where this is going, but you only hum out a vague mhm because you need him to get over himself and say it first. 

“I have a trade offer,” Mark starts, busying himself with re-aligning a perfectly placed towel. “I…” 

He purses his lips—just slightly, in that way he does when he wants to appear nonchalant. The strong line of his shoulders draws tight with hesitance before he turns and pecks you on the lips. 

You blink again, and he’s inches away with his gaze darting all over your face, mouth pressed into a nervous squiggle. 

You murmur, “Y’know, you’re supposed to do that with people you like.” 

Bigmouth strikes again. 

The thing is, Mark definitely doesn’t like you. And you surely don’t like him. You can’t, with the whole works of being a savior. It just never works out. 

If love between supers and civvies ends badly, then even a spark between two supers would require a Shakespeare-level tragedy, outfitted with tears, and gruesome death, so on and so forth. 

You’ll just end up hurt, fingers pressed to breath-fogged windows as you watch each other fly off into battle. Never sure if the other would come back, and always fractured by the easy way you both interacted with fans. 

“But,” Mark says, holding his eyes to yours with a raw kind of softness that makes your heart squeeze, “I do like you.” 

Time stops, or at least passes in a dizzyingly slow manner. You half expect a bunch of random people to burst out from behind a cabinet or the bathroom door with cameras and confetti cannons and screaming ‘gotcha!’ 

“You’re my best friend,” he adds quickly, like some sick, damage-control cherry on top. “HBFFs, remember?” 

Gotcha! 

“Yeah, obviously,” you say, heart squeezing. “Not like we can commit to a relationship anyway.” 

Because truly, you can’t. You can’t do feelings, not when villain attacks keep getting worse. Not when the guillotine of intergalactic war hangs over Earth’s head. 

Not when you finally have one good thing—one small, flickering light that you have to squash before you lose it too. 

Mark’s face falls, eyes downturned at the outer corners and mouth flattening. He sinks for a moment—a long moment, one that almost makes you regret choosing yourself over his feelings—before bouncing back like he always does. 

Like a true hero. Like Invincible, who never gives up. 

His mouth widens and curls up. “Sure. Hero life, am I right?” 

He understands. Of course he does. 

“Yeah,” you say, vocal cords thick. “Hero life.” 

“So, because we’re—you know—and very stressed, we could—yeah—so we don’t have to with, uh,” he stammers very astutely; the short circuit in vocabulary wins over the part of you that’s always loved his earnest, awkward charm. “You get the idea, right?” 

You can have this. You can, and you don’t have to give anything in return because Mark isn’t asking. 

He’s just…offering. Holding out an olive branch so you won’t feel so morose about all the bad fish in the sea, because you’ll have him. 

Your hero best friend forever—plus a little extra. 

Because you’re easier than Sunday morning, you flick your fingers; the shower knob squeaks till the glass fogs, and Mark’s chest seems to triple in size as his grin swells, revealing the whisker dimple that lands like a personal tragedy. 

Case in point: your stomach immediately flails in your ass as you accept that you want and need him. Carnally and heart-stopping hormonally. 

“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, as if you springing to nudge him towards the water isn’t affirmation enough. For a quick moment, he lets the spray pound at his face so you won’t taste oil cleanser if you kiss him again. 

Which you will, obviously. You seriously need to take advantage of free stuff more often. 

“Yes, Mark,” you sigh as he makes room for you. “As William would put it, we’re now friends with a side of dessert.” 

Snorting, he trails his fingers down the stretch of spine between your two-piece, waiting till you scrub your face clean before he turns you around by the shoulders and corrals you against the frigid shower tile. 

Mark’s grin has dropped from one of unbridled excitement to one of fondness, brown eyes soft and faintly glimmering as he smooths his hands—soft at the fingertips, callused at the base of his thumb—back and forth over your waist. And he just looks at you, really looks at you in earnest, like you’ll be gone for a while and he needs to memorize the slope of your browbone. 

A pang of need tears into you, sharp and urgent and warm between your legs, but it’s nothing compared to the dull, yet widespread and deep, clench of your heart.  

A quiet puff leaves your mouth, barely audible over the water splattering your calves. “What?” you mumble, suddenly conscious of how you must look so strange, still wearing swimsuits in the shower, or about how you might have racoon impressions on your cheeks, even though you weren’t wearing goggles at all. 

“You’re really cute,” he says, all low and sheepish like he’s confessing an embarrassing secret. Hands stilling, his eyes search the shy twitch of your mouth before wetting his lips and asking, “Can I kiss you for real?” 

You chuckle, bashfulness flooding your system. “I mean, you kinda did. Twice.” 

“Yeah, but those were pecks,” he quietly retorts. "I wanna do it properly this time.” 

“’Kay.” You squeeze your eyes shut and plant your hands against his firm chest; his skin is so flushed that you fear being scathed. “C’mon, Prince Charming.” 

You swear he stuffs down a groan of playful exasperation, but he follows suit with your orders, placing his careful (slightly chapped, but that’s a given when you’re flying across the world to stop supervillains every day) lips over yours. 

Colors bloom in your imagination. Your heart slows and quickens all at once; you have too much and too little air in your chest. 

Mark gently grasps your elbows, then drags his hands along your upper arms to palm over your shoulder blades and dip back down to just below their previous place on your waist—this time teasing the elastic of your bottoms. 

He slips one finger, just a sliver of his pinky, below the band and keeps it there. His pulse thrums beneath your touch, fast and just this side of alien with how it seems to hum through the underside of his skin. 

(What you’d give to crawl into him, to make your bed in his viscera and let that hymn lull you to sleep.) 

You break for a half-gasp, then slot your mouth over his again. Fingers map a path to his hair, which is plastered to his forehead, and you tangle yourself in the strands and hope you never have to leave. 

He whines. A soft, feeble sound that leaps into your mouth and you swear you’ve never been wetter.  

Just to be vindicated for how he’s stealing your breath and sanity, you drag one hand down, grazing through the soft prickle of his happy trail and over the heat beginning to bulge in his trunks. 

“Fuck.” Mark is barely a breath away before he laps lazily at your bottom lip. “I wanna do this forever.” 

For a long, honey-slow handful of moments, he steals another kiss and seems to savor it, tongue exploring your mouth with the intent to make your hands tighten on his hair and tent. 

It’s intoxicating, how he slips into the right rhythm, pinpointing the right pressure and angle against your tongue to make you spiral. 

You sigh into him, head swimming and sternum rattling with the force of your blood pressure. There’s a growing fire in your gut that you can’t ignore, and Mark’s soft breaths billowing against your cheek are coming faster. 

“Can we…?” he rasps, now wiggling the pinky hooked into your waistband. 

You feel like a bobblehead with how eagerly you pant a shallow, “Yeah, yeah,” and nearly stumble on the wet tile as you drag off your two-piece. 

Once your top smacks into the corner of the stall, Mark is leaping onto you, not even sparing the time for you to be embarrassed about how your skin is sort of dry and how you’re a few days away from neatly trimmed. 

“God,” he whimpers, cracked in the middle as he kicks his trunks to the same corner. He hadn’t been standing so close, you realize, because now he’s flush to you and claiming your mouth again while his (aroused, maybe seven inches and dusky pink at the tip and curved a little to the right) cock tries to kiss your navel. “You’re so, so pretty.” 

It has to be a mindless, heat of the moment thing. But that justification doesn’t stop something from loosening within you.  

You push down a sudden anticipation to wrap this all up so you can giggle and kiss and wash his hair like real lovers would. 

Mark twines his fingers around yours, faintly tugging on your wrist so you can guide him. And you do—you pull his hand down to the crux of your thighs, where the need pools in you, searing and insistent. 

Show me where you want me, you swear he murmurs, but that secret is lost to the steam clinging on the glass. 

You spread your folds—he exhales in a sharp shudder—and place his middle and ring finger on your clit, all pert and begging for friction. He circles his fingers once, catching the bundle between them, and the head rush you get is so overwhelming that you can’t silence your whimper.  

Mark works you up on his fingertips, gradually dipping them further back until your slick coats his first knuckle. By then, you’re dripping, arms looped around his neck and tongue swiping across his bottom lip, helpless to the soft, nakedly sweet sounds he’s making. 

You reach your right hand down blindly and manage to grasp his shaft; molten heat and the faint impression of veins meet your palm. He’s hefty and fucking sensitive, because Mark tilts his head back to loose a groan in the air, and his fingers tremble where they’re lining up at your seam. 

He gasps when your cunt opens for him so readily; you pant against each other’s necks at the first thrust, frisson running down spines, free hands trying to map and memorize every mole and freckle. 

Mark rewards you with a whimper at the second thrust, when you thumb at his slit, then twist your hand over the flushed, smooth skin of the head just to see if he jerks.  

He does. Almost, but not quite, violently. 

That taste of pleasure lands. God, it lands. 

You aren’t sure who’s pinning or pulling, but like two people possessed, you’re pressing flush to each other. Mark brushes the hot, spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back and he zeroes in, bullying his fingers deeper into your warm, wet cunt until you can hear the lewd squelch over your pitched sounds and the shower. 

He’s so close and desperate and needy that his tip nudges your tummy with every other rock of his hips, leaving a little sticky string that doesn’t get washed away by the spray. You try to stroke his shaft—the angle is a little awkward with your positioning, but you’ll risk the carpal tunnel to drink in the way he sweetly and sincerely urges you with breathy moans. 

“Mm, that’s good—’s perfect,” he manages between strained gasps. With a heady groan, he presses your foreheads together; his brow is wrinkled with effort, and his cheeks are glowing with a deep pink, which makes the sparse spatter of freckles beneath his eyes pop out. 

Growing more desperate by the moment, he drives into your hand thoughtlessly and without much rhythm, babbling: “You’re so perfect, baby, my perfect, pretty girl—” a pitched keen breaks him midway, and he doesn’t thrust his fingers back into your cunt "—shit, stop, it’s too much, I can’t.” 

You release him immediately and tuck your hands behind your back, heart bruising your ribs as guilt begins to bleed into you. But Mark dives to nip at your pulse, assuaging your worries with his gentle lips that walk a path up to your face. 

“’M so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers, placing a sweet, earnest kiss on the apple of your cheek. His lashes flutter on your skin as he searches your expression with blown-out, wanting eyes. “Don’t feel bad, just wanted to hold out a little longer.” 

You nod, relief swelling in your throat. “Okay.” 

“Make it up to you, okay?” 

Your brain is foggier than the glass, still reeling from losing your build-up toward orgasm. You scrape out a hushed, “Yeah,” and Mark immediately drops onto his knees, bracketing your hips with his hands and eagerly sucking your swollen clit between his hot, plush lips. 

A labored pant leaves you, perspiration pooling at your nape. He licks you open with undisguised joy lighting his hazy eyes, rolling the blunt tip of his tongue between your lips. You don’t feel so steady—another push of his face, and you might just make a puddle on Debbie’s floor. 

The realization that you can’t trust your geriatric and always-injured knees to stay stable with his tongue working you like that finally registers. 

“Shit, no, Mark—” he moves his open mouth around your clit like he’s trying to make out with the poor girl, and you can’t fortify yourself in time for the harsh gasp that cuts you off “—wait, I’m gonna slip and crack my head on the tile.” 

“No, you won’t.” He frowns, maw still breathing in every twitch of your sex. 

“Yes, I will,” you nearly laugh, delirious from the sight of him on his knees and peering up at you with hungry, dilated eyes. You knock your head back against the wall, mulling over your impending doom.  

“I’ll crush your skull under me and Debbie will be horrified and Oliver will tell the coroner to chalk it up to ‘death by horniness.’ How’s Cecil gonna explain that to the media?” 

Mark chuckles, the slope of his eyes softening and the corner of his mouth tilting up with lazy ease. Your self-control slips for a millisecond as you debate just going through with it and pushing your cunt back onto him. 

Like he's just read your mind, he hoists your thighs over his shoulders and effortlessly pins you against the wall, murmuring some sweet nothing into your soaked seam about Cecil “not knowing anything” and “I’m fine with dying happy right here.” 

Screw him, seriously.  

After all, he knows you can’t stay mad at him for long if he talks sweet and adheres himself to your inner thighs like the secrets of the universe will be revealed by the arousal glistening between your folds. 

Softhanded and leisurely, he returns to your cunt with his fingers securely sinking into your thighs. Lips tacky with slick, he uses the flat of his tongue to lick a long stripe, all the way up to your twitching clit. 

You whimper. Actually. In an embarrassingly vulnerable, bury-me-with-your-bones way. “Mark.” 

He responds with a stifled groan of his own; the vibrations shoot right through your now-tremoring legs and into your stomach, where you can feel yourself winding toward coming. “Please, please, say it like that again.” 

Mark punctuates the request with a slow, hard suck—like a dam has cracked, you moan his name again, and he tightens his grip to pull you closer, burying himself deeper with his tongue fervently plunging into your heat. 

You’re so stupidly, hopelessly endeared by him that you scrounge up the will to ride his nose, whimpering as that sensitive, throbbing bundle of nerves catches on the bridge while you hurtle toward ecstasy. 

He swirls his tongue around the clenching muscle of your cunt. Downright filthy, he thrusts back in with a moan of his own. Rinse and repeat as your fingers scrabble for grip on his wet hair, as you spill, “So close, Mark—mm, like that, just like that, oh god—” 

You come with a strangled cry of his name, thighs squeezing around his ears, chest heaving as pleasure unspools from your stomach and shoots to every recess of your body. 

Time passes, but you’re too muddled to know how long. You only know the sensation of Mark’s mouth bringing you down, slow yet eager to please, and the sound of the shower still running, though the water must’ve gone tepid. 

You think you’ve calmed down enough when your eyes crack open on their own volition. When your vision refocuses, you find him watching you from below, pinpointing your gaze from the valley of your breasts with his ears feverishly flushed scarlet. 

“Can you even breathe?” you murmur; concern is a dull thought to you right now, with your limbs all heavy and loose like this. He hums a negative before shifting your legs off his shoulders. 

Mark guides you back to the ground, and when your feet touch the tile again, you tug the curve of his hip to pull him into a deep, appreciative kiss. He tastes like you; knowing that is indescribable. It’s here, sharing orbit, between each tender, content slide of your lips that you take his still-hard cock in your hand again. 

Boneless feeling aside, you’ll be damned if you don’t make him come too. 

He’s leaking like crazy, enough to lubricate as you caress him. You twist when you get to the glans in the way you’ve learned drives him insane and grind the pad of your thumb into his slit, where the precum has given up on pearling and has opted to dribble down the underside. 

Your fist makes its way down again. The warmth of his hand closes around yours, and you work his cock together, panting into each other’s open mouths, tongues exchanging this language of light-headed pleasure and soft, sweet sounds as he tumbles toward oblivion.  

And when Mark comes, it’s with the stuttering of your splintered name and a half-moan. He spills in your hand, the subtle lines of his lean abdomen tensing, scorching ropes squeezing out between both of your fingers. Yours are still buzzing with the devastating force of your orgasm, and his are twitching with the recency of his. 

A last shudder runs through him like livewire. It dies out, replaced only by the sound of your shallow huffs and the water splashing on the tile, along with the realization that you’ve really done it. 

“This is a total HR violation,” you mumble, miserably trying to fill the silence. 

Mark snorts. Attempts to stifle his humor, but then his eyes meet yours, and you’re both bursting into full-blown laughs, because of course knowing each other carnally can’t stop a lifetime of shits and giggles. 

“You’re the worst,” he complains, but the wide smile on his face dials your mood up to a hundred and twenty percent.

You grin until your cheeks ache, rinsing off his cum so you can pump out a dollop of Debbie’s shampoo (Mark hates clutter in the shopping cart, and he gets soft, vanilla-scented hair out of it) and slap it onto his head. “Hey!”

“C’mon, lean over, you’ve got chlorine in there.” 

He obliges, but not without a playful groan and a quick, chaste peck to your still-swollen lips. Which shouldn’t complicate things, but your heart still pangs. 

“’Kay, make it quick. I wanna watch the new Seance Dog episode.” 

You shove down the ache and lather the soap into his strands, ridiculously glad that he can’t see your eyes softening in longing or the slight wilt of your smile. You tease, “What if I told you I saw it already?” 

“Well, don’t spoil it, obviously!” 

silenabeauregard: OH IM SO SOFTTTT. congratulations to you both! 🥹

clarisselarue: yes! yes! yes! finally!!!! CONGRATULATIONS!!

charliebeck: congratulations, brother 🎉

chrisr0driguez: my brother!!! congratulations!!

travisstoll: YES! congrats! welcome to the poisoned mercury fam officially yn_yln

connorstoll: HUGE! CONGRATS LUKE AND YN

poisonedmercury: congratulations to the happy couple!

olympusrecords: congrats to you both!

yn_yln: my fiancée 🫶🏼 i love you.

lukecastell4n: my fiancée 🙂‍↕️ i love the sound of that almost as much as i love you.

creator limited comments on this post.

tagged lukecastell4n.

yn_yln: still doesn’t feel real, but that’s a pretty normal feeling when i’m with you. sometimes i still have to pinch myself because you and our love feels like something out of the movies. i’ll forever be in love with you.

p.s this was the easiest yes of my life.

clarisselarue: MY BEST FRIEND IS ENGAGED IM IN ACTUAL TEARS

silenabeauregard: YOU AND ME BOTH SISTER

clarisselarue: lukecastell4n don’t get it twisted im still her #1 love. i was here first

yn_yln: well yes!

lukecastell4n: yn_yln who got u the ring tho 🥱

yn_yln: lukecastell4n fair play

travisstoll: CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!

connorstoll: THE ANNOUNCEMENT WE WERE ALL WAITING FOR CONGRATULATIONS GUYS!!

chrisr0driguez: congratulations! can’t picture two people more perfect for each other than the two of u

dionysus_produces: congratulations, kid! when i see u next i’ll reenact how nervous luke was when he asked for my blessing

lukecastell4n: mr. d u promised that would stay between us

dionysus_produces: well…. welcome to the family kid 😉

clarisselarue posted a story!

my best friend is getting married! it feels like yesterday when we were roomies at unc, giddy over our new boyfriends. i am so so happy for you.

tagged yn_yln.

yn_yln replied to this story!

yn_yln: thank you clar. i love you so much. i can’t believe this is happening

clarisselarue: girl bffr

clarisselarue: there is no universe that exists in which the two of you don’t get married and live happily ever after

clarisselarue: it was inevitable that he asked!!!!

yn_yln: 🥹🥹

yn_yln: WAIT I JUST REALIZED WE GET TO WEDDING PLAN TOGETHER?!?

clarisselarue: SHUT UO UR SO RIGHT.

clarisselarue: oh wow our fiancées are about to get soooo sick of us

yn_yln: oh well 🤷🏻‍♀️

yn_yln: no take backs

liked by clarisselarue.

chrisr0driguez posted a story!

welcome to the engaged club, my brother! glad to have you here.

tagged lukecastell4n.

lukecastell4n replied to this story!

lukecastell4n: my best man 🤝

chrisr0driguez: my best man 🤝

yn_yln posted a story!

luke surprised me with our favorite people after our engagement 🥹 i’m so lucky.

tagged lukecastell4n.

mama_c replied to this story!

mama_c: congratulations to you both! i couldn’t ask for a better daughter in law. so glad i got to be there with you two tonight. xx love you both so much.

yn_yln: thank you, mama c! i love you!

silenabeauregard replied to this story!

silenabeauregard: you are so so so loved, angel girl. thank you for having me and charlie join on your special day!!!

yn_yln: lena please 😭 ur one of my bridesmaids

yn_yln: u will get an official ask soon

yn_yln: there’s no way luke wouldn’t have told u and charlie about this. he knows how much i love u guys

silenabeauregard: stop i’ve already cried so much

silenabeauregard: i love you!!!!

dionysus_produces replied to this story!

dionysus_produces: congratulations again, kid. me and your mom are so happy for you.

yn_yln: thanks for flying out to be here, dad. it means a lot. i love you guys.

dionysus_produces: as if i’d miss this. i love you too, sweetheart.

lukecastell4n replied to this story!

lukecastell4n: i cannot wait to marry you

yn_yln: mrs. castellan has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

lukecastell4n: damn straight

lukecastell4n: might rival ‘five star’

yn_yln: idk about all that…

yn_yln: i think i’ll always be your five star

lukecastell4n: that we can agree on

travisstoll posted a story!

travisstoll: my long lost sister

tagged yn_yln.

yn_yln replied to this story!

yn_yln: careful connor might get jealous

travisstoll: let him be

travisstoll: he hogged the blankets in our villa last night

yn_yln: 😭😭😭

yn_yln: still cant believe they messed up your reservation and gave you a king bed instead of two twin beds

travisstoll: i need to get a gf bro i swear

travisstoll: pmo one of your teammates

yn_yln: no.

read by travisstoll.

clarisselarue posted a story!

clarisselarue: moments before disaster (we were playing uno and travis was about to win but luke hit him with a +4 card so travis pushed him off the boat)

tagged lukecastell4n, travisstoll, and others.

yn_yln replied to this story!

yn_yln: OH MY GOD THAT WAS HILARIOUS

clarisselarue: DEADASS I COULDNT STOP LAUGHING

lukecastell4n replied to this story!

lukecastell4n: not funny. didn’t laugh.

clarisselarue: ur gf sure did 😛

lukecastell4n: she hates me i think

clarisselarue: real

lukecastell4n: NO?!??

yn_yln: i can spend forever here

tagged lukecastell4n.

lukecastell4n: that can be arranged

lukecastell4n: say the word and i’ll make it happen

lukecastell4n: me and u on a beach forever and ever, with nothing else to do, sounds like heaven

yn_yln: pretty sure ur fans would murder me if i was the reason u moved to an island and never made music again

lukecastell4n: yn_yln they have two albums to listen to they’ll survive

p0isonedmercuryf4n: lukecastell4n NO WE WONT

yn_yln: lukecastell4n told ya

lukecastell4n posted a story!

tagged yn_yln.

yn_yln reposed this story!

yn_yln: im kinda in love with him 🫠

lukecastell4n replied to this story!

lukecastell4n: just kinda? :(

yn_yln: get a grip 🙄

lukecastell4n: oh so u hate me

yn_yln: oh my god

yn_yln: i love you, you dork

lukecastell4n: :D

lukecastell4n: how do u feel about a beach proposal

lukecastell4n: for research purposes of course

yn_yln: as long as the right person is asking, i don’t mind where the question is asked

lukecastell4n: noted

yn_yln: i do want an oval diamond on a gold band tho

lukecastell4n: who do u think i am baby

lukecastell4n: your ring is already in production

yn_yln: ur so stupid 😭

yn_yln: there’s no way

lukecastell4n: 🤷🏻‍♂️🤷🏻‍♂️

yn_yln: luke what do u mean

read by lukecastell4n.

yn_yln: babe?

read by lukecastell4n.

yn_yln: HELLOOOOOO?

read by lukecastell4n.

yn_yln: the answer is yes, btw. in case u were wondering. it will always be yes.

“Hey, Luke: look man, I am so sorry for my friend over here,” cuts Charles, yanking you back with one hand around your elbow and the other covering your mouth, still halfway through a string of insults, “but we don’t get onto the field now, there won’t be a drum major this year.” 

Castellan rolls his eyes. Glares at you for a second longer—fucking obsessed—before wincing in apology. “Sorry, Beck.” 

The gall to sound fucking polite. Your face wrinkles, despite the warning look Charles gives you as Castellan peels away and gets lost in the rows of jacked-up, parent-insured cars. 

“Great going, major. The best start to senior year, cussing out our star wide receiver,” Charles mumbles. You huff and ease your foot onto the gas. 

—

Opinion | VAPA fights for fair funds 

Heralds Vol. 77, Issue 1  By Michael Yew 

Marching season has officially kicked off, which means band members have to wrestle on a passed-down uniform with too-short sleeves while the football team gets brand new jerseys and equipment. 

Zeus City’s VAPA groups have won more championships than the football team ever has. Last September, marching band took sweepstakes in nearly every round, placing first in regionals and fourth in state. Cheer, show choir and color guard also tend to take competitions by storm, establishing our school’s VAPA dominance. 

However, their efforts aren’t as recognized as the football team’s, which has been middling around the lowest state division for over a decade. Meanwhile, performing arts struggle with the leftovers of the football team’s funding. 

“It’s really unfair and discouraging,” freshman percussionist Percy Jackson said. “It’s my first year marching and I had to duct tape my broken snare harness because we don’t have money for new ones. My recycled uniform smells like [sic] and these ballers get custom practice jerseys—it’s totally wrong.” 

Jackson’s sentiment is shared widely among the student body associated with VAPA. Students such as color guard junior Miranda Gardener feel that their passions are put aside for a sport that contributes close to nothing to the school community. 

“Being in color guard is stressful, especially because a lot of us take hard classes, too,” said Gardener. “I love performing, but I’ve honestly thought about not trying out again. We deserve money too, and our football team just isn’t winning enough to warrant such an unequal funding gap.” 

Though the administration office and athletic department have not reached out in response to inquiries, one thing is clear: it’s time for financial equality amongst all student groups. 

—

It’s around that time of year where you could walk out of the classroom and see four people blowing their nose down the hall and one person pretending to use the bathroom but really just Googling the answers to a test. 

Luke Castellan is one of them, wearing thrifted Japanese denim and a stupid sweater that makes him look like some trust fund kid—great. Your nails are tapping absently at the edge of the hall pass, a click against the plastic that echoes hollow in the hall. 

It’s not like you hate Castellan. On a personal basis, you hardly know him, but just the inkling of his presence in the hallways is grounds for the knee-jerk, letterman-despising beliefs instilled by your predecessors in band. 

You do know that he accidentally pushed you off the slide in third grade; he cracks the occasional joke in class, most of which are always half-unfunny; and he’s a jock with intelligence, making it a lot harder to shit on him because he can clap back for himself and the entire team. 

Oh, and he’s a terribly slow driver. You’re still harboring a little soreness from The Incident—you know, the one from three weeks ago, on the first day of school. 

You made it to the field with the bell snapping at your heels. Didn’t help that Travis Stoll had quipped, “Oh, shit, I just told the freshmen that you actually died last spring. Had a whole eulogy and tribute video.” 

One of the freshmen had sadly nodded with a tissue crumpled in her hand. 

You really regret making that little junior shit your apprentice drum major. 

Castellan hears you coming, back curled in the position he’s taken over the water fountain. He gives you a cursory glance, goes back to drinking, and then looks at you again. You walk faster. 

With the double-take, he stands upright, dabbing the droplets on his mouth with the cuff of his ridiculous sweater. 

“Hey,” he says right as you cross tangent paths. He leans against the wall, pseudo-casual, hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans. Looks like he’s going to shoot you a snide remark, but then his eyes drift down, and his brows furrow. “I—your pass is a toilet seat?” 

Your face burns, heat licking from your neck to forehead. Your eyes flick to a deflated rubber duck sitting atop the fountain’s porcelain edge, the tail of which is punched out and threaded with a tag that reads HALL PASS. 

“And yours is a bath toy?” 

Red blooms over the high of Castellan’s cheeks, and he snatches the duck off the fountain, hiding it behind his back. 

“Whatever,” he grits, the bath toy making an airy sound in his tightening fingers. A sulky expression overtakes his face. 

You trail your eyes over him, from the downward draw of his brown to the brutal set of his mouth. Nothing gives away what he’s confronting you for, so you take a shot in the dark. 

“Is this about the football article?” 

Castellan’s face shifts slightly—puzzlement to realization to irritation, exhale coming out from his nostrils in a hiss. His jaw feathers. “You… why not, I guess. You’re the opinion editor.” 

“An opinion editor that respects free speech. Hermes thought Malcolm was pretty spot-on, though.” 

You flash a well-meaning smile—well, the one you use to quell the displeasure of your counselor when she asks how you’re faring in the college application process. 

Blinks coming quick, he sucks in a breath and says, “Well, tell Hermes that he doesn’t know what this team means to me.” 

(Did Castellan fail his Economics class? Is he taking out that frustration on a newspaper Hermes has no part in, other than advising and making sure nobody sets the archives on fire?) 

“Do you want that on or off the record?” Your mouth sharpens into something that could be classified as shit-eating. 

Castellan grumbles and pushes off the wall, twisting his body so your shoulders don’t check. He’s really selling the letterman superiority complex. 

He grouses and shakes his head to himself as he stalks down the hallway, muttering about quotes and deadlines. You scoff with your face twisted in confusion, watching his wound-up shoulders shrink in the distance. 

He’s so fucking weird. 

—

FROM: perciusjakcsn

(11:38) hey sarge do u know how to find annabeth (11:39) i need her to explain the crab cycle. preferably before p5

TO: perciusjaksn

(12:34) * Major, not Sarge (12:34) ** Krebs cycle (12:35) This is Annabeth. To paraphrase Khan Academy, the Krebs cycle describes a chain of reactions in the mitochondria to produce energy in living cells through cellular respiration. I won’t go through the details because the reactants and products are not on the test, and neither is the order in which the reactions proceed. If you have any more questions, my username is ‘anniebethc’.

—

Annabeth stabs her spork into her bag of salad, the flimsy plastic warping and crinkling as she draws out another mouthful of lettuce. 

“So,” you start, idly twirling your own spork as you read the message she sent through your phone, “giving hints about the test? That’s academic dishonesty.” 

Her cheek dips, held captive between her teeth. “It’s nothing.” 

You give her a suspicious look. “And when Connor asked you about glucose and you told him to fuck off, that was also nothing?” 

The girl’s look is withering as she works through a chew. You hold up your hands in surrender, letting go of the topic. Kids these days are so defensive. 

Annabeth’s gaze catches something behind you. You follow the line of her sight, tracing it across the cafeteria and landing on Castellan. He’s standing behind Percy in the lunch line, a giggle shaking in his shoulders and grinning wide at something Chris Rodriguez is telling him. 

You whip your head back to see Annabeth’s annoyed expression fall into one with more admiring fuzz and sparkles. 

“What?” she asks, noticing your twisted face. 

“Nothing,” you huff. “But, uh—Castellan? Really?” 

The girl squints, bewildered. “What—no! We’re neighbors, so it’s weird.” 

Neighbors? 

You’re shriller than you expect yourself to be, “We’re halfway through the semester and you’re telling me now that Public Enemy Number One lives next to you?” 

“He’s only Public Enemy Number One to band.” 

Emphatically, “Which you are a flutist of?” 

A lunch tray clatters onto your table. Travis slides onto the bench and is joined by Charles. The Stoll cracks his wrists, the pop of air loud even over the chatter of the shelter. 

Charles peels open his school lunch, cringing at the clumpy mac salad sitting in the bowl. He looks over at your food, eyes tracing the outline of the plastic cup and watching the steam escape over the lip. 

“Where the hell did you get instant noodles from?” blurts Travis. You tap a half-empty thermos in the pocket of your backpack. 

“Ask Clarisse nicely and her dad’ll get it from the teacher’s lounge.” 

Travis gives you a narrow look. It would’ve been almost threatening if his eyes weren’t occasionally glancing at your noodles. 

“How nicely?” 

“Six dollars.” 

He turns to Charles with irises overtaken by pupils, all glimmering and expectant—a poor attempt to make puppy eyes at your fellow drum major, because everyone knows how Travis can be. Still, Charles gives in with a sigh, fingers fishing a twenty out of his backpack. 

“Ah,” he warns right as Travis reaches for the money. “Two noodles, one for each of us. And then you’ll go to the vending machine for Cheetos and a Sprite. No more, no less.” 

Travis nods eagerly, snatching the bill and running off. You watch his back as he leaves; he nearly topples Castellan in his excited haste. 

“Six dollars is such a scam.” Annabeth's voice brings you back to the current situation. She’s got her brows quirked as Charles shuts the lid to his mac salad. 

“It’s better than this.” He holds up a bag of damp baby carrots and cringes. It is at this moment that you know what your next article will be about. 

—

[IMAGE: A snapshot of Percy Jackson from an up-down angle with the zoom set to 0.5x. The flash is on, bathing his horrified expression in harsh light. The background is dark, save for a group of teens behind the curve of his cheek in orange centaur shirts and jeans in various states of distress.] 

Liked by majmajmaj and 35 others 

perciusjakcsn SARGE WE MISS U BECKYS COOKING US 😨 | 📸 @.tysunposeidun 

view all comments 

majmajmaj u’ll be cooked xtra crispy if i get there n find u still cant count rests 

↳ perciusjakcsn PLZ SARGE PLZ COME BACK FRM YBK  ↳ majmajmaj drum MAJOR peter 🖕🖕🖕  ↳ perciusjakcsn JUSTICE 4 PERCY 😞💔 

groovewood did u srsly just replace me as cameraman DUDE 😭 

beckygorf see major is merciful but yall always take her for granted till I host rehearsal.... 

—

The classroom is cold-hued, almost sterile under the cheap incandescent lights. 

Everything is blueish, backlit by the evening as it rolls over the horizon. You sigh when the ligaments in your neck rub just right to pop the bubbles between your bones. The door creaks—a tall figure, sticky with shadows, steps in right before you try to crack your knuckles. 

You almost don’t recognize him in that soft-looking cardigan—it's an upgrade from his trust-fund crew neck— and the pair of black frames slipping down the bridge of his nose. Castellan settles into the chair at the opposite ledge of the desk, the legs straining against the floor in an ear-itching scrape when he scoots closer. 

“Hey there,” he says, borderline breathless, to which he earns a narrow look from you. He gives you a thin grin in return as he fumbles with his laptop; you catch a deep etch to his smile lines at the corners of his mouth before they disappear. “So, I’m just going to ask you a few questions about stuff like band, Heralds, school life.” 

“This feels like an interrogation,” you tell him, running your thumb over your knuckles as you sweep your eyes around the empty room, “instead of a profile. Sure you aren’t trying to get me arrested? I have the right to remain silent.” 

“No, it's only a yearbook thing. Purely professional, I swear.” A small laugh skips out of him, the sound of it rattling behind his ribs. It sends something spiraling down your stomach, like a marble run made with your intestines. 

“So…” 

“About last week, in the hallway” —Castellan interrupts; he looks rather guilt-stricken, twisting his mouth and avoiding your eyes— “I was actually going to ask you for an interview, but I kinda got caught up in...” 

You swallow and wet your lips, falling quiet with an equal amount of guilt washing over you. “I know. I thought you were talking about the article until your dad talked to me.” 

Frankly, you can’t quite put your finger on how they’re related. Your journalism advisor is nothing like his son, in personality and appearance. Just the thought of them sharing the same genes makes you frown. 

Castellan pauses, working his tongue into the pocket of his cheek. “So, you know.” 

“Yeah,” you scoff, with some amusement. “Pretty fucking weird that your dad is Hermes.” 

“Yeah, I don’t really like asking him for favors, but—” 

“Sources.” 

“—they’re hard to come by,” he finishes, eyes flickering to yours. Castellan offers a wry, half-humored smile. “But anyways, it’s complicated, my dad and I.” 

He slides his phone between the two of you, the glossy screen emblazoned with a red recording button waiting to be pressed. Castellan sweeps out his hand, palm up, in offering. 

“I guess…it’s my bad for the parking lot thing. But everything’s complicated, right?” You click the button, the first waves of sound appearing on the pixels in zigzags. 

“What is your name and your extracurriculars?” Castellan asks, even though he should know, because you’ve gone to the same school for years. You tell him, and he tests it in his mouth, feeling the weight of it around his tongue like it’s the first time he’s heard of it. The marble run of your insides starts to roll faster. “Cool. I’m Luke—football, volleyball, and obviously yearbook.” 

“I know.” 

It falls quiet for a moment, the snick of keys pressed into their beds being the only thing filling the silence. “Okay,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “How’s it like being a Heralder? Any notable experiences?” 

You keep your answers short and sweet, leaving little room for misquotes and wrong context. “It’s a nice little community. We print every three weeks, so I have plenty of time to write and format the spreads.” 

“And off the record?” he asks, tucking back the corners of his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh. The little shit-eater, stealing your lines. 

“It’s peachy.” 

He tuts, a snick of the tongue. The laptop he’s typing on is drenched in cold light too, the screen reflecting onto the lenses of his glasses, something blue-gray in the glassiness of them. “And what about band? In Malcolm’s article, which you oversaw, he said VAPA have a hard time balancing their schedules.” 

“Malcolm didn’t write that,” you remind him, a lilt to your words. You sink a little deeper into the chair, bones loosening at the peace and quiet occupying the room. “It was a quote from Miranda Gardener.” 

“But you agreed with her,” Castellan counters. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept it in print” 

Conceding, “The actual band period starts at seven-thirty during zero—we use that time to practice field drills—and after school, we all head into the music room for repertoire rehearsal from five to nine.” 

“How do you have time to do homework?” 

“I never said I didn’t have free time during Heralds.” 

He snickers, the sound of it a little hollow with the way he’s fully concentrated on his note taking. “You didn’t. Okay, moving on—favorite snack?” 

“Cup noodles from the teacher’s room.” 

Castellan furrows his eyebrows, tips his head as he tries to puzzle out how the hell you manage to get stuff from the teacher’s room. “Uh, favorite class?” 

“Uh…the lunch period.” There’s some stupid, uncontrollable smile dawning on you, though you thank the universe that it’s thin and within your repertoire of expressions reserved for non-friends. 

He snorts, this time, mouth wrinkling to prevent the audio pollution that would come with a full-blown giggle. “Worst class?” 

You think about it for a moment. “Calc.” 

He grins with his eyes shaping into crescents. Of course he’d agree. He’s in your period, and you saw Dr. Medes pass back Castellan’s differentiation test with a fat, red 36/50 burned onto the paper. “First choice of college?” 

“I’ll let you know once March comes.” 

Castellan shakes his head, chuckling. He has almost imperceptible crow’s feet.  

You wait for a minute, watching his screen go by through the surface of his glasses. Castellan’s eyelashes aren’t long, but they’re thick and dark. His eyes are a mid-toned brown, just shade muddier than hazel. Like fresh-turned dirt. Or milk chocolate brownies. Or— 

He hasn’t asked anything in a while. You cough awkwardly. “Anything else?” 

Castellan looks like there are words fighting on his tongue, fingers carding through his messy curls. His lips are blushed, almost a bruise with the way they’re so damn red. You think how Castellan had walked into the classroom breathless. 

You know it’s bad journalism to assume, but you’re going to assume that there’s a girl waiting on him. 

“Never mind, don’t answer that.” You make a show of checking your phone, retinas seared with the sudden brightness of the screen. Percy’s horrific selfie, born from the terrors of rehearsal led by the meticulous Charles Beckendorf, is your escape card. “Beck needs me in the room. Connor could be starting another riot with the saxes. Just...talk to your dad if you need another quote.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, clueless and almost apologetic for supposedly keeping you. He lowers the lid of his laptop with a suggestion of a genuine smile etched over his mouth, “good luck at practice.” 

The eagerness to escape recedes as you reach the door. You turn back for a moment that stretches into what feels like eternity, and for the first time in ZCHS history, a drum major tells a jock: “Good luck at homecoming, too.” 

—

[IMAGE: Luke Castellan in semi-formal dress, set in a dark classroom. The photo looks like it’s been taken on a digital camera, nostalgic and slightly grainy, with the telltale bright spot of a flash blooming at the center. 

He is posed like he is about to stand up from his perch on a desk. His head is turned, showing his sharp side profile. Luke’s face is pensive, one hand in his pocket and the other at rest, fingers laid over his thigh. 

He’s wearing a fitted white button up and a pair of neat, pressed slacks. His tie is black, rumpled, the knot loosened around his neck. Over his shoulders is a slouchy, muted orange cardigan with the equestrian mascot of ZCHS sewn into the breast. There are a pair of computer glasses sliding dangerously down his nose.]

Liked by anniebethc and 345 others 

lukestellans  we never go out of style 📸 @.luvvbeaus 

view all comments 

luvvbeaus 🔥🔥🔥 

↳ tankadreww men who listen to tay >>  ↳ conmanstole sent you this comment | bye ts so performative 🤣🤣 

anniebethc You knotted your tie wrong. 

↳ lukestellans ask ur dad to help me pls 🙏 

—

You don’t get to write your article about how shitty the school lunch is. Instead, that little bitch of a sports editor, Ellis Wakefield (he’s a pro at defending the football team’s misgivings), managed to make Hermes strongarm you into picking up an assignment on the homecoming game. 

So, now you’re scribbling out lede after mediocre lede onto the reporter’s notebook balanced in your palm, the paper of which scrubs uncomfortably against your cheap gloves. 

But never mind that. You’re supposed to be marching out for the pregame warmups, but… 

“Are we actually incapable” —the sections are in complete disarray; everyone is being jostled around; the noise of nearly a hundred mouths in motion is starting to grasp for an all-time high— “of lining the fuck up?” 

Charles’ wide, orange-fitted frame sidles up next to you, a megaphone in hand. You shove the notebook into your jacket and take the device in silent thanks, switching it on and cringing at the feedback. 

You raise the megaphone to your mouth. “Attention!” 

It’s a mad dash into formation, teens in orange scrambling to their places. Someone yelps when a tuba swings in a wide arc above their head. A flutist trips over a saxophone. Drumline frantically assembles, sliding clumsily into harnesses and setting off at least two cymbal crashes. 

“What a goddamn clown show.” Mr. D, absentee band director, walks up behind you and Charles, scowling at the mess. He takes a swig from the Coke can that’s practically glued to his hand before snatching the megaphone. 

“PETER JOHNSON, YOUR HARNESS IS LOOSE. LEE VASQUEZ—IS AN OBOE A CLARINET? DIDN’T THINK SO. COLE STALIN, IF I HEAR CARELESS WHISPER ONE MORE TIME, I WILL THROTTLE—” 

From the crowd, Connor Stoll’s face twists in pseudo-confusion, hands coming up to pat at his ears and shrugging. A laugh ripples through the ranks. 

Mr. D looks like he’s going to have a stroke with the way his expression seizes, purpling like a raisin. His mouth crumples in on itself like the opening of a drawstring bag, beard bristling as he burns a narrow glare into the sax section. 

You take the megaphone back gingerly, dialing back the volume with a grimace. “Alright, homecoming game, and we’re against our one-sided rivals, Jupiter Prep.” 

The band groans. Mr. D wanders elsewhere. 

You tighten your mouth with equal displeasure. “Yeah, I dunno why they always choose a team we’re definitely going to lose to, either.” 

“For the glory?” one of the French horns suggests. Someone else blows a Donald Duck-esque raspberry; you think it’s Tyson, because he has a weird talent for impressions. 

You shrug—probably. Though it’s not very glorious when you lose to the same guys for the last decade or so. 

With a heavy sigh, you speed through your pregame laundry list, product-disclosure-in-commercials style. “Please do not boo if our team scores a touchdown. Don’t laugh if you hear something demeaning from the opposite stands. And clarinets: it is absolutely unacceptable to be bribed by your section leader and burst into Squidward’s theme mid-fight song.” 

Said section leader, Travis—maybe you’re going to revoke his apprentice drum major status soon—lets out a squawk of indignation, the shriek of it echoing around the side of the field. Charles holds out his hand for the megaphone, which you pass over. 

He clears his throat. “Thank you, major. Uh—Jupe Prep is always going to decimate us sports-wise, but we spank 'em pretty hard in academics and band comp. Please don’t tarnish our reputation as regional champions, I don’t think I can survive that.” 

Short and sweet, he sets down the megaphone and gestures for the band to start marching around the track for warm-ups. You follow the path of the oval, feet tracing the white running lines, dust running over your shoe prints. 

At the far side of the field is a giant inflatable centaur, the breakaway banner held between its feet. It’s a football thing for the players to run out at the beginning of the game. Except, you’re pretty sure that most schools do not run out under the legs of a stupidly expensive, balloon-ified mascot. 

The football team is lazing behind the banner, hiding with the glossy-faced cheerleaders under the shadowed belly of the centaur, though they won’t need to for long. The sun has already begun to sink, slouching closer to the horizon as the floodlights flick on and the stands start to fill with stragglers. 

Luke Castellan catches your eye over a cheerleader's shoulder. You recognize her curvy build and the curl to her honeyed hair, and most of all, the pom-poms in her hands. Charles stiffens from beside you, back going rod-like, chest puffing out. 

Silena Beauregard turns, waving guilelessly like a good cheerleader as the formation passes. Your fellow drum major nearly stumbles, eyes going unbelievably wide. 

“Do you think they’re dating?” Charles hisses, just as half the band gives Castellan a downturned thumb and a lot of deeply unimpressed head shaking when she turns away. 

“Dunno,” you mumble, pumping the baton above your head to tempo. “But…he interviewed me a couple days ago. Looked like he came straight from a make out.” 

Charles makes a sad, defeated little sound, grousing under his breath about god forbidding a band kid having a crush on a cheerleader, and the universe having to plant that slow driving, football playing Castellan into Silena’s life to pitch Charles into eternal misery. 

Someone from the trombones plays a limp womp-womp meant for Castellan, but it’s just a beat off and awkwardly late for the humiliation ritual. 

Charles heaves a rough sigh at the audible reminder of his cursed dedication to Beauregard’s beauty and grace. 

Poor guy. 

—

[VIDEO: A shaky clip from the lit-up bleachers at Zeus City High School’s football field. The camera pans over the heads of a sea of half-asleep marching band teens in garish, orange uniforms, instruments drooping with the nodding of their heads. 

The spectators groan, the commentator remarking that Sherman Yang has missed yet another throw. Someone from the rival side hollers loudly—Zeus City? More like Zeus Shitty!—to which their lavender-hued cheerleaders titter, sending a ripple of amusement echoing through the opposite bleachers swathed in purple. 

A majority of the ZCHS marching band heckle and jeer at that, too. The camera zooms in on the two drum majors standing upfront. You’re shaking your head and thumbing the space between your brows. Charles Beckendorf is avidly gesturing to the tied score.]

Liked by beckygorf and 138 others 

travstole  yikes…. 

view all comments 

majmajmaj apprentice status officially revoked 

↳ travstole ragebajted much??  ↳ majmajmaj ok graecus scum who was the one who broke the no phone rule? 

conmanstole poor becky d, no one’s listening to him 😢😢 

↳ perciusjakcsn ‘poor becky d’ as if ur not the reason y he has premature wrinkles 🫵🤨 

—

“This is probably the highest score I’ve seen on that board,” comments Charles, fiddling with the hem of his uniform, the seams of which are unraveling. “Another touchdown and we’d actually win our first homecoming game in ten years.” 

“There are twelve seconds left,” you say, glancing at the clock. You’re starting to sound like Annabeth when you say, “We’re tied, on our last down, and haven’t moved. Sherman Yang also can’t throw for shit, so the likelihood of an actual win is so low that—” 

The rest of your words are swallowed by the commentator. 

AND THAT’S CASTELLAN GOING LONG, READY TO RECEIVE YANG’S PLAY—OH GOD, HE CAUGHT IT, HE’S RUNNING TO THE END ZONE AND NOT ONE JUPITER EAGLE CAN CATCH UP—A MIRACLE TOUCHDOWN TO WIN THE GAME! 

You wince at the roar that engulfs your side of the bleachers, parents and students and alumni rising in a tidal wave of celebration. 

The cheerleaders jump and scream, pep flags dancing in the air, pompoms glittering. People are embracing and cheering like they’ve just won the lottery. You even see a grandma shed tears and kiss a toddler she is literally not related to on the cheek. 

FOR A DECADE, THE CENTAURS HAVE STARED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BARREL. TONIGHT, THEY FLIP THEMSELVES RIGHT. A TRUE HOMECOMING FOR ZEUS CITY HIGH SCHOOL. 

“What the fuck,” you spit, jaw refusing to completely close. Nevertheless, you’re obligated to turn and raise your hands, counting everyone in for the fight song. 

It’s the worst rendition you’ve ever heard. The clarinets stumble on a run, and the trombones are way out of tune. Color guard dances in the stands too, and they’re flubbing their movements because your band is so incredibly off-beat with how their shocked fingers are slipping off the notes. 

But nobody pays attention. They’re all fascinated with Luke Castellan. Star athlete Luke Castellan. Drenched in Gatorade Luke Castellan. Good for him. Fuck him. 

He’s running a victory lap, zipping around the field in his ugly, soaked orange jersey, arms thrust skyward in celebration. You think that the big, taunting 11 painted on his back will haunt you for the rest of your days. 

His pace peters out by the time the song ends and he reaches the stands, giving sweaty, full-bodied hugs to whoever’s closest to him in his conquest. You huff as he strolls along the track you’d marched on only hours before. 

He’s all damp, curls plastered to his forehead and sweat beading over his brow. His breaths come out as icy puffs in the mid-October air. An exhausted blush blooms over his cheeks, eyes glassed over, lips bruised and chest straining for  breaths. 

Castellan points at nothing in particular, angling his finger at the bleachers with a winning grin. A number of girls titter—even color guard, Jesus Christ, they need anti-football reconditioning—and many pull out their phones to snap pictures of him. 

He’s looking straight at you, though. Like he’s some puppy with something to prove, with crinkled eyes and a triumphant energy that makes your insides squirm. The floodlights are blinding, a glimmering sheen refracting off his Gatorade-slick skin. 

This…this is Luke from yearbook. Not the Public Enemy Number One jock, but the guy who apologized for his bad mood and kind of made you laugh during your interview. The Castellan who (you loathe the admission so much that it burns) is...he’s not the worst, and pretty...chill. 

You tip your hat, which should register to most of your bandmates as a simple adjustment to your uniform. Castellan offers a tiny wave that you definitely shouldn’t find a little endearing, and turns away. 

And then, your journalism advisor comes up to Castellan with a dark-haired woman. He hugs his mom, but makes a bitter point of turning his back to Hermes. 

Luke Castellan looks very much like his mother, with the same eye shape and fuller pout. Bony shoulders, defined face, straight and dark brows. He’s got the same arrow-like nose as Hermes, however, and that inky black hair. 

He turns for one last look at the emptying stands. Behind you, your bandmates begin to pack up, carrying their instruments down the bleachers. 

You throw him a bone—or an olive branch—letting the corner of your mouth quirk up, though you doubt he can see it from this far. Luke shrugs with a thin, furtive smile and you lose sight of him as he ducks out into the parking lot. 

Slipping your hand into your jacket, you tug out your reporter’s notebook. You study the Herald’s logo, the scratched-out ‘grafs on shitty school lunch. 

And then below, with fresh, scrawling ink— 

School pride v. clique prejudice: can band, football coexist with rivalry? 

You consider it with a hovering ballpoint and your jaw working. Would it really be so bad to dissect something like this? 

“Major.” Charles bumps your shoulder, beaming so brightly that you’re afraid it’ll hurt. “Sections leaders are getting popcorn chicken from that Taiwanese grandma. You coming?” 

“It’s ten,” you note, following with a staged yawn that billows in the cold air. You flip your notebook shut in a way that’s obviously not casual, but your fellow drum major doesn’t comment. “‘S also your turn to drive, so drop me home first and then catch up with everyone.” 

With an eye roll, he starts pushing you toward the exit gate. As you hop off the bleachers, he says, “Y‘know—surprisingly—I’m actually hoping football does good for once.” 

“Yeah.” You scuff your shoes against the asphalt, a few pebbles skittering away from your path. “And Castellan…not so bad, after all.” 

“Yeah, except for the Silena thing.” 

“O-kay, big guy, I’ll talk to him about that,” you say, with sardonic dryness. 

“Seriously?” 

“You kidding? No!” 

It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air. 

The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD. 

Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’ 

Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’ 

And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is. 

Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty. 

Your heart flutters. 

You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half. 

Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like— 

The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand. 

It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one. 

You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other. 

Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed. 

He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life. 

(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.) 

Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead. 

Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you. 

The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail. 

So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends. 

It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl. 

Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment. 

It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline. 

He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over. 

You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously. 

It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say. 

You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you. 

Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’  

He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.  

A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable. 

You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis. 

But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works. 

He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs. 

And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here. 

When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen. 

He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do. 

That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does. 

Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time. 

You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response. 

A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point. 

Your phone buzzes, twice. 

Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27 

REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew 

You grimace at the second pop-up banner. 

You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates. 

In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend. 

Chores, laundry, dates. 

You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars. 

You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text. 

Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited. 

You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise. 

You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business. 

He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but... 

That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it? 

Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.  

Maybe you should take a page out of his book. 

TO: clark kent  u busy tonight?  we should bring back friday dinner for good lol  but at ur place, mines messy 

Delivered with a whoosh. 

You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face. 

Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale. 

Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button. 

He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles. 

All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city. 

A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit. 

You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again. 

He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble. 

You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now. 

TO: clark kent  my boyfriend said so btw 

Nice to let him know, right?  

(You hope he remembers the joke.) 

Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling. 

Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order. 

Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms. 

FROM: clark kent  Haha, ok.  I’m not flying tho  and I don't have melon pops. 

A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face. 

He remembers. 

Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis. 

Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood. 

And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already. 

…Oh. You freeze. 

It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face. 

Oh, no. 

—

Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville. 

Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment. 

Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside. 

Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to. 

The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr. 

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad. 

He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?” 

Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?” 

“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings. 

Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back. 

No sign of that asshole Nate. 

No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave. 

“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.” 

Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.” 

“Your Ma would disagree.” 

“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.” 

“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.  

“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.” 

You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways? 

Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does. 

But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and— 

Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say: 

“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—” 

You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!” 

“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?” 

You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.” 

He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?” 

You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.” 

The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter. 

Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son. 

You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh. 

“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?” 

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.” 

“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.” 

He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward. 

“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.” 

You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone. 

Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark. 

Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel.  Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day. 

Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head. 

And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving. 

You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek. 

The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass. 

(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.) 

Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.  

He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window. 

And then he taps the glass. 

Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection. 

Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force. 

“What—Clark!”  

You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter. 

“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?” 

You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck. 

“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand. 

The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.” 

Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.” 

A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.” 

He urges you to a nearby alley—strange. 

You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier. 

You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides. 

“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?” 

Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.” 

“Dude—” 

“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—” 

“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.” 

He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams. 

Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home. 

Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass. 

Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.” 

You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day. 

So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention. 

You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics). 

Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back. 

He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk. 

Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom. 

It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew. 

You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to. 

You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” 

Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners. 

The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing. 

“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.” 

“Helped me, you mean.” 

“Yeah…” 

You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off. 

“You’re mean.” 

“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently. 

Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back. 

That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else. 

“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring. 

You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes. 

It’s okay like this. 

Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot. 

“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.” 

“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.” 

He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?” 

“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.” 

The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you. 

You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking. 

Automatic, the most natural thing in the world. 

“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead. 

He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned. 

“That’s barely the introduction.” 

—

By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment. 

It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner. 

And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO. 

(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side. 

This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet. 

Wait...) 

The temperature doesn’t work, either. 

Well, it does. Kind of.  

But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away. 

His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t. 

Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all. 

You think back to how you got here. 

Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand. 

What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville. 

Ergo, you did what any best friend would do. 

You chose Clark, because it has always been that way. 

Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl. 

He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative. 

For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway. 

“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding. 

That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years. 

You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short. 

The ultimatum. 

How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.  

How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you. 

The first one you had to call.  

As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark). 

As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’ 

And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up. 

You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days. 

Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here. 

He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions. 

Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry. 

“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.” 

“Thanks, Clark.” 

And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented. 

You remembered this one. 

Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake. 

You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall. 

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that. 

Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line. 

And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face. 

You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body. 

The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment. 

Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw. 

Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in. 

Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine. 

It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet. 

(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.) 

Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface. 

Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window. 

Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill. 

The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves. 

You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague. 

You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark. 

Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze. 

But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear. 

Small miracles. 

You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home. 

The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides. 

You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working. 

There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it. 

You move on. 

The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches. 

Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves... 

Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles! 

And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape. 

You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day? 

A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist. 

Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape. 

You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled. 

Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size. 

(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.) 

An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved. 

Tom Sawyer. Of course. 

An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time. 

(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)  

Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream. 

"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light. 

"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross." 

"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.” 

He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.  

“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin. 

Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge. 

Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list. 

“Heat breath.” 

Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.” 

You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind. 

Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.  

A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet. 

The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears. 

"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six." 

"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings. 

Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun. 

He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils. 

In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine. 

You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?" 

"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!" 

You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two." 

"Fine, Smallville Half and Half." 

"But which Half comes first?" 

"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate." 

You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.  

“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth. 

He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups. 

You want to hear it forever. 

You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis. 

“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.” 

It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas. 

You squint at the screen. 

Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy? 

You can’t tell them apart like Clark can. 

There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf. 

Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything. 

The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing. 

He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place. 

Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.  

“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.” 

He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty. 

You clench your jaw and duck your head. 

“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.” 

You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?” 

He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking. 

“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.” 

“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks. 

“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.” 

Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.” 

“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek. 

You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.” 

“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.” 

You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win. 

And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.  

Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?” 

“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.” 

You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.” 

“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.” 

“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.” 

“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.” 

He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—” 

A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.” 

“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name. 

The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.  

You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding. 

Safe, in the way he’s always been. 

And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H. 

In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way. 

It never made any sense. 

Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters. 

The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either. 

…Would it? 

Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.” 

“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd. 

Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of. 

“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.” 

Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.” 

“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.” 

“Ew.” 

—

The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before. 

Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks. 

Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment. 

Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force. 

This is familiar. 

Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood. 

Familiar, but not the same. 

For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue. 

And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in. 

Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on. 

Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had. 

Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them. 

Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious. 

“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.” 

Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop. 

Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs. 

The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no. 

You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head. 

Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you? 

Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did. 

But that’s different.  

That’s pining and idealistic stuff.  

This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y. 

It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend. 

In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever. 

(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…) 

Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture. 

Or—you dread to think—Smallville. 

When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology. 

Oh. 

The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall. 

You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent. 

Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’ 

The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked. 

Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in. 

You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?” 

“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.” 

You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror. 

He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting. 

You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.” 

“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.” 

You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him. 

Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things. 

He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow. 

“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?” 

You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.” 

Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now. 

Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy. 

His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off. 

But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion. 

And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal. 

CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change. 

You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark. 

Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one. 

Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady. 

Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit. 

It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth. 

“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?” 

It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love. 

Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class. 

But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest. 

Or not. You could be delusional. 

You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.” 

“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.” 

You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included. 

Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?” 

“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?” 

You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in— 

“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.” 

“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.” 

Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.” 

He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?” 

You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.” 

A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.” 

Oh. 

You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine. 

Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick. 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.” 

Frowning, “What question?” 

“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says. 

Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?” 

Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...” 

He knows you too well. 

Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve. 

He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.” 

Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable. 

He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’ 

And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing. 

Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him. 

You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth. 

And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour: 

You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark. 

Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way. 

Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste. 

But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is. 

There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone. 

(How long has he been listening in on you?) 

You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice. 

“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out. 

“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.” 

“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease. 

But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.

Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.” 

You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.” 

His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?” 

Oh, he’s jealous. 

You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?” 

He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips. 

He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you. 

The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit. 

But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips. 

His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly. 

Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.” 

“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.” 

Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?” 

“Right.” 

“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.” 

You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh. 

“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.” 

You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?” 

The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.” 

“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.” 

Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.” 

You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room. 

He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger. 

Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh. 

But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too. 

“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.” 

Fuck. You can’t take it anymore. 

“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek. 

You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just— 

I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—” 

“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis. 

He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth. 

And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh. 

Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss. 

One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin. 

You’re going to feel this for days, you think. 

Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings. 

Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift. 

You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.  

Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind. 

He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push. 

You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest. 

He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up. 

“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.” 

“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.” 

You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission. 

His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit. 

“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.” 

“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.

Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity. 

You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.” 

Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs. 

Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame. 

“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air. 

You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.” 

“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird. 

Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.  

You want, want, want. 

Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream. 

It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline. 

The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough. 

Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.  

He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands. 

He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady. 

Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.  

“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?” 

You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?” 

“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.” 

A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking. 

“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.” 

“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.” 

“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.” 

His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak. 

He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you. 

Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond. 

Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up. 

You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks. 

He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit. 

Your chest tightens for a breath.  

Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction. 

Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt. 

You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out. 

He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that. 

“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest. 

His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you. 

And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips. 

Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart. 

His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity. 

And his heartbeat jumps. 

Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck. 

He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home. 

“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.” 

His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later. 

Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim. 

Your breath freezes in the same moment as his. 

“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response. 

His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it. 

The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom. 

Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties. 

Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest. 

You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation. 

Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight. 

And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you. 

Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates. 

Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots. 

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak. 

“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.” 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.” 

“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.” 

Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease. 

“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.” 

Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head. 

Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric. 

A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be. 

Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly. 

He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach. 

Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips. 

“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks. 

You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are. 

He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it. 

Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum. 

“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.” 

Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.” 

You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...” 

A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.” 

Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal. 

The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.  

You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh. 

“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?” 

Curse your stupid, big mouth. 

Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?” 

Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.” 

“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...” 

He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.” 

A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you. 

Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!” 

“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.” 

Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes. 

Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down. 

But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready. 

He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.” 

He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that. 

“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?” 

You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down. 

“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.” 

An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open. 

“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two. 

“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.” 

“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.  

You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end. 

The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm. 

He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach. 

“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?” 

Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist. 

“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.” 

It’s like a switch has flipped in you. 

You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—” 

He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you. 

“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?” 

You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up. 

It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement. 

Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too. 

And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot. 

It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you. 

It’s just Clark. 

He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair. 

Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest. 

Starbursts pop in your vision. 

You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand. 

Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.  

You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth. 

There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs. 

But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place. 

“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.” 

His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest. 

He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies. 

"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some. 

“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin. 

Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet. 

This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.  

Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead. 

You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it. 

You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder. 

Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and— 

Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck— 

Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple. 

He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life. 

He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs. 

“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.” 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?” 

He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra. 

“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.” 

You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth. 

You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.” 

He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum. 

“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.” 

“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him. 

He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows. 

“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.” 

You guess he’s your best friend for a reason. 

Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy. 

You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.” 

“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—” 

“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.” 

“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts. 

Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper. 

That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring. 

He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes. 

And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker: 

“Will you let me have you?” 

Not can I. Will you. 

You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops. 

“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.” 

Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it. 

He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is. 

Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.  

“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—” 

“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back. 

Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville. 

He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.

Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.” 

You don’t remember how you respond to that. 

Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath. 

He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow. 

Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.  

(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit. 

The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.) 

And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin. 

He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.” 

He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh— 

You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy. 

Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand. 

“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.” 

“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.” 

He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive. 

“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—” 

You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this. 

The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries. 

And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek. 

A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice. 

He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him. 

Oh. This is proving to be too much for you. 

And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding. 

Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin. 

Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment. 

You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue. 

He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm. 

Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest. 

It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along. 

—

You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on. 

Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand. 

The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass. 

And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed. 

Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course. 

The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor. 

He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well. 

His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light. 

Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend. 

“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.” 

“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple. 

“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks. 

He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar. 

You’ve already loved him for a lifetime. 

You wouldn’t mind one more. 

you shift in the tub—bare knees bumping into the wall, forearms resting on the porcelain edge (later, he’ll call you a siren) as you look up at him.

“clark,” you say, a soft smile tugging at your mouth. “how was work?”

the way he pushes off the wall and pads over should be criminal. he holds his hands behind his back and sets his mouth in a pensive twist as if he really needs to think about it.

as if you don’t know that he’s thinking about something completely unrelated to a stack of unopened emails and a rash of correction marks on his latest article.

(stellar, by the way. it’s not boyfriend bias, or whatever clark calls it these days. your argument is that he’s truly an eloquent writer—it just happens that your type is soft, earnest, and well-spoken.)

he hums, a low ‘mm’ that echoes like a gunshot in this room of tile and silver. “the usual. mr. white’s expecting my next superman article soon, jimmy’s complaining about his new talking stage.”

“again?”

he echoes your smile. braces his hands on the edge of the tile on either side of your elbows and bends forward until the tips of your noses brush. your breath shivers at the sight of his dark eyelashes fluttering down behind his glasses.

“yeah, again.”

you lift a finger and poke the left side of his face, right by the corner of his mouth. baby-soft skin, the barest prickle of stubble, joy tucked into the pocket of his dimple.

“anyone ever tell you the glasses are hot?” you whisper.

you know the answer. you tell him every day.

"it's kryptonian glass," he explains, like it never gets old. you pinch your mouth and the corner of his flicks up, left dimple making an indent under your finger. "there's a...subtle hypnotic effect."

he can definitely hear your pulse rocketing to sky-high rhythms. your inhale quivers as a shaky smile blooms on your face.

"am i hypnotizing right now?" you ask, just to tease.

grinning wider, a curl of clark’s hair falls loose and your other fingers, at rest, twitch against the tub’s edge.

pitching his head down, “very.”

the last of your breath leaves you when his lips slot over yours. he kisses you like he wants it to linger. for you to feel the ghost of it for days.

and you know full well that can and will happen.

clark falls to his knees, cradles you in the crook of his right arm. shoulder to shoulder, fist curling against your spine. doesn’t care if his sleeve gets wet with the droplets decorating your back.

he starts descending into borderline hunger, left hand palming your cheek, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss with a soft groan.

the sound burns through you, lighting the embers of desire that never really get put out when clark kent is your boyfriend.

clinging to the front of his shirt, you feel kind of dizzy, on the edge of buzzed. not sure of how long time has passed—maybe an hour, maybe ten seconds.

he smells so good. clean eucalyptus and clothesline wind, because of course he’d dry his things the way his ma taught him to.

once he’s sure that your lips are tingling, clark moves onto your cheek, sowing a line of reverent, purposeful kisses to your brow, then your ear.

his thumb catches on the wing of your own glasses and he plucks them off on autopilot. sets the frames on the counter, the action natural to him.

honestly, you’d forgotten them.

you can’t help but mumble, “quiet night?”

he hums into the shell of your ear—vibrates down to your quickly warming core. his glasses press against your temple. “just wanted to spend time with you.”

you comb his curls back, wet fingers parting through his hair easily. “which galactic threat did you have to bribe this time?”

clark pulls away, a bead of water rolling down his forehead from your side quest of styling him. cheeks pink like he’s drunk, he untangles his arms and wipes his fingers over his lenses.

“superman doesn’t bribe.”

“mhm.”

“seriously,” he says, pulling his socks off. the action is so quintessentially, endearingly clark. fine with wet sleeves, but socks are a no-go. “i asked if i could take care of my beautiful girlfriend for a night, told him how lovely and sweet you are, and we postponed doomsday until tomorrow.”

you grasp for the wings of his collar—already unbuttoned. he was planning for this.

you giggle against his lips when he obliges to your wordless command and kisses you again.

“still, i don’t think it’s gonna be so quiet,” you manage between stolen breaths. he laughs quietly into your mouth, an outpour of giddiness.

then clark swings his leg over the edge—left followed by right, slacks blooming even darker as they start to soak up hot water. heat pools in your stomach, neck, face like the heavy ripples licking at the walls of the tub as he blinks down at you.

the clear, deep blue you so love to see has practically been swallowed by his pupils. your tongue feels heavy at him kneeling on the porcelain floor of the tub, broad hands settling beneath the surface.

molten heat flushes through your body.

you're all wound up. his knee nudges the inside of your thigh, and you lift your hips slightly to feel something, anything that'll satisfy the ache building up between your legs.

eyes trailing lower, you catch sight of clark straining against his pants. he gingerly trails his fingers from your knee to hip, slipping deeper into the water. his other hand cups your neck, keeps you grounded here.

reminds you that there are moments like these between the crazy midair fights and busy metropolis streets. moments where clark can be transparent.

selfish—in that juxtaposing, selfless way. how he so clearly wants and needs and still takes pleasure in fulfilling you first.

“can i?” clark pleads, because despite the many times you've reminded him that he doesn't even need to ask, he still never fails to. voice dipping so deep it cracks, eyes fluttering close in the way you know he’s taking in other things.

how the bare skin of your calf rasps against the soaked hem of his slacks. or your pulse, stammering at a million beats. maybe the wetness pooling in your cunt too, surely diluting in the water.

he noses at the underside of your jaw, soft lips teasing your throat. you can hear his swallow, waiting.

a broken sort of sigh leaves him, and his knee—rough with his slacks—makes full contact with your cunt. cold, hard lenses flatten against the side of your neck.

you shiver. full-body. livewire running beneath your skin.

“tell m’what you want, honey.”

not fair. you suffocate a sob in your lungs as you slip your hand over his and draw it where you need it most.

pressing your cheek against his, clark slips his thumb over your clit. he goes slow, circling in reverence with the intent to pull you apart until your seams are visible.

there's that faint callus on the tip of his thumb—the one that never really fades away because he always holds his pens too tight. it gently scrapes at your nerves at another flex of his wrist, another roll of his thumb.

you throb, suddenly aware of how empty you are.

hanging your head down, you smother a quiet, sharp inhale into his hair.

you’re feverish. out of it. head spinning, eyes struggling to stay open. urgency tugs at your stomach, winding closer to an inevitable peak.

clark detaches himself from your neck, his other hand taking off his glasses in one smooth motion—they land somewhere with a careless, far-off clatter—before slotting his lips over yours. his tongue traces gently over your bottom lip.

you swear your hands move on their own. like second nature, your fingers are wading through the warm water, nudging at the button of his slacks.

(no belt. clark really was prepared for this.)

he decides that now is a nice time to drag his forefingers through your folds. the barest brush, enough to taste and leave you shifting your hips up for just a little more.

you know clark. he's versed in the little things he can do to make your thighs tighten around him and your legs to kick out, the ways he can make you cum in minutes and he's taking his sweet fucking time to take you apart—

"honey," he mumbles against your lips. your fingers are still trying to undo his pants, a task so simple that you're kind of embarrassed at how clark's turning your brain to mush. "y'don't have to."

your stomach does a sharp kick at that. his accent peeks out when his words get all muddled and slurred together and fuck, it's unbearably hot. your skin is burning. clark is burning.

"please." your voice is quiet, shivering. you blink at him, too fast, trying to etch every moment into the underside of your skull. "please, i want to."

you don't really care that you're naked and he isn't. it's kind of hot, seeing his white shirt sticking to his stomach, fabric transparent and dripping.

the faint dusting of hair on his chest, the soft outline of his muscles are even more apparent to you than normal. how he's breathing—steady, steeling breaths, but they're starting to toe the edge of faster.

"don't beg. you never have to beg," he says, index and middle finger torturously spreading you open, thumb still circling your clit. your whine is quiet, but it sounds like reverb to you. his eyelashes flutter, pupils dinner-plate wide. "not with me."

"can i?"

he nods, and kisses you again.

you know he has to be cheating when he works two fingers into your cunt—full, so full, and you burn where he touches—and helps you undo the button with his other hand.

damn superpowers.

your vision's too woozy, locked onto the way his brow crinkles like fucking paper when you reach in and wrap your hand around the head of his cock, but if you checked now, you know he's using his hovering ability in some shape or form.

or he might just have incredible core strength. whatever it is, you want him to keep doing it, even if it's giving him an unfair advantage.

"yeah," clark gasps. short, incredulous. you work your hand up the shaft—he's heavy and aching in your palm, hardness practically sweltering. "that's it, sweetheart."

his thoughts are just as smudgy as yours. you can see it in his eyes when he tilts forward to press his forehead to yours—hasn't broken a sweat just yet; the way his pupils are dilating, quivering in that slightly alien way that sets something off in you.

clark curls his fingers, rocks the thickness of them into your cunt like he's fucking desperate now. gone is the sweet, gentle man who was taking his time. he's dead-set on making you cum around his fingers with that steely resolve straightening out his shoulders.

you stroke him faster in response and his breaths come out shorter, louder. lets out a particularly loud moan when you squeeze your hand and twist just so around the head, thumb pressing into his slit, and he pushes that spongey spot in you that makes your head spin.

stars spark in your vision, stomach coiling tighter and tighter with every ounce of pleasure clark fucks into you with his fingers.

you squeeze your eyes shut, tip your head back to let him plant his mouth on your collarbone and suck. clark's teeth scrape along the base of your neck, tongue sweeping hot over your skin soothingly.

you're helpless, teetering on the edge of here and nothing. soft sounds and gentle splashes and his name whined like a prayer—clark, clark, want it, clark, god—and he grinds the pad of his thumb into your clit and your nerves fucking catch.

like the raw, exposed wires in water. and fuck, you're squeezing around his fingers, walls fluttering as he rocks you through your orgasm.

someone's whining, and you realize belatedly that it's clark, hips grinding into your hand and chasing his own high with a pitched sound clawing at his throat, even as he's working you through the aftershocks still twitching in your body.

"too good, baby," he pants, rolling his head so that he's deeper in your embrace, wet shirt sticking to your naked chest, breaths fogging into the juncture of your neck.

says your name, cracked in the middle, and you're sliding your hand up to twist around the head of his cock because you're helpless to his call. clark buries a moan into your skin, damp curls tickling the lobe of your ear, and—

he's throbbing in your palm. impossibly harder, hotter. sweltering as he releases with a choked groan, halfway through another repetition of your name, hot ropes of cum spilling into your palm.

you come down slowly, an unwind of floating, disconnected thoughts and boneless bliss. pruned skin, still-warm water, loose strings of white you didn't manage to catch.

whatever, slurs the voice in your head. you always end up taking a shower anyways.

(that's when this usually happens. in the shower, taken against the tile instead of slow and purposeful on a porcelain floor.)

clark pulls his fingers out like he doesn't want to leave. leaves his face hidden in your neck, small smile carved into your shoulder.

"sorry," he croaks, palms smoothing over your hips. "uh. we should shower off."

oh, so he's really keeping that routine.

you hum, fingers still shaking slightly when you lift them and card through his hair. patient, caring. heart swelling at the way he just melts and sighs into you.

"i didn't bribe him, by the way," clark mutters, words smudgy and smeared together. still kind of drunk off his high, like you are.

"i was joking, clark."

"well, i wasn't. negotiated doomsday by talking about my sweet girl, can you believe that?"

you stifle a giggle.

yeah. you can believe that.

— soz im saying things for the sake of saying them…. first public freak out and its not proofread, clark kent fandom please be kind 😭😭

—

The back of the taxi is tight when Clark wiggles in. 

Jimmy’s waiting inside, playing around with the manual settings on his camera. He’s wearing a nicer version of what he usually wears to work, finally appearing in an ironed short-sleeved polo and a pair of nice, black slacks instead of khakis. 

They’re almost matching in terms of formality, with Clark’s typical secondhand grey pants that bulge at the pocket from his notepad. He’s without his signature suit jacket tonight, having opted for a beige sweater thrown over the button up and tie. 

If he slouches enough, it should hide most of his build. 

The seat creaks as Clark adjusts himself—it smells like cigarettes, leather, and expired air freshener in the way all old taxis are. 

The aircon is on high, blasting loud enough to smother the song playing on the radio. His knees bump into the solid part of the partition, and his spine feels too compressed. Even Jimmy scoots over, pressing himself against the door to let Clark fit in. 

“Where to?” asks the driver, an old man with the slightest tinge of a Park Ridge accent. He must drive a long way to work, then. 

Cutting off his mumbling about the aperture not being quite right, Jimmy pitches forward to the plastic partition and says, “The Natural History Museum, please. In the back, though, ‘cause we’re press.” 

A grunt. Jimmy takes it upon himself to slide the divider shut and turns back to Clark. 

“So. How is she?” It’s innocuous, like he’s just asking about the weather in a totally casual, not-meddling way. He blinks his eyes twice, opening them too wide, before sliding them back to his camera. 

Clark’s stomach roils at the unprompted reminder as the taxi peels away from the curb and joins the stream of Midtown traffic. You’re the one who gave Mr. White the idea to cover the Siegel Foundation Gala, and you’re not here. 

Instead, you’re probably slipping into the tailored dress that showed up on your desk in an unmarked box and admiring the flowers that came with it. 

There wasn’t a single person in the office who missed the sleek, black card reading Wayne Enterprises tucked between the petals. 

— 

Clark watches from his desk as Cat fawns, hovering a manicured hand over the cloud of blooms like if she touched them, she’d face a million-dollar suit. Her mouth is ajar and eyes even wider open as she stares. 

“Oh my god. You’re in cahoots with Brucie Wayne? Billionaire playboy?” 

A grimace bleeds into the edge of your expression as you wiggle the lid of the box off. “Sort of. We’ve talked over dinner a few times. Sponsored a half-page in the Gazette for me, once.” 

The gossip columnist nods as if she understands, still gaping at the large bouquet just sitting atop your mountain of equipment and spare lenses. “Yeah, I think I remember. That drophead thing, right? You got nominated for some award.” 

“Mm,” you shrug. The lid pops off—the sun’s shining through the windows just right so that the contents glitter and refract, splattering little diamonds across the walls. 

Jimmy frowns, and Clark hears him mumbling under his breath about disco balls and put some respect on the World Press Photo. 

Gingerly scooping your hands into the box, you lift out the top of a gown. It’s formal, straddling the tightrope of unassuming and eye-catching. Navy blue, luxurious, and no visible sequins or seams. Wayne must have done something special to it for that sparkling effect. 

Cat gasps, placing a red-painted nail on her chin. Her voice is wistful when she says, “Oh. That’s Bottega Veneta—custom.” 

“How can you even tell?” You rifle around the box and lift your hand. From your fingers dangles a delicate chain, the metal links star-spun and winking in the light. A small charm sits at the lowest point—a peacock pearl, fixed to a loop of small diamonds. “Holy shit.” 

“Is that a Mikimoto pearl?” Cat sounds almost reverent as she peers over your shoulder. “You totally have to introduce me to Wayne. Unless you don’t want to, if he’s your boyfriend or something. Oh my god, are you a secret billionaire, too?” 

“Cat...” You let out a laugh that peters out too early, and you look anywhere but at your coworker. 

She says your name in the same tone, clapping her hands on your shoulders. You share a giggle with her. 

Clark’s jaw tightens, and he clicks his tongue. The thought of you hanging off Bruce Wayne’s arm digs something sore into his side. Worse is the suggestion of you sharing a bank account with him too, like married people do. 

“Hey, Clark, c’mere.” Cat’s beckoning with a tilt of her head, rouge lips unfurling into a soft, fond smile as her manicured fingers work the clasp behind your neck. “She looks stunning, doesn’t she?” 

Your heartbeat surges, and a short frame of your body superimposed with an infrared image glows with heat.  

He suppresses the frown that tries rearing its ugly head and fixes his glasses. 

“Yeah,” Clark manages, voice almost tripping into a stammer. “You look great.” 

You offer a faint, earnest grin that looks unused to your face, eyes darting down as your fingertips brush just below the pendant. Cat giggles, props her glasses atop her head, and plucks the ridiculous bouquet off your desk to snap a picture. 

— 

Gritting his molars, Clark tries to sort through the uncomfortable feeling settling in his chest. It lurches with the road, nauseating. “I don’t know. Probably getting picked up by a limo?” 

An image of Bruce Wayne—tall, dark, handsome, and Gotham—clasping your hand and helping you into the backseat flashes through his mind. He hopes you wouldn’t giggle. Which is a completely silly thing to wish for. 

Jimmy exhales through his nose—a short, amused sound. “Wow. Must be nice.” 

“Yep. Nice.” 

“For the record, I was just asking how she was in general.” 

Clark presses his mouth into a tight line, caught. The taxi stumbles through traffic, jostling the camera in Jimmy’s lap as they stare at each other. 

Jimmy continues, scratching the bridge of his freckled nose, “I’d be jealous if my girl got picked up by a billionaire playboy.” 

“I’m not,” he responds, a little too forceful. It’s just the bumpy ride that’s making him feel sick. Cheeks burning, Clark turns to the window and watches as the city lights streak by, mumbling, “And saying ‘my girl’ is implying a woman belongs to you.” 

“You’re totally jealous,” Jimmy goads, wrapping his fingers around the base of the camera’s lens and twisting it off. He holds it up and pulls out a rubber air blower, puffing the dust off the interior. 

Exasperated, “Jimmy.” 

He needs to take a couple breaths. 

Rolling down the window, Clark points his face toward the wind, lets the cool evening air wash over his skin. He’s gotten rather heated, and he needs to remember that he lives in a cardboard world. 

One step over the boundary line, and he could level the city. 

“Clark.” The photographer has a pointed look in his face, raising his eyebrows like he’s about to share some tragic news. “You don’t have to lie. I know.” 

His heart skyrockets. Know what—that he’s Superman, or that he always looks for you in every room? 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Yes, you do,” chides Jimmy. He puts the air blower down to brandish a microfiber cloth, which he uses to wipe the outer lens. The glass quietly squeaks as he says, “You like her.” 

A beat passes. 

The sudden urge to laugh passes through Clark’s mind before he deepens his voice to will it away. “No, that—that's ridiculous.” 

Jimmy has a doubtful look on his face, all curvy eyebrows and twisted mouth as he rubs a spot on the glass. “It’s not, Smallville.” 

Clark slips two fingers into the winged collar of his shirt and tugs. “Come on, Jimmy, don’t tell me Lois is getting to you.” 

“Oh, no, she’s not. I just figured it on my own.” Jimmy flicks his cloth, displacing a microscopic plume of debris. He still isn’t looking directly at Clark, pretending to busy himself with camera maintenance while sneaking glances to gauge a reaction. “Three months ago, you hadn’t talked since high school. I bet you still feel so sick even though she’s back.” 

Clark’s chest twists at the statement. 

— 

The first time Clark gets terribly sick comes when he is twelve. 

Smallville hasn't seen sunlight for a week because of an incoming winter storm. He’s down, chest heavy with the same dread that paints the clouds dark grey. His head still spins. 

He’d gone out into the field, chasing Shelby before the winds started picking up. The border collie ran out before Pa could shut that rattling screen door—Ma always tells him to fix it, but he’s forgetful sometimes—and Clark followed soon after. 

The stalks were bare around him as he ran between them. Autumn has long passed, and his jacket was barely zipped up before he bounded out. The chill doesn’t bite, but it’s noticeable.  

Shelby barked up ahead, and Clark ran a little faster. Faintly, Pa called from the porch for him. 

He started getting a little dizzy. Vision spinning, he looked down the next row, and there was Shelby, sitting in one of the tilled divots and thumping her tail against the dirt. 

“Gotcha,” he had gasped, just as a roll of unease crashed through his stomach. 

Then he blinked, and his left cheek was pressed against the dirt, and it smelled like fertilizer and rain and dried corn silk. Shelby padded over and licked his cheek, and from behind the blurry outline of her fluffy leg was a green glow. 

Clark couldn’t remember the last time he threw up, or if he had at all. You had described the feeling to him once—a weird, salty taste in your mouth, something rioting at the base of your throat from the inside. 

He kind of felt that now, staring at the glint of pale green light sticking out of the dirt. 

He didn’t know how long he laid there, head pounding and mouth filling with that weird taste while Shelby sat back on her haunches and nosed his cheek. 

“Clark? Clark!” A wave of feverish relief. His Pa was here, and everything was going to be alright. 

Pa scooped him up, and everything was a blur. Rattling screen door, cold tub, clean pajamas, dark room, the outline of glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. 

And now Clark is dead in bed, the damp rag on his forehead approaching lukewarm as he listens to the cutlery clink in the dining room. 

Thin walls. He hears you excusing yourself from the table and sliding your dishes into the sink. Shelby patters after you, probably nosing your heels before the telltale sound of Ma whistling to bring her back. 

Clark absently eyes the KC Royals poster on the opposite end of his room. 

His head is still foggy, but it’s clear enough to think: Aw, cider. She’s probably mad that I got sick ‘cause now I can’t eat the peas she hates. 

The door creaks open an inch, letting in a sliver of orange light from the hallway. His and your parents are talking in low tones about metahumans, the hum of conversation simmering under the boil of the storm outside. 

The right side of your face peers in, eye glimmering in the dim light. 

Oh, there you are. His throat runs dry. 

He groans, another wave of nausea rolling over him. “Cider, go away.” 

His hand flops uselessly against the side of his bed in a poor attempt to shoo you back. 

The floorboards beneath the carpet whisper as you creep in anyways and come to the side of his bed. 

You take the towel off his forehead, dip it into the bowl he forgot was still on the nightstand, and squeeze the water out. 

Clark’s suddenly overcome with a different kind of sickness. One that squeezes everything inside his ribs as you lay the cold rag on his skin again. His throat runs dry. 

You’re too kind to him. He knows he can be so mean sometimes—sure, mostly on accident, or in the heat of the moment, but... 

He’ll never forget the look on your face after he blurted that you weren’t a good friend. Six years later, and it still haunts him. 

(Clark even dreamt about it once. Hitting Brody first and taking the brunt of the blame so that mean lady wouldn’t cuss in your face. But Ma said to forgive and forget, so he’s trying the best he can.) 

His lips are chapped when he croaks, “Don’t wanna get you sick.” 

“You ain’t coughing,” you say, nudging him over. Clark makes space for you despite the way his entire body protests. 

The bed dips under your added weight, and you lay down on your back beside him. You smell like clothesline wind and apples. Something weird in his chest aches. 

“The headache’s killer, though,” he whispers, looking at you sidelong. 

You’re the only clear thing that stands out from the rest of the blurriness. 

Folding your arms behind your head, you dart your eyes around the ceiling, tracing imaginary constellations between the plastic stars. They haven’t glowed in days, but you know the pattern like the back of your hand. 

“I had to eat the peas.” 

“Sorry.” 

You don’t seem to mind, shrugging it away. “You coming to school tomorrow? I think Lana wanted to show us her new water bottle.” 

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.” 

“Right, I forgot,” you click your tongue, nose wrinkling. “So that means I can sleep over.” 

He frowns, lifting a heavy arm to touch the towel cooling on his forehead. “You should leave before the storm gets too bad.” 

A quiet laugh. “Dummy, you’re actin’ like the house is gonna be huff-puffed away. My mom said I could stay, anyway, since I ate the peas this time.” 

Small miracles. 

Clark isn’t sure how he fell asleep. He knows that you threw an arm around him and circled his sternum with your knuckles, and he knows that the next morning, the sun was streaming in and painting you in white gold. 

A thin layer of snow decorates the sill. It sparkles, splashing small crystals of light across your face. 

In your sleep, you settle closer and dig your nose into his neck, humming nonsense about math and water bottles. It’s a song better than the ones on the radio at the general store or the ones you sing at school for the monthly assembly. 

Clark takes a slow, careful breath and lies as still as he can. 

The sickness feels different now. 

It’s not heavy chest, stuffy head, salt in his mouth anymore. 

This one’s rooted deeper. Thorns wrapped around his ribs, fingers twitching to not wake you even though his arm’s got that tingly feeling. 

You smell like him too, an added layer of Kent corn silk and Shelby’s fur. 

His chest twists. 

More than anything, he wants to stay here forever. 

— 

Clark feels that same ache now as the taxi pulls into the alley behind the museum. 

Jimmy doesn’t say more about you, sliding back the clear partition and dropping thirty-odd cash into an already waiting hand. “Thanks, man.” 

The car shudders as they wiggle out—Metropolis transportation isn’t built for big farm boys, apparently. Jimmy hops out easy enough, still juggling his camera and lens in such a way that Clark is half-ready to catch either. 

He barely gets his left foot out the door (it’s always that one getting stuck) before the photographer slams it shut and waves the taxi on its merry way. The bright yellow car bobs into the road, making it a grand total of ten feet before sitting in traffic. 

“Almost took my ankle off,” Clark mumbles, training his gaze low. He twitches his ears slightly so that his frames slide down his nose in the way they always do. In the way Clark Kent, clumsy journalist, does. 

“Dude, talk about last week,” Jimmy groans, tilting his face up. The clouds are wispy with the evening air, and the sky is starting to bleed with the colors of sunset. “You tripped on fucking air and bowled over three interns.” 

Clark frowns. “Fudging.” 

Jimmy shrugs, looking back to the column of his lens. “Sorry, fudging.” 

He twists it back onto the camera with a quiet snick. 

The topic of you doesn’t get brought up until after they find a place to settle along the walls. 

The gala is hosted in the rotunda of the museum, which is at least three-quarters of a football field in diameter. A single pinpoint window at the apex spreads a wide ray of dim light onto the empty tables jammed between displays. 

The museum’s crown jewel, the T-Rex—which Clark comes to admire more times than he would like to admit—stands proud in the center, where a fake floor has been constructed around it. The ancient bones cast strange, twisted shadows over the wood, ones that would scare the lights out of his four-year-old self. A string quartet plucks through tuning on the side of it. 

It’s the finest of overindulgences in Metropolis. 

Across the way is the Gazette, obvious with how they carry themselves—dark clothes, weary expressions that contradict the way they hold their noses up. He hears them whisper about how the space can’t compare to galas in Gotham, and wonders how crazy it must be across the bay. 

There’s CNN and AP, too, training cameras from the second story onto the floor. Clark tugs his collar, slightly unnerved. 

Reaching a hand into his breast pocket, he fumbles for his stationary. A splotch of ink spits out of the ballpoint and onto the hem of his pants when he uncaps it—darn, that always happens. “I wonder how expensive this was.” 

Jimmy scoffs, twisting the zoom gear on his lens. “Not as much as a ticket, that’s for sure.” He nods to a balcony—Central City Herald. A woman flutters her fingers down at him with a saccharine smile. “Friend over there told me an invite’s six figures.” 

Huh. 

“Makes you wonder,” Jimmy continues, fingers stalling, “how much is Wayne paying?” 

Clark deepens his slouch to fight the urge to crumple his face.  

How could Mr. White let you attend the Siegel Charity, especially after that package showed up on your desk? You weren’t the one who pitched the story, but still! 

He’s had his fair share of run-ins with conflict of interest—alright, interviewing himself is worse than a fair share—but never like this. Even if your name doesn’t appear on a byline tomorrow, people will wonder about Bruce Wayne’s date who looks suspiciously like a very well-known former Gazetteer. 

The thought of you hanging off Wayne’s arm, dancing with him, makes his insides boil. 

Clark rubs the notch of his wrist, where the edge of his bone sticks out. Forgive and forget, forgive and forget. 

He’s already forgiven you. And he can forget this feeling, too. 

Couple by couple, the guests fill in, and—oh. 

Clark can hear your heartbeat from across the room. 

It’s a rhythm line he’s always been able to pick out in the way that trained ears can identify trumpets from trombones, quads from snares. The rush of blood, the flutters in your atrium—he couldn’t forget, even if he wanted to. 

You step out from behind a Greek-style pillar, paparazzi flash still firing behind you. Faint stars refract onto the walls from your dress. Wayne—tall, dark, charming in the way everyone wants to be—holds your hand in the crook of his tailored elbow. 

The billionaire is taller than Clark is when he slouches. His suit’s fitted perfectly with no visible brands, and his affairs are all in order: silver cufflinks glinting under the rotunda’s eye, neat bowtie, smile practiced to perfection, hair done in the style that the media goes crazy for. 

It’s a complete separation from the suits Clark wears. He’s never been the vain type—leave tailored suits and movie star hair to Superman—but he’s starting to wish he took on a completely different persona when coming to Metropolis. 

Maybe one where he was less meek, not as clumsy, and a little closer to how he was in Smallville. One where his suits weren’t as big, and his cuffs didn’t have mismatched buttons because he keeps losing them. 

If he didn’t trip over his own feet every hour, maybe you wouldn’t look at him like he was an alien. 

Cat must be squealing if she’s watching the live feed from CNN. The dress delivered to the Planet compliments Wayne’s suit like a matching set. That pearl-diamond necklace winks on your sternum, and you smile in sync at the people who greet you and— 

He realizes. You look good together. 

His throat knots. 

Jimmy elbows him twice. It doesn’t hurt much, other than make him stagger to the side and snap into it. He starts jotting down headlines fast, pen slipping across cheap paper lest Jimmy sticks his elbows out again and forces Clark to fly into a table on purpose.  

Wayne charms NHM with date—scratch that. 

Charity galas: a tax cut for the wealthy?—not an op-ed. 

Queen, Kord among Siegel Foundation charity guests—iffy, but workable. If only you weren’t so distracting, flitting around the rotunda on Wayne’s arm, holding a flute of rose-gold champagne that glitters like the train of your dress. 

He watches your mouth widen into a laugh as another billionaire—Oliver Queen from Star City—brushes by and makes some snarky comment about Wayne. Your eyes go crescent, the apples of your cheeks crinkling at the top in that endearing way they always did. 

It still makes Clark feel helpless. 

“—told you, Bruce,” you’re smiling, completely unaware that you’re being listened on. First name basis? “You keep your collar too high.” 

Wayne slips his arm around your waist and leans in so close that his lips kiss the shell of your ear—Clark hears your heartbeat spike, and his own responds with a stammer that burns his ribs. “It’s to hide last night.” 

You laugh again, softer this time like that’s some sort of joke only the two of you know. Like how you used to laugh with Clark. “You’re weird, man.” 

“Careful, better not let the host hear you say that. It’s—” 

“—unbecoming of a lady?” 

“Exactly, sweetheart.” 

What right—? 

Shaking your head, you knock your shoulder into his side in the way old friends would. The way you and Clark would. 

“Come on” —you reach out and take Wayne’s hands in your own, dress sweeping around your feet, and Clark thinks he better not waste it— “you owe me a dance.” 

Another wave of tightness rolls into his chest. 

He gets pulled back by the nervous rhythm of Jimmy’s feet as they shuffle in place. 

“By the way,” Jimmy says, voice quiet but pitched like he’s about to get in trouble. He keeps his eyes glued to the display of his camera, left hand holding it by the butt and right hand coming up to scratch his freckled cheek. “Word got out on Reddit already. Someone might have said something mean.” 

It’s now that the Gazetteers stationed on the other side of the rotunda share a catty comment about your nomination for the Word Press Photo being a payoff from Wayne. 

Clark wants to get out of here. 

— 

The gala’s reached its three-quarter mark. Half of the guests have left by now, and the other half are starting to gravitate to the door as they pitch the last of their conversations and get ready to excuse themselves. 

Business to attend to and children to tuck in, the whole works. 

They’re two steps out the door and into the cool Metropolis night when your call comes. 

“Psst—Olsen!” 

Clark’s pen catches on the thin paper of his notepad, tearing it in the middle of a ‘T’. Beside him, Jimmy whips around and beams to where you’re peeking out of the doorframe. 

He can see how your cheeks are pooling with warmth, makeup slightly smudged at your bottom lip from pressing it to a glass. The shoulder of your dress is slightly loose, tilting your neckline to one side. 

Blinking a few times, you pick your way closer, careful to not let your shoes get caught up in the train of your dress. 

“How’s the lucky man?” Jimmy asks, camera swinging around his neck as he makes two finger guns and frames them around your face. You laugh, not too loud to echo but enough that Clark can tell you’ve got something coursing in your bloodstream. 

“Made an Irish exit, probably,” you say, mouth unfurling into a small, easy grin. A tinge of Smallville bleeds into the clean Gotham accent you usually wear like a second skin. 

You stick your index and middle fingers together and rub them against your thumb. “Or talking business with his rich friends.” 

He ducks his head down, staring at the rip. Dark blue ink stains the ragged edges, and he’s scratched the paper below, too. 

His eyes burn. It’s that familiar, itching pressure pushing at the sockets, one that he was sure he’d gotten control of by the time he hit kindergarten. Can’t be lasering his classroom, after all. 

“Clark?” 

He swears his heart seizes at the whisper. 

You’re peering at him over Jimmy’s shoulder. Said photojournalist is fussing with the crooked shoulder of your dress, trying to get both sides even. 

You tilt your head with that same faint, earnest grin pulling at your mouth. It’s more natural than when you smiled at him at work the other day, after Cat asked for his opinion on Wayne’s necklace. It glitters under the nighttime lights like a Kansan constellation around your neck. 

And it’s dumb, really, how his breath stills for a second.  

He wasn’t being truthful then. You looked better than great. You looked like a dream, one he’d wake up from with his insides feeling bruised up. 

Clark is suddenly aware of just how many people are here. The Gazetteers who were on the other side of the round room, scribbling on their notepads and whispering to each other as they steal away. CNN, with their camera equipment packed away and sitting at the foot of the steps. Wayne, just by the valet, speaking to Oliver Queen and already in his coat. 

His mouth runs dry. “Yeah?” 

It comes out almost as a desperate gasp. 

“Walk me home?” 

Jimmy turns around slowly, like some Looney Tunes character. Mouth parted, left eyebrow cocked at some exaggerated arch, disbelief flickering in his eyes. 

Holy shit, he mouths before turning back to the pressing situation of your dress. 

Frowning, Clark tucks his pen into the breast pocket of his sweater. “Wayne’s not taking you back?” 

“Bruce never stays,” you answer, eyes darting to the valet. Clark can’t hear him there—must be long gone. He’d never ditch you like that. “I told him I’d walk.” 

Jimmy steps back and does that finger-gun frame with his hands again, nodding in satisfaction. “I hope he at least offered to give you a ride.” 

“He’s a gentleman, Jimmy,” you roll your eyes, smiling in that girly way you used to in Smallville. Clark finds his throat running dry again. “And my apartment’s maybe two blocks from here.” 

“Well, mine isn’t.” Jimmy leans toward you and puts his hand by his mouth. “You should’ve reserved a limo for me.” 

You shove him with your shoulder, dislodging the hard work he’d done to fix your neckline. “Shut up.” 

Shrugging, Jimmy puts his hands up and raises his brows in innocence. He starts walking backward toward the street, merging with the departing crowd. “I’m just saying! It’d be nice to ride a limo at least once.” 

“Next time!” You turn to Clark, eyes crinkling. Your lids sparkle with an eyeshadow he only sees you wear to work on Fridays—your favorite day. Your old sleepover day. “Did you know he has Reddit?” 

Clark tucks his chin inward, a lump rising in his throat. “Makes sense.” 

You loop your hand around his elbow carelessly, tugging him toward the stairs. You smell like champagne, and Wayne’s cologne. That makes the heavy something in his chest press against his ribs. 

“I know those Gazette people,” you prattle on, hopping down the steps now. You wince slightly, a twitch of your eye at every drop of your weight. “Chris and Meg. They’re real bitches.” 

“Don’t use that word.” 

“Then they’re...bummers.” You make it ten feet from the foot of the stairs when you stop, rolling up and down on the balls of your feet. Twisting your face again, you pull up the hem of your dress. “Just like these.” 

You attempt to bend down and undo your heels, but Clark’s faster. He stops you, hands brushing your shoulders for a second, before kneeling himself. 

Now that he’s closer, he can smell a thread of perfume. It’s familiar, homely. 

He knows it like second nature. He helped Ma pick it out, nine years ago—she told him to find a scent that spoke you on all volumes. 

“I wish you didn’t accept his invitation,” Clark blurts, thumb pressing against the small buckle. “It sucks.” 

“What sucks?” 

He frowns, keeping his head down. A couple of his curls fall loose over his forehead. “Jimmy said some people were saying mean things about you.” 

You puff through your nose. “That’s fine. Can’t be meaner than what Brody Bradley’s mom said about me.” 

Clark’s fingers still. ‘Brody Bradley’ dredges up memories. Ones of the Little League field going quiet, a baseball spinning at breakneck speed, and a car ride with a song he can’t quite put his finger on. 

(I wanna hold... 

Sometimes he still gets those childish dreams about hitting first. Sometimes he wakes up from them thinking you wouldn’t have left if he did that.) 

He clears his throat. “Did these come with the dress?” 

“Yeah.” 

He clicks his tongue, gingerly picking apart the clasp around your right ankle. Tries not to think about how warm your skin is against his knuckles. “Wayne’s taste is questionable.” 

“Hey, I actually like them.” 

“I just mean he should’ve picked something with style and comfort.” Clark moves on to the left. “If he really cared about you.” 

He can hear the skip in your pulse, the frown in your words, smell the sweet champagne on your breath. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Clark.” 

The clasp gives. He rises to his full height and plucks his glasses off his face, tucking them into his collar. So you can see the real him; not Smallville the clumsy journalist, not Superman the hero. 

He’s earnest, almost begging when he says, “I care.” 

Your face cracks. Wide open, with hurt twisting out of the rifts. “Then why couldn’t you come to me first? Why’d you hide?” 

Clark’s heart is racing, heavy. 

This has to be about that— 

You know, you know, you know. 

Combing his hair back with a huff, he blinks at the cars passing by on the street, dumbfounded. “Cider, you’re drunk.” 

“I know I’m drunk.” You step out of your heels and closer to him, jabbing your index finger over the left side of his chest. Where his heart should be, if he were human. “And I also know you’re an alien.” 

His stomach drops. 

It’s that same feeling clawing in his chest now, the one he felt the first time he got sick. How is it even possible, for you to make him sick like he’s gotten poisoned by Kryptonian radiation? 

He shakes his head, eyes closing to gather a deep breath of Metropolis’ crisp air. The notes of car exhaust, Wayne’s cologne, and that sweet perfume from home linger on his tongue. 

“No—” 

“No, Clark, you listen to me,” you say, fisting your hand in his sweater. Your eyes are glassy, glittering under the lights of the high-rises around you. “I thought you knew we were best friends. No matter what.” 

Everything he’s tried to build back up with you for the last three months is chipping away in chunks. There’s no bumping elbows or secretive smile here. There’s only you, an unsteady, hurt expression on your face, and a confrontation laid bare. 

He hisses out a shaky breath. Forgive, forgive, forgive. 

You don’t forgive him. 

That’s the way it’s always been. Clark Kent, the forgiver. You, the forgetter. 

Hesitance is a fickle thing. He can’t hang back as Superman with so many lives in the balance, and the same goes as a journalist. People need truth, and justice. 

Clark’s fingers twitch against his side. You deserve it more than anything. Truth, and justice. 

His throat is knotted up when he chokes out, “I missed you.” 

The muscle in your jaw tightens up, hard enough to know it should hurt for a human. 

Your whisper is cracked down the middle. “I don’t know anymore.” 

He wraps his hand around your fist, slow enough to give you time to rip away. You don’t. 

You let him in, like you always do, and Clark’s not sure if he deserves such kindness. 

“I missed you,” he says again. He lifts his other hand, tucking his fingertips beneath your chin and tilting your face up. “I was stupid.” 

Please believe me. 

You set your mouth into a brutal, willing line. “Yeah.” 

Clark holds contact with your eyes. Your lashes flutter under the scrutiny. “You are my best friend.” 

You swallow heavily, like you’ve got the same lump pressing in your throat that he has. Clark shifts his hand from your chin to your cheek, reassuring. Your stammering heart calms at that, even though your skin is alcohol-warm. 

“I wanna go home,” you whisper, turning your face to confess it into his palm. The inhale you take in after is a shiver that runs through you like livewire. 

His fingertips brush against your eyelashes—delicate. Damp. 

He pitches his voice down, pressing his posture lower to meet your eyes again. “I’ll walk you home, okay? Like you asked. I’ll even carry you if you want.” 

Your small, crooked grin presses into the heel of his palm. “I meant Smallville, stupid.” 

His breath tightens at the same time his heart swells. “Yeah. I can do that, too.” 

Unfurling the fingers you’ve fisted in his sweater, you lay your hand flat against his chest. 

“I missed you too.” 

— notes!! looking around like whaaaat that's crazy..... title from dreams by fleetwood mac "like heartbeat drives you mad" and clark listening to cider's heartbeat dont piss me off LMAO

Clark must be tuned into the same wavelength that Jimmy’s on, because they’re both sharing a look and adamantly shaking their heads. 

It’s not that Jimmy hates you. In fact, you’re admirable, even though he doesn’t get the chance to talk with you much. He doesn’t know about Clark, but since you transferred from the Gotham Gazette, the office has been...weird. 

You make a point to move if Clark sits a chair too close during meetings. And yeah, Clark can be clumsy, but accidentally hip-checking your desk on the daily is too suspicious. 

Hell, when Cat Grant is making theories, it’s serious—I bet the lore is deep, she said at Mr. White’s surprise, in-office birthday party, like, plagiarism and CIA assassination deep. 

Even if you and Clark weren’t mortal co-worker nemeses, the two of you are on opposite—no, completely different spectrums. For Superman’s sake, you’re a World Press nominee, one of the highest recognitions in photography. And Clark is...well.

Clark is just himself with all his slouched, ‘I’ve got a really weird intuition thing’ glory. 

And he’s also Jimmy's best work friend, minus the fact that he’s MIA for what seems like half the work day. 

“You know we need her,” Lois mutters bitterly, taking another slow sip. Clark looks anywhere but at her, shifty. “Come on, just for one photo. It’ll really help the exposé.” 

She says it in that hint-hint, nudge-nudge way, the subtle singsong tone she takes when she knows no one would ever think about disagreeing with her. It’d be great ifs and could you help withs, that’s Lois Lane. She’s used it plenty of times, mostly during interviews to get a quote she wanted. 

Jimmy, an unwilling victim, has learned that Lois is very persuasive when she wants to be. 

Eyes crinkled with mirth, she smiles at the two of them, close-mouthed. Jimmy doesn’t know how she does it, spending days hammering away at an article and still having the energy to throw her weight around. 

“Just this once?” 

He looks at Clark, who looks back at him. A kind of silent pact forges in their sidelong eye contact, trying to see how long they can go resisting Lois. Her smile widens by a fraction, knowing that it’s just a matter of time. 

Clark breaks first, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair. 

“Okay,” he sighs out, collapsing in the nearest chair. It creaks under his weight, threatening. Speaking of which, Jimmy doesn’t really get how the biggest guy on the block can still be a loser dork (affectionate). A mystery for the greats, he supposes. 

“But,” Clark says, scanning Lois over the rims of his thick glasses. He tugs his collar by a smidge, faintly displeased, or uneasy, “I’m doing it tomorrow.” 

“Fine by me,” she grins, reaching over to shut down her monitor. It goes dark, sapping the blue glow that Jimmy’s gotten so used to. He blinks a few times to get rid of the spots that dance in his vision, then stretches. “Take Jimmy with you. Some people just need a face like his for some convincing.” 

Jimmy perks up at the mention of his name, arms still raised up. The idea of him being attractive to you is slightly scary. Even more so than the unanswered girls in his DMs, because you're like, the greatest of the greats.

...Okay, subjectively speaking. But he’s been subscribed to your photo collection for years when you were still with the Gazette. You’re the camera Superman of the modern generation to him. 

So excuse him when he jumps for the chance, eager. 

“Yeah, Clark,” he blurts. “I’ll help!” 

Lois grins, smug. Aw, shit. Jimmy’s fallen into the trap for Clark—hook, line and sinker. 

— 

“So, what's the deal with him and…” 

Hint-hint, nudge-nudge. 

Jimmy doesn’t want to say your name too loud, lest Clark’s weird hearing picks it up. Even though said man is halfway down the street in the opposite direction, he’s heard stranger things from farther and louder places before. 

A little bird told me, and all that.  

On late nights like this, it’s customary for Lois to walk Jimmy to the station downtown since she lives there. It’s the nearest part of the central city to Bakerline, where the island and mainland are connected by bridge and underground train.

They worked out this routine months ago, and it’s well-oiled enough for Clark—the Midtown Man—to know that Jimmy is in safe-ish hands, if he doesn’t get baited into an impromptu investigation. 

Lois exhales through her nose, amused. “You really haven’t seen it?” 

“I mean,” Jimmy stutters, dragging the scuffed soles of his sneakers along the downhill sidewalk. A loose pebble of concrete skitters away, landing in a patch of weeds sprouting from between the pavement cracks. “I know they’ve got some weird thing. Cat thinks it’s gotta do with the CIA.” 

She laughs, fuller and louder. Jimmy checks over his shoulder—safe. Clark, silhouette now smaller, is still walking straight on, probably whistling a tune to himself. 

“Kind of. Not really. Cat thinks a lot of things,” Lois decides. Objectively correct: Cat drinks rumors for breakfast. Not enough for the front page, but enough that Steve has a crazy long browser history trail because he actually believes her. 

She squints and tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Clark never really said much about it, but I did find a polaroid of them in his wallet. Captioned cider and cowboy, whatever that means.” 

Ah, the perks of being an award-winning journalist. Clark probably forgot that ratty leather thing on his chair again, leaving Lois to stake her claim on the prime real estate of other people’s business. Jimmy wouldn’t be surprised if his own wallet had been in her hands. She probably knows more about him than even Clark does. 

Jimmy whistles, “So, bitter exes?” 

“Maybe from a long time ago,” she agrees, nodding lightly. “They looked pretty young, like high school.” 

“Oh, bitter sweethearts.” That’s a hundred times worse. No wonder you both act like you’ll catch the plague being around each other. 

Weirdly, he can imagine it. Clark, skinnier and in the threadbare red flannel from Smallville that Jimmy spotted one winter, layered under Clark’s suit jacket for warmth. You, probably with your arms around each other, in the same Midwest, buttfuck nowhere fashion. 

“Mhm, that’s what I was thinking.” 

Jimmy’s still trudging forward when he notices the weird silence. He glances back to see that Lois stopped ten feet away, a curious glimmer in her eyes, jaw shifting. She looks at Jimmy, that mastermind smirk already blooming on her face. Jimmy stares, questioning, and kind of worried. 

She catches up with a full-blown grin and her hands in her pockets, posture too wound up to be casual. 

“Why are you—oh no, don’t look at me like that. I’m not good bait!” 

“How do you feel about a little case on the side?” 

— 

When Clark Kent enters the office, it isn’t without a wall of apologies as he squeezes between his coworkers. Almost six and a half feet, so he sticks out painfully, like Superman in a sea of civilians—except there’s no way he’s Superman, of course. 

(It’s kind of ironic once you think about it, how big Clark is. You don’t really realize it until you’re turning away from a conversation and bumping those thick glasses right off his nose. How long has he been standing there? No one knows.) 

Jimmy chases him into the revolving door, the lemonade he picked up from the bodega across the intersection sloshing around in its waxed, paper-plastic cup. Skidding to a stop, he catches his breath as Clark apologizes in a low voice for taking up space in the doorway. 

They scoot forward, shoes squeaking against the marble tiles of the entryway. Foot traffic is slower than usual today, aggravated by the door. Jimmy thinks to tell the Chief that the rotator mechanism needs oiling, but he knows it’ll only get done six months after he brings it up. 

“You’re not late this time,” Jimmy quips, inching along. The wings of the door finally open, washing a fresh wave of air over him. Thank god, he was about to start sweating through his shirt. 

Clark lets out a breathy little laugh, not quite believing it himself. “Yeah.” 

He looks kind of…excited? Kiddish, if that’s the right word. Posture finally having an effort put into it and head held high, like he’s searching for something. 

Oh. 

Did Clark get up extra early—or rush through his morning routine, or run instead of walk to work, et cetera et cetera—just ‘cause he finally has an excuse to talk to you? Jimmy can’t quite believe it either. 

Clark Kent, the supposed bitter high school ex of yours doesn’t seem so bitter anymore, grinning wider than he has this entire week.  

They squeeze into the elevator together, pushed against the back wall where the speakers croon corporate, scrubbed jazz into Jimmy’s ears. He grimaces at the artificial saxophone riff, too clean without the surrounding chaotic raff that he loves in improvised jazz. 

“It’s just for five minutes,” Clark mutters, craned weirdly with his satchel clutched to his chest, shoulders titled at an absurd angle as to make sure Jimmy can hear. “Small talk, right?” 

“Exactly. Nothing to worry about,” Jimmy replies, sloshing his lemonade around to see how much he has left. Half a cup, which will last him thirty minutes before he needs to run for the nearest vending machine. Maybe he could ask an intern instead—they like him a lot. 

The mental plan to get hopped up on soft drinks for the whole day doesn’t deter Jimmy’s pondering about your and Clark’s relationship for long, though.  

“...Do you hate her?” 

Clark goes silent for a moment, pondering as a plucked bass melody joins into the sax’s fray. Quiet, “I don’t hate her. We just…haven’t spoken in a while.” 

“Bitter breakup or something?” Jimmy tests. 

Clark doesn’t scowl or push his hand up under his glasses for an eye rub. He just sighs, a heavy and burdened kind of exhale. Forlorn, gaze unfocused and directed at something on another plane entirely. 

“Not really. I don’t know, maybe?” A defeated sigh. “I guess you could say that.” 

The elevator lets out a pleasant ding when they get to their floor, and Jimmy dogs behind a slumped Clark. 

Just a minute ago, he was all sunshine and smiles about you. Flipped the script and shot the plot, and now he’s moping his way into the office at the slightest suggestion of feeling hatred. Fuck, this guy’s a total sap. 

“Come on,” Jimmy says. He slaps a hand onto Clark’s back, urging him along toward your desk. “Just think about it this way: if you start talking again, maybe you’ll be on better terms.” 

Clark picks up speed, just a little. Still hiding the pep he wants to put in his step, but Jimmy can tell all the same. 

Your desk hasn’t changed in the ten or so hours since he left last night. Still a whirlwind of organized chaos, every corner still stuffed with camera equipment. 

Except, you’re there now, computer screen painting your face in bright blue light instead of the empty chair Lois had pointed at earlier. And the stupid thing is, Clark starts lagging behind Jimmy, suddenly enthused to stay the reserved man everyone thinks he is. 

He stutters in his gait, runs his fingers through messy hair once, then twice, and then gingerly—so slow and delicate—unwinds his arms from around that old satchel. The leather bag peels off the front of Clark’s chest comically, like a poster slowly falling off a wall. 

Jimmy almost snorts. 

Lois is right. Once you start looking, you can’t unsee it. 

(“I’m just saying,” she said last night, boots clicking against the pavement. Hands stuffed in her pockets, too restrained to really be casual conversation. Jimmy knows that look on her—she’s hooked on a story, and trying to sell it at the same time. “They look at each other like they’re still in love.” 

He scoffed. “No way.” 

“Just see for yourself,” Lois shrugged, pulling ahead. Then, like nothing had ever happened, like the notion of you and Clark together despite it all had never existed, “Come on, you’re gonna miss the last train.”) 

Jimmy is pulled out of his flashback by a cough. Back to present. 

You’re turned around in your chair, monitor displaying a default login screen. Vaguely, he remembers you tapping the lock button on your keyboard the moment he stepped within five feet of your desk. 

Jesus, insanely private people these Gazetteers are. Jimmy’s heard stories of coworkers sniping each other's scoops in Gotham, but he didn’t think it’d translate into borderline supersenses. Good thing you’ve moved to Metropolis, where the only journalists you’ll be afraid of are Lois or Cat trying to worm a confession out of you. 

“Hi, Olsen. Need something?” You give him a mild, porcelain-polite smile—typical Gothamite manners. Doesn’t quite reach your eyes, which are low lidded in the daylight and rimmed with a faint red. 

You look exhausted. As if you haven’t really gotten used to the light in Metropolis, squinting because not being in the dark of Gotham is hurting your eyes and circadian rhythm. 

He lets out an embarrassing ‘uhhh’ before his thoughts can catch up. Then, he does as Lois does, and jerks Clark forward by the elbow. The man’s body protests more than Jimmy thought it would, shoes super-glued to the floor. 

What the hell is this guy made of? 

Jimmy tugs again, and Clark finally snaps into it, stumbling forward like a thrown ragdoll. His glasses sit lopsided on his face as he stares. 

You give him a look, one that seems almost telepathic, and the words just start pouring out. 

It’s like Jimmy never existed. He watches as Clark mumbles out his words, little fragments of ‘Lois wanted’ and ‘sent me’ and ‘it would be…appreciated,’ said in the way questions are reluctantly asked. 

You look at Clark, and only Clark. Head tilted, elbow propped on the edge of your desk and temple cradled by your fingers. Eyes never leaving, like his voice is the only sound in the world. Like you’re trying to cling onto every single one of his words so you can commit them to paper later. 

And Clark doesn’t even look at Jimmy for help, eyes naturally attracted to yours. He can’t pull away, it almost seems like.

Launching into a soft-spoken spiel about the background of Lois’ exposé, he details sources and photo-ops and how he ‘really shouldn’t be telling you this because it might be dangerous, but I wanted you to know that—’ 

Now Jimmy’s sold on Lois’ side-quest, or whatever she called it. 

If there are any other explanations in the entire universe for two people looking at each other like it’s the last time, speak now. No? Going once, going twice? Alright: it’s love. 

Let's put aside the mysterious estrangement and the tense incidents that have everyone convinced of your mutual hatred. Despite it all, you’re still looking at Clark with the sweetest face Jimmy has ever seen on you, and Clark is standing up taller, chest almost puffed out. 

"We’re talking about it over dinner on Saturday, if you wanna come,” Clark says, a soft sort of grin lighting up his face. It’s not the awkward, left side of the face scrunched smile that usually comes when someone cracks a bad joke. This one is kinder, shredded wide-open. 

Yearning. 

“You sure?” 

“Lois won’t mind,” he shrugs, and holy shit—Jimmy did not know Clark’s pupils could dilate like that. Like dinner-plate wide, leaving only a thin ring of blue around an uncanny pool of tar. Kind of alien, if he really had to put a word to it. “It’ll be like the old days.” 

Your hand falls slowly to rest on your desk. You sit up straight, posture conditioned. Just like that, you’ve hardened back up again, porcelain-polite mask sitting over your face. Cracked over the mouth, just a little, clay falling apart in the way your lips curve sadly down. 

“I just saw Lois,” you breathe out with a half-hearted head tilt. Jimmy follows it, and sure enough, a familiar dark-haired troublemaker is squeezing out of the elevator. “I’ll talk to her about it.” 

“Great,” Clark says, morphing back to his usual posture. “That’s great.” 

You swallow, giving him a single, curt nod. “See you.” 

Copying you, he draws his mouth into a terse line. Softly, with a sick gleam in his eyes that could make Jimmy almost throw up at, “Yeah.” 

Clark moves faster than he can say ‘Daily Planet.’ Jimmy looks back, incredulous, at how fast the man skitters back to his own desk without bumping into a single person. 

He has half the mind to ask what the hell is going on. 

Instead, he scoots on over to Cat’s desk, weaving through a group of interns who smile and wave and offer him a coffee. The gossip writer is already staring at him, eyes wide behind her huge cat-eye glasses as she fiddles with her golden earrings—a habit when she knows she has a story. 

“I rescind my CIA theory,” she whispers, twirling a strand of hair around her painted finger. Cat nods as if she’s trying to convince herself of it. “They’re definitely dating.” 

“Nah,” Jimmy says, leaning an elbow on the wall of her cubicle. “Hear this: bitter exes.” 

She gasps. Actually looking concerned, she hides her mouth behind the back of her hand. “No.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Really?” 

He nods, glancing back for a moment. Clark is trying to hide it, but he’s never been the subtle type—answering a phone call, he leans back in his seat, and Jimmy can trace his gaze right back to you talking with Lois.

Jimmy kind of wants to hit the two of you over the head for being so stupid. 

Cat hums, clearly seeing it too. Grimacing, she taps her index finger against her chin. “Oh, yeah, definitely.” 

— 

This must be karma with a side of cosmic comedy. 

Jimmy supposes that while it’s one thing to speculate that his co-workers are in love with each other, it’s an entirely different thing to spy on them. But it isn’t his fault. Scout’s Honor! 

If anyone should receive fury from the gods, it’s Cat. She made him do it. 

…And he complied. Just one picture, though. Nothing more, nothing less, but it was enough to capture evidence of you and Clark, frozen in surprise on the six-inch display of Jimmy’s phone. 

(“Take it!” Cat hisses, nudging him below the ribs. Ouch—sharp elbows. 

“I don’t have my camera!” Jimmy panics, patting himself down like a swarm of ants are crawling all over his body. Where is that damn phone? 

The photo-op before them: Clark, hunched over his keyboard, picking out the words in his article one by one; you, giving him a hard sidelong stare over the lip of your coffee cup. This has happened multiple times in one way or the other. 

Clark looks at you, and you look at him—never at the same time, though. It’s always with some wounded, twisted kind of longing in both of your eyes, one that reminds him of an animal trapped in the bushes. Scared of stepping out but needing it so badly at the same time. 

“Hurry,” Cat urges, gesturing her arms in your direction. She's like an animated Italian grandpa, Jimmy thinks, fingers finally wrapped around his phone. He can see Clark shaking his head to himself, not quite happy with his article, and you smother a smug grin into your coffee. “She’s looking!” 

Clark spins around immediately—as if he heard the gossip columnist’s urgently whispered cries from across the damn newsroom and needed to see it for himself—and freezes when he makes eye contact with you. You nearly choke, eyes wide, brows furrowed.

Jimmy’s thumb finds the shutter button. 

End of story.) 

What he doesn’t get is why the hell it isn’t his phone, but his cameras that are cursed. He almost cried handing over his two beloved Nikons to the repairman and sobbed for real into his pillow when he found out both their mirrors were jammed and needed to stay in the shop for a business week. 

“But it only took a few hours last time!” he protested. The repairman just shook his head sadly and stuck his thumb over his shoulder to the rack of repairs, nearly buckling under the weight of fifty-something cameras. 

Now, back at the office with zero equipment and a hundred photo-ops, Jimmy feels peeved, and kind of crazy. 

Lois frowns, leaning back in her rolling chair. Clark is out of the office for lunch again, an occurrence that’s become too common. He’ll probably be back in ten minutes, saying that the foot traffic was terrible because Superman was doing loops in the sky. 

“I did say that mirrorless cameras were better,” she says, giving him that I told you so look. “Less moving parts and a better sensor.” 

Jimmy sulks with a soda in hand, sucking air through the straw and making the wheezing, burbling sound a finished drink always makes. He mutters, mostly to himself, "A mirrorless isn't as romantic as a DSLR.” 

Lois’ face pulls in on itself—definitely judging. “You’re gonna say some shit like ‘a camera is like a woman,’ aren’t you?” 

He nods, solemnly clutching his fist tight and placing it over his heart. “A camera is like a woman.” 

“I have to say that I agree.” 

Jimmy nearly shrieks and jumps in his chair, a shiver ripping along his spine.

You’re leaning your right elbow on the short, thick wall on the side of his desk with a small smile cracking over your lips. An old-looking camera bag is slung across your body, the dark strap stark against the washed-out maroon of the crew neck sweater you’re wearing. 

(Smallville Giants?) 

In the background, Lois chuckles and crosses one leg over the other, ankle on knee. 

Embarrassment burns through him. 

“Exactly,” he huffs out, flashing a full grin. His leg starts bouncing out of control, and he digs his fingers into the orange plush of his chair’s armrest. “God, I—you kind of scared me.” 

You’ve warmed up since the day he and Clark stumbled around your desk like fools. Cracking a smile here and there, telling jokes steeped in dry Gothamite humor. Sometimes, Jimmy swears he can hear a tiny Midwestern twang fighting the polished city accent you have. 

“Sorry,” you say, head tilting as your grin widens. “Heard you don’t have a camera.” 

Jimmy nods, not trusting his mouth to say anything else. Lifting the strap over your head, you place the bag on his desk. By the sound, it’s heavier than it looks. 

He gazes at you with stars in his eyes. “Seriously?” 

“D5. You can borrow it for now,” you tell him. Casual, like you aren’t handing over a precious relic. He almost feels a prick of jealousy in his heart. Back in school, the wealthier kids were too stingy to even let him near theirs. 

He still loves the D500 he managed to scrounge up the money for as a broke college kid. But this...he might start salivating and floating like a Looney Tunes character. 

“For real?” Jimmy can’t believe it. Maybe this curse has a silver lining that’s too good to be true. 

“I’m trialing a Sony mirrorless right now.” And then you lean a little closer as if this is just a secret shared between the two of you, blocking the side of your mouth with a palm, “Personally, not as sexy as a DSLR.” 

The Kansas accent that he’s only ever heard from Clark bleeds into your words, just slightly. 

Bingo! 

Jimmy slaps his thigh with a wide grin and points at Lois, victorious. “Told you so!” 

You laugh as you slip away. 

— 

The sands of time run quicker when he has a stellar camera in his hands. 

He spent the entire day wandering around the city until his feet went sore, the camera strap tight to keep it as close to his chest as possible. There is no way in the entire universe that something is going to happen to the D5. He’d die before that happened. 

Even from the tiny display window, which is smeared with permanent fingerprints—believe him, Jimmy already tried everything to wipe them off—he can tell the difference between your and his equipment. Especially for Superman photos, he notes. 

Now, alone in his room, parents already put down to bed, Jimmy longingly runs a finger down the worn leather grip of the Nikon you passed to him. It’s a good model, one of the best. He’s yearned for something as good as this since high school. 

Fighting sleep, he springs the hatch in the side of the camera’s body and pops out the memory card. 

Wait. Blink three times. It isn’t his, and it’s older than the ones he uses by a lot. Hell, this is ancient. 

Jimmy is rocketed out of his grogginess, back going ramrod straight. 

If this is your SD, and it’s this old...what photos do you have? 

It’s a natural thing for journalists to speculate, he justifies, knowing full well that he’s been infected with the investigative virus. 

Invasion of privacy—invasion of—invasion— 

His hesitance is interrupted by the faces of his two nosier co-workers. Cat, ever the devil on his shoulder, telling him that a peek doesn’t hurt. Lois, hands on her hips and head shaking left to right, saying, “Journalists dig deep.” 

He boots up his computer, vision seared with the annoying flash of white that always precedes the login screen. Jimmy follows the motions: insert the card, scroll to find his files, select the—almost two-hundred shots—he took and move them to a local folder. 

Meanwhile... 

He almost sprains his wrist with how fast he scrolls back into the card’s history. 

The first one he finds is approximately dated to when you and Clark were in high school. Far too early for a kid to own a D5, and the quality proves it, grainy enough to be from an amateur camera. 

Clark is without his signature glasses in this one, the edges of his body burnished in white-gold. He’s still pretty big, but he leans more to the gangly side with the way his clothes aren’t as filled in. His hair is longer, not as curly, but his dimples are the same. Smile kind, bright blue eyes turned to crescents. 

Handsome, in a way Jimmy never expected him to be. 

He’s lying on his side in bed, surrounded by a gingham-flannel duvet and a striped pillowcase. Pale light streams in from a blurry window, thin beige curtains fluttering in the corner. His hand is buried in the long hair of a border collie as he looks up at the camera with a glint of tender fondness in his eyes. 

Jimmy can tell you’re the one who took this, even though the composition is kind of clumsy. Explaining it is hard, but it’s just a feeling. You always take pictures that make people feel romantic about the world. 

Next. 

This one is around fifteen years from today, and it’s Clark who’s taking this one—he's talented with his words, but it seems that photography has never been his strongest suit. 

Your face is rounder, younger, nose crinkled in displeasure about being half-buried in a pile of loose hay. Still, the corners of your mouth are angled up as if you’re happy to see Clark on the other side. 

Dirt is smeared on the front of your shirt, and the rest of the details are hard to make out, but Jimmy thinks you’re on the floor of a barn. Someone else’s cut-off leg stretches from the side. The angle of the shot is tilted, like Clark had fumbled with the shutter and almost dropped the camera.  

All the way to the bottom now. 

Jimmy feels a strange wave of nostalgia wash over him. Spending his entire life as a born-and-raised Metropolitan sounded so perfect, but now he isn’t so sure. He’s almost envious of what you and Clark had. 

The colors of everything are faded together, except for the sky, which is exceptionally blue and clear. You’re both about four, or five—kindergarten age, completely oblivious about your futures. Standing in a field of brown-green grass and dirt, you wear matching white Little League jerseys. 

Smallville 1 and 2, emblazoned across your backs in red. A glove and bat are laid to the side. Clark’s neck-length curls spill out of his cap, and you’re just an inch taller than him. Your small hands are clasped together as you both watch the field, like if either of you let go, the other would disappear. 

He ejects the memory card and wipes his eyes. 

Fuck. What went wrong? 

— 

Apparently, further intruding on your and Clark’s personal life means rigging the Saturday work dinner, if hanging out at a bar could be considered that. 

“It’s the perfect excuse,” Lois mutters to herself, hands stuffed into her pockets. She has that scheming expression on her face again; narrowed eyes, tongue caught in the pocket of her cheek. “They have to sit next to each other, so make sure you’re not late.” 

She was ecstatic to hear about the pictures harbored in your SD. The ever-changing theory has now gone from co-workers with deep hatred to bitter exes to sad, estranged childhood friends who never had the time to fall in love.

Good thing he didn’t tell Cat, because she would have gone running to the nearest movie studio to pitch a romcom idea. 

“Are you sure this’ll work?” Jimmy asks, falling in step next to her. Just to be safe, he checks over his shoulder. As per usual, Clark is already nowhere to be seen, having already turned the corner. 

Briefly, he wonders how long it takes for Clark to get home, if you live in Midtown too, and if you ever pass by each other on the way to the store or something. That would be awkward. 

Lois hums, a hesitant sound. She tilts her head, suddenly interested in studying the non-existent stars. “Like, seventy...five percent sure.” 

“Seventy-five?” 

“Alright, eighty,” she decides. For real this time! is what goes unsaid. 

Jimmy sighs and kicks a pebble down the smooth sidewalk. 

— 

“Sorry, am I late?” you ask, rushing over from the door. 

Wow. The sunshine in Metropolis can really change a person. A time where you would sit straight-backed and stone-faced at your desk has been long forgotten. You look brighter now. The exhausted weight you used to carry around the office has disappeared, and you walk over with a pep in your step. 

The heavy slab of glass and wood swings close behind you, dimming the light available in the bar. Jimmy notices that your shoes are more casual than the ones you take to work, and you’re wearing the same Smallville Giants sweater. 

You weave past a group of college kids playing pool, the sound of your steps masked by the loud clack of an eight-ball being sunk and the cheers that follow. 

“No, no, you’re great,” Lois says, sliding out of the booth. You wrap an arm around her shoulders for a quick hug without an ounce of hesitance. 

Jimmy, stuck next to the wall, politely waves at you from behind Lois, to which you respond with a small grin. Placing your bag on the bench opposite from them, you slide into the booth and take in the warm light of the bar, how the air smells like alcohol and salt. 

“How was the camera?” 

“Amazing,” he blurts, palms glued to the tabletop, a little damp from the last wipe-down. The nerd in him is so psyched out right now. “Like, wow. I’m not betraying my D500s, but that’s a dream camera right there.” 

There’s no indication that you know anything about the childhood photos you accidentally left in his hands. You laugh, a soft sound that comes whispering under the rock song playing from the old jukebox in the corner. “This your regular spot?” 

Lois flags down a waiter, nodding with a grin that matches yours. “Yeah, this is an official invitation to join our long-running tab.” 

“If this were Gotham, we’d be jumped in an alley two weeks ago,” you say, looking around the bar with a sort of wonder in your eyes. Jimmy supposes things aren’t like this in Jersey, but then again, the rent is cheap, the architecture is gorgeous, and the jazz is sexy.  

Besides, it isn’t like Metropolis doesn’t have her own handful of nutjobs. They’re a lot more partial to obliterating Superman and ruling the world than gassing an entire city, but tomayto-tomahto. 

Lois orders the sweet wine she always does—ever the sugar addict—and Jimmy gets himself a beer, much to your and the waiter’s surprise. He has to flash his ID to prove that he is indeed older than twenty-one. 

“Is it mean if I thought you were a cub until last week?” you ask. Then you turn to the waiter. “Sparkling cider, but water if you don’t.” 

The server nods and turns back to the main bar. 

Jimmy gets the hint-hint, nudge-nudge look from Lois, her brows raising as she looks at him from the corner of her eye. She serves it with a sharp jab of her elbow into his side. Ouch—once a victim, always a victim. Good thing he has a thicker jacket on to soften the blow. 

“Apple cider?” Lois frowns, inquisitive—extra verbal emphasis on cider. Jimmy runs back his mental film reel, trying to remember why the hell the association of you and the drink is so familiar. “I don’t suppose you’re abstaining.” 

You rest your chin on your right hand, elbow propped on the tabletop. The moisture that Jimmy felt earlier has long dried up. You get a wistful glimmer about your face, eyes flicking up to the corner of the room where a baseball game is airing. 

“I’m not,” you explain, tearing your attention off the screen like it’s hard. “I just like it. Reminds me of home, you know?” 

“Right. Perry told me about your file,” Lois says, ever the confession-puller even though she acts like she isn’t doing anything. “The Planet has Smallville One and Two now.” 

A frown pulls at your face, not quite sure if you heard her right, “Sorry?” 

“You know, like Thing One and Two.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” You smile, but it’s a little shakier. Miffed, Jimmy seriously considers bumping Lois’ foot with his own. 

Luckily, she doesn’t press any further, letting the conversation flow naturally from your mysterious origins to current world events—the drinks come now, numb to the touch and beading on the glass, and your eyes are sparkling just like the cider before you—to the exposé. 

The reason why the three of you are here in the first place, sharing anecdotes related to the scandal about to be thrust upon the world. It has something to do with widespread corruption in the precinct that patrols the ports, and in the three times Lois has almost gotten herself killed, she’s connected it to a Gotham cartel. 

Jimmy tells a wild, borderline tall tale about being chased down Main Street by a gang of cops. He had to hide in the alley behind his favorite bodega for an hour before slinking back to the office. Mr. White wasn’t very happy about that. 

(“Great Caesar’s ghost!” he exclaimed, acrid cigar smoke puffing everywhere.) 

You pull up pictures on your phone of suspicious activity you’ve captured in the area, from police loitering for too long in corners to pristine vans driving through the city across the bay. 

Perks of being connected, you say, keeping your voice low, Gotham isn’t as bad as most people think. Sources are basically endless. 

The bell at the door rings, though it’s barely heard over the din and racket of pool-playing jocks and the jukebox, now playing some Beatles song that Jimmy can’t remember the name of. Lois slouches in her seat, slowly peeking out from the booth to check who just came in. It’s Clark. 

He stumbles over in a pair of slacks that don’t look tailored enough and the knit sweater Lois called ‘sick of the laundry machine’ the last time she saw it on him. She gives him a curt once-over, disapproving. 

“Sorry,” he breathes out, finding the floor exceedingly interesting. His glasses are askew, sliding down the bridge of his nose like he’d just shoved them on and his curly hair is whirlwind-messy. “Foot traffic. Superman.” 

“It’s always him,” Jimmy drawls, knocking back a sip of his beer. 

You look up at Clark. Eyes shining like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him, you pinch your mouth into a tight line. 

Clark, still in his typical daze, wonders out loud, “Cider?” 

He says it in a feather-soft tone, quietly poking. As if he’s a kid again, Little League glove resting in the dry grass, tugging at your arm when a teammate steals a base and making sure you saw that too. 

Your drink is half-finished on the table. There’s a ring of room-temp water around the base, sure to join the hundred others etched into the wood. A pearl of condensation rolls down the side, chasing the bubbles still fizzling in the ice. 

The puzzle pieces in Jimmy’s head finally click together—the polaroid Clark allegedly keeps in his wallet. Cider and cowboy. You and your childhood best friend. 

It could be considered a miracle in itself how fast you react. Jimmy notes the heavy way you swallow, throat bobbing as you reach for your bag, draw it toward you, and— 

You let Clark in. 

Apprehension hangs in his body as he slides into the booth. Clark sits board-stiff, unsure of his standing with you. You elbow him, harder than Lois would do to anybody, and the man doesn’t budge. 

His face just keeps getting ruddier by the second. If this were a cartoon, his glasses would for sure be misted with the same steam pouring from his ears. 

Lois coughs. “Right. Could we get to fact-checking the piece?” 

“Yeah,” Clark squeaks. The leather of the booth’s cushion makes the same sound when he scoots a little closer to your side. 

Your elbows end up bumping somewhere between the second round of drinks—Clark and the weird looks he gets for drinking fucking milk are hilarious—and Lois going on a tangent about how Central City is a great place at this time of year. 

Clark stills, watching your reaction, but you don’t need words. You don’t jump back like you’ve been burned. You just settle into some kind of semi-normal truce area.

Relaxation finally melts into Clark’s bones, and he stumbles into the conversation with a banging opener about meeting a brilliant college kid there. 

“I think his name was Allen?” 

Lois laughs, fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. “We should all cover the science fair they hold next year, then. Just to confirm your source.” 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes darting to the space where your elbow meets Clark’s. “We should. It’s close to home too.” 

Jimmy catches Lois' eye. Can you believe this?

He realizes that his investment isn’t so much about the mystery anymore. That’s something you two could keep to yourselves, because there’s no way in hell Jimmy would willingly learn the painful lore. 

It’s more about the way you glance at each other. Held-back, ready to run full-tilt without hesitation if someone gave the green light. You’re clearly in love, and everyone can see it. 

Now, the real mystery is how long it’ll take for you both to admit it. 

—

—

Here is the thing: you and Clark Kent are co-workers. It’s as simple as that, a three-syllable word that describes your entire relationship in the most perfectly inaccurate way. 

Autumn is beginning to chase the tail-end of summer in Metropolis, which means that all the interns are gone, and now work needs to be picked back up by the actual staff, most of which have been slacking. 

(To clear any allegation: no, you are not a slacker, but a hardworking journalist for the Daily Planet who is a shining example of diligence. Your eyes are always glued to your monitor, unless... Well, unless a certain tall man stumbles into the office, spewing excuses for his tardiness or sudden disappearance. What—is people-watching not a valid hobby anymore? 

If anything, point fingers at Steve Lombard.) 

It just so happens that you and Clark were the only two without assignments at the time.  

Naturally, the Chief (don’t tell him you said that) lumped you together on this movie review article. Truth be told, you were already saying yes before he even mentioned that all expenses would be paid for by the Planet. 

So yeah, you might be a little desperate, and you definitely have an unnoticeable, tiny crush on your co-worker. 

Who knows what the Chief would say about that, but everyone else at the Planet can agree that if there was one guy who could exceed a woman’s standards, it would be Clark Kent, and he’d do it with flying colors. 

Exhibit A: when he stopped by your apartment thirty minutes ago, sweet in a way that felt too good to be true. Too good to be just co-workers for any other person, but Clark Kent isn’t any other person, and it’s just in his nature to do so. 

“Hi.” Clark’s voice is breathy, pitched just above his typical baritone, like he just ran up five flights of stairs or got flown in via Superman Airlines. He almost calls you Miss, good manners kicking in before you remind him with an eyebrow raise. 

You take him in, the rumpled sweater he fills in nicely and dark brown slacks that hug his thighs and all. His hair is messy, windswept; there’s only a slim ring of blue in his eyes, obscured behind his thick glasses. 

Secretly, you wish he would show up to work like this every day. Hell, if Steve can clock in with that stupid polo and khaki combo, then Clark can wear something other than the outstandingly polite grey suit. 

Not that you hate it, but...it just hides so much of him. You wind your fingers a little tighter around the strap of your bag, just now realizing how big he truly is—a revelation that hadn’t come until you opened that door. 

He holds out a small bouquet of tulips. They’re a little ruffled like he is. Clark says something about running into a florist on the way, how he thought about you. 

And then he smiles with hope filling the pockets of his dimples. 

Swallow. Your pathetic heart starts doing somersaults. His cheeks blush with the same pink that blooms in the tulips. 

“Are you—” you take the flowers, lay them on the table in your foyer, and think better about teasing him for showing up like he’s about to take you out on a date “—uh, that’s so sweet of you.” 

He shrugs, speaking a little fast, “It’s nothing. I just thought you should have something nice.” 

“Still...” you trail off, looping a finger into the ring holding your keys together. 

“Oh, I could carry your bag for you while you do that.” 

“Clark, you're going to give me cavities for being spoiled like that.” 

Still, you’re so endeared by how earnest he is as you lock the door and make your way down the hall. 

Clark walks one step behind you and holds the elevator even though it’s just opened. He’s so polite; offering to hold your things, standing a respectable distance away with his hands clasped together. 

You don’t realize that you’re staring, lost in your daydreams, until you blink and woah—his eyes are inches away, wide pupils ringed with the sea. Your throat gutters into the grey area between desert dry and choking on spit. 

“Sorry if I scared you.” His apology is soft, gentle, like the touch he’s pressing to your cheek. “You had something on your face.” 

He pulls away to show you his thumb. There’s eyeshadow powder smudged over the strange, not-quite-typical swirls of his fingerprint. 

Clark says, “It’s a nice color. Suits you.” 

And then you think you might have blacked out, because you only remember walking past the doorman and the metro ride in little fragments. Must have been the way your brain started shorting like livewire when Clark’s warm knuckles brushed against the back of your hand. 

Then there’s Exhibit B, five minutes before the previews started (Clark hates to be late, you learn, and he loves the trailers so he can add more movies to his watchlist). 

You’re standing in the line for popcorn, the warm smell of an oven and butter soaking the air. The carpet is stained, stiff beneath your soles in the way only old movie theaters can be. You wouldn’t have it any other way, though. 

Clark is next to you, still slouched as ever, except he has a slightly different energy about him tonight. It’s hard to place your finger on it, but if you had to pick a word, it would be ‘unguarded.’ 

Making small talk while you wait, you ask him about his previous assignments. All of which you have read—he’s brilliantly well-written that you’re kind of jealous—but you needed something to talk about before you exploded into a million pieces on the floor. At least you’d die to the sound of Clark’s voice. 

“The last time I wrote for Entertainment, I reviewed an Italian restaurant on Olive and Jefferson,” he says, nodding to himself. Eyes trained just past your temple, Clark lets a small, shy smile dawn on his face. “It’s the best I’ve had in the city.” 

That’s debatable, because you’re pretty sure the nice restaurant on Fifth and Main is better. Clark argues, though it’s weak, that the taste could be an atmosphere thing. 

You shake your head. “No, really—their linguine is to die for. Like, it would make Batman smile.” 

He laughs softly. “Well, there’s always next time.” 

Flip-flop in your heart again—next time. 

The moviegoers before you peel away to the pick-up counter. Clark looks at you, you look at him. Your hand starts creeping toward your bag. 

It’s a mad rush to the cashier. His card is wrestled out of his pocket; you’ve got your phone ready to tap. 

“One bucket of popcorn, please,” you blurt, tapping your foot as you eye the way Clark’s credit card is held in his right hand, poised to strike. Firmly, you decide that you will fight before you let your chivalrous, hot co-worker pay and further cement himself in your heart. 

The ring-up is slow, almost excruciating. In slow motion, you watch as one of the workers scoops white-golden blooms into the bucket and crosses the floor. Each footstep takes a lifetime. 

Just as the cashier finishes typing your order, Clark has his card sliding into the reader—lightning-quick, blink and gone. Transaction complete. You’re stunned as he quickly signs off with his index finger. Your phone barely had the fighting chance to even move an inch. 

You scowl, lightly nudging his arm. Usually, something like that would set his clumsy curse off, but he doesn’t even budge. Weird. “Clark, you do know that all this is paid for, right?” 

He hums. “I don’t mind filling out the reimbursement forms.” 

You don’t really know what to say to that. “That’s…weirdly cute of you.” 

With a shrug, the left corner of his mouth lifts. The action makes a muscle in his cheek scrunch up, and suddenly all that fills your mind is the image of his dimples. Deep-set, and pretty, too. 

“I…don’t know what you mean.” 

And then he moves to grab the bucket off the counter. 

—

You aren’t a stranger to being in proximity to Clark. 

Your desks share a short cubicle wall. Lois drags you to dinner night with Jimmy and Clark, and for some reason, she loves to sit next to the former and join him in giving you weird, expectant looks across the table. Mr. White always puts you on the same byline, like now—you already share a desk, he had grunted, staring down a front-page draft, so you should be a good team already. 

On a less professional note, he’s always been the guy you can rely on. He operates like clockwork. Every day—in the office by nine; late after lunch break; taking a few days every month to see his parents; clocking out with you. 

He told you, once, that his mom would love you. It hadn’t meant much then, other than three days straight of dreaming about seeing his hometown and waking up tangled in your sheets, frazzled. 

But now, things are kind of different. 

This isn’t like awkwardly bumping elbows at the table in that midscale restaurant Lois frequents when she’s short on cash and needs a place to think and talk out a new lede to her friends. It’s not standing up and crashing into each other because Clark always forgets to go the other way, and this isn’t routine either. 

This...feels like a date. A looming in the back of your mind, handholding across the armrest, fireworks in your stomach date.  

The theater is still bright when you enter, hardly populated by spectators. There’s a teenaged couple of girls sitting in the far-right corner, one of them having her legs thrown over the other. 

You don’t know how that works. Looks uncomfortable, crammed into a little boxy space. 

They giggle over something on their phones, and the girl with her legs on the bottom of the stack puts her hand on her partner’s knee, rubbing her thumb in a circle as they grin at each other. 

Is there some sort of love virus in the air or something? Because that would be a great explanation as to why you want so much more than you usually do with Clark. Want to hold his hand. Want him to put his hand on your knee and— 

Clark taps your shoulder, breaking your miles-long stare. 

“Are…you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you stumble, fingers coming up to touch your neck. Self-conscious, you give him a crooked grin. “I’m excited too.” 

“Oh,” he says. You decidedly hate him and his stupid big build and stupid soft sweater and stupid little ‘oh’ that makes your stupid heart start tap-dancing. “That’s great to hear.” 

Awesome. Like all times, Clark is oblivious to the world—that being the rat-tat of your stomach doing a sharp kick. 

It’s a true blessing that he doesn’t have the power of super-hearing. Who knows what you’ll do if he did…embarrass yourself, probably. You want to crawl into a hole and die. 

“Which row?” you ask, already beginning to scale the steps. 

“J12 and 13,” he responds, trailing behind.  

You didn’t know it was possible for a person to have a five-foot radius of body heat, but you suppose that it’s one of the quirks he always seems to be surprising you with. It also isn’t helping when a flicker of warmth lights in your stomach at the sight of his slacks straining against his thighs. 

Another unwarranted thought about Clark Kent. You really need to get a grip on yourself. 

Row J. Sliding between the seats, you search for number 12 and 13. 

You clear your throat to soften the sudden dryness that’s come to it. “So, tell me about the movie.” 

Clark shuffles in like he’s walking on stilts, nearly falling into the wrong seat twice before righting himself. You’re surprised he hasn’t spilled a single piece of popcorn. 

“It’s—think of Star Wars, but with a robot kid who’s—well, his entire existence is looked down on,” he manages, bucket clutched flush to his chest. He stalls for a second, eyebrows tilting the slightest bit inward. “And everyone wants to kill him, but he’s just a kid who feels too much.” 

A little stunned, you hold Clark in your stare. “Wow. That kind of sounds like Superman.” 

You think to slap yourself for saying that. Fuck, that’s stupid. 

He laughs then, a half-scoff with the corners of his mouth turned up. Left side higher than the right, you note—as usual. “Yeah. Just like Superman.” 

You don’t go deeper into the nuances of Superman’s existence, despite having an expert in getting interviews with the hero standing right next to you. Instead, you sit down in a silence broken only by sparse fits of giggles from the girl couple in the back and the occasional boom from an adjacent theater. 

People filter in slowly as the previews start. You train your eyes on your hands like Clark as the trailers play, not sure what to do with the conversation being left at that, and the bucketful of still-hot popcorn between you doesn’t help. 

He coughs first. You look up, and he’s already standing, washed with the colors of a movie screen. “I just realized. We don’t have napkins.” 

“Oh,” you say, stupidly. A flash of pink—Clark's tongue comes darting out to wet his lips, and it’s gone just as quickly. He fiddles with the cuff of his sweater, antsy, thumb and index rubbing the soft material. “You’re right.” 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he tells you. 

“And I promise I won’t finish the popcorn.” 

A small, awkward smile. You feel the nails of endearment drive deeper into your heart. 

Then he slinks back out of the row, knocking into the back of a seat as per usual, nearly stumbling down the stairs. 

You hide a grin behind the back of your hand. He’s so cute runs circles in the back of your head, and then you catch yourself. 

Co-workers, remember that. 

—

He tells the truth, so you keep your promise. The popcorn remains untouched. 

Retrieving napkins only takes a minute (and a half), which is enough time for your phone to buzz with a notification that Superman has just beat the shit out of an asteroid and still had the time to rescue a classic cat-in-a-tree. He also flew over Meteor Stadium and signed baseballs for three kids. 

Naturally, the staff group chat blows up. 

You’re halfway through a quiet, incredulous laugh at Jimmy’s message—just saying, Bruce Wayne kind of looks like Superman—and Lois’ response—hell no, he’s from Jersey—when he returns. Clark looks a little more puzzled than he was a minute ago, hair messier and glasses sitting crooked on his nose. 

Clutched in his hand are five or six napkins as he sits back down. His slacks—those damn slacks—hug his skin like a secret he’s only showing you now. You want to bite something. You might have something that comes first to mind too, and if anyone suggests that it’s Clark, you’re going to silence them. 

Back to the real world…now would be nice. 

In the time it took you to give him a once-over and stare, Clark has taken to lightly bouncing his knee and rubbing the cuff of his sweater. You think to hold his hand, just so he doesn’t ruin the knit. 

“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, words hesitant. His right hand reaches up to touch his jaw, feather-light. 

“No,” you say, too quickly. “I zoned out thinking about Jimmy’s text.” 

Clark frowns. “Jimmy?” 

Turning your phone to him, you scroll through the huge wall of heated debate between the photographer and Lois. His face is lit by the screen, a square of light that makes his eyes shine ever brighter. 

Somersault in your stomach. Ba-dump. Heart crashing into your ribs. 

He lets out the same quiet, incredulous laugh you did, lashes fluttering. “Bruce Wayne can’t be Superman.” 

“I know, right? He’s just…I can’t see it.” 

Shaking his head, Clark smiles and shifts to relax in his chair. “Yeah. Can’t see it.” 

The theater is fuller now. You can’t even see the couple from earlier, already lost to a sea of people sitting down. Premiere night effect, you suppose. 

What’s surprising is that the seats next to you and Clark are empty, on both sides. No one is sitting behind you either, or in front. It’s just a little bubble for the two of you here. 

The chatter rises a little louder, then stops as the lights dim, and the PSA about distractions begins. 

You think it’s kind of funny. To have your phone on silent and tucked into your pocket and still have something to watch. 

Clark is mesmerized by the opening credits. The camera pans out to a sun peeking out from behind the curve of a globe, a tiny flash of white-yellow before the music swells. Then, cut to a shot of clouds parting to reveal a sprawling city of pure tech, and his mouth stays open for a whole minute at the opening credit sequence. 

You watch the first five minutes through the reflection in his wide gaze, a rush of adrenaline flickering in your chest at every dart of his eyes as they chase details across the screen. Clark doesn’t reach for popcorn until the pace starts picking up.  

“I think we’re getting close to my favorite scene.” Clark’s voice, deep and quiet, is closer than you expected it to be. You turn your head to him, and even in the dark of the theater you can see his eyelashes fluttering inches away from your ear. 

“Yeah?” you whisper, an uncontrollable grin rising on your face. You reach for him and gently nudge his chin with your knuckles, turning it back to the screen. He complies, easy. 

Sometime between a corny one-liner and a roar of laughter in the audience, you bump hands with Clark’s at the bottom of the popcorn bucket. He chuckles a little louder then, and you tear your eyes off the screen to look at him. 

He’s sneaking a glance at you from the corner of his vision, face uncrinkling with the tail end of his laugh. Your heart flares, ribs scorched. You feel a little struck, warm under the collar. 

Fingers smearing at the corner of your mouth, “Something on my face?” 

“Nothing,” he mutters, eyes strikingly blue and—you just noticed—somewhat alien. “This movie’s just surpassing my expectations.” 

—

The sky is settling into a deep blue by the time you step out into the night. 

(Clark spent an extra five minutes taking pictures of every poster he found interesting, muttering to himself as he noted them down for future reference.) 

It’s unexpectedly chilly at this time. Though you’re wearing a sweater, you can’t help but rub lightly at your upper arms. Without a word, Clark shuffles a little closer, body heat radiating off him like a furnace. 

Bubbles are still fizzling in your stomach at the memory of the accidental touches you shared with him. You bite your cheek, a grin already urging at your face. 

“You were right,” you tell him, shoe soles scuffing on the pavement. “His story really reminded me of Superman.” 

He exhales through his nose—a pleased sound. You train your eyes away from his face, of course. How else would you get home safe without exploding on the street? 

Cars rush past the sidewalk, sending slipstreams of wind that cut through the knit of your sweater. Fighting a shiver again, you pick up the pace to the nearest crossing light—about ten paces down, blinking with that red hand in the distance. 

Clark says your name then. Quiet and gentle, like he always is, but now there’s the slightest inkling of something more solid lying beneath it in a weirdly familiar way. This is of utmost importance, says a voice in your head. 

“Yeah?” 

A car horn blares right past you, but the sound is lost to a watery filter that rushes into your ears. Only Clark’s voice is clear when he says, “I have something to tell you.” 

Your stomach does a somersault as you turn. 

He’s looking at you with a softness to his eyes, the same one he had when you were sneaking glances at each other. He’s also standing up straighter, the barrel of his chest swelling. You want to bridge the distance and shake him by his freakishly broad shoulders. You also kind of want to kiss him. 

You shrug, a small smile coming to your face. “What?” 

Clark swallows. Gulps, really, so hard that you can see the outline of his Adam’s apple bob. Then he steps forward with a breeze that comes downwind—smells like clean, sweet hay, archived newsprint, and sun-dried linen washed in citrus detergent—and pats your shoulder. 

“I’m...” he starts, chewing his cheek like he’s doubling back. You blink, and his shoulders are closing back up, neck slumping forward. “I liked spending time with you tonight,” he decides, holding your eyes earnestly. 

“Me too,” you say, nodding too fast. Something still bugs you, the question of why his attitude seemed so familiar poking at the back of your mind. 

His mouth warbles into a semi-straight, relieved smile; the habit of tilting his lips has never really been kicked, and you don’t want it to. Your stupid insides flip at the sight, heads over heels, and you try not to swoon at the quick glimpse of the tip of his tongue as he wets his lip. 

“Is it weird that I want this to happen again?” Clark’s warm hand, still on your shoulder, squeezes lightly. Not hard, but just enough to ground you. 

You reach up for it, sliding your fingers around his big palm. He’s a lot warmer when you’re skin to skin. His nails are short, healthy; there are faded calluses on the side of his finger from holding a pen for too long. You wonder about the rest of him, and then you wonder about him around you. That sets off a whole different tangent in your mind, one you won’t work through until you’re alone in your apartment and have a wall to vent at. 

Holding his hand, you decide to throw caution into the wind. “Are you free next weekend?” 

“Yes.” It’s thunderclap-quick. 

“That’s—great,” you stutter, face blooming with heat at the fact that you’re basically asking him out. Holy shit, you’re going on a company-sponsored date. “We could try that Italian place I was talking about.” 

“Of course.” 

“But I get to fill out the reimbursement form this time.” 

“Sounds good.” 

Just to tease, “And you’re Superman.” 

“Sure!” he blurts, circuits practically bursting and sparking out of his ears. “I mean—I couldn’t possibly be...him.” 

You laugh, a course of giddiness rushing through your veins. He’s ridiculously endearing, shaking his head with ears dyed pink, pupils blown wide, and glasses slowly sliding down his nose as he stumbles over his words. 

“I’m kidding, Clark.” 

A long exhale from him, hissed through the teeth as embarrassment flickers over his features. “I knew that...” 

—

It’s hard not to start kicking your feet the moment you crash onto your bed. 

Ever the gentleman, Clark had walked you up to your apartment. Your knuckles brushed in the elevator. He giggled—giggled!—at a shitty joke you stole from the internet. 

Then he stared at you from the other side of the door with sick puppy eyes as he said goodnight. His face was still red. 

“Holy shit.” Your whisper echoes in your empty apartment. This might just be your new favorite phrase. “Holy shit.” 

Fragments start coming back to you at full strength. The smell of buttered popcorn at the theater. How his eyes glinted with that weird, otherworldly blue when the movie’s colors splashed all over his glasses. The feeling of his hand in yours—warm, and right. The scary, exhilarating way your head spun when you discovered that he was already looking at you. 

The loud buzz of your phone cuts through your schoolgirl-giddy daze. You fumble around your bag for it, pulling it out to reveal PERRY WHITE branded on the pixels in bright white. 

Holy shit. 

“Hi, Mr. White,” you rush, phone clutched tight in your fingers. You can just see his stern face in front of you, beard bristling as the embers of his lit cigar flare. “If you’re calling about what I think you’re calling about, I am starting my first draft right now and I will share it with Clark in a second—” 

Someone snorts on the other end of the line. 

...That’s not your editor-in-chief. The impersonator speaks with their hand over the receiver, and you can hear the muffled back-and-forth with another person in the background. It sounds like a young man, voice still kind of pitched, and a woman with a serious tone. 

Oh, they can’t be serious. You squeeze your eyes shut until spots start dancing in your vision. 

Come on, you always get the phone. 

Hissed: Do you wanna be an accomplice? 

Yes, actually, I do! 

Fine. 

Rough scratch—a sound that only comes when a phone gets passed around. The two culprits mutter to each other for another second or so; you catch something like ‘or else I’m gonna do it’ before the man’s voice comes blaring through your speaker. 

Jimmy’s voice is shit-eating as he sings, “So, how was your date?” 

You roll your eyes, flopping back down onto your bed with a groan. “Of course, it had to be you two. I’m going to tell the Chief this time, I swear.” 

Now it’s Lois’ turn to pitch in. “Oh, he’s in on it too.” 

The wide grin that splits your face can’t be helped. Despite the meddling of your co-workers, who must feel like masterminds at this point, you’re kind of thankful. You just cling to the infinitesimal sliver of hope that they won’t sidle up to you at the coffee machine with suggestive looks. 

“You three are so lucky I don’t have a lawyer.” 

—

notes. im spilling my guts rn i saw the prime premiere. yea my broke ass stole someone's amazon account and dropped real money to get a jumpstart on clark brainrot LOL ૮◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ྀིა

Gaming nights, supposed to be filled with greasy takeout and mountains of ramyeon cups, were instead replaced with excuses about being busy and getting held up by another confession letter. Abby—at least, that’s the name Jinu’s ripped roommate gave you—would open the door at nine p.m. sharp and inform you that no, he isn’t home, and yeah, he just texted me.

So.

Tonight—a rare occurrence now—the co-op game you’ve been wanting to play for months sits forgotten, the pause screen still playing music on the dorm TV. Jinu’s roommates are all out on a tteokbokki run, and the man of the hour is dressed up in star-patterned pajama pants and a soft, almost threadbare black hoodie that looks too good to be true.

Jinu tilts his head up, resting it on the soft, worn back of the sofa. His arms are spread along the edge of the couch too, sitting starfished with his legs slightly parted. From across the short distance of the carpet, you can see how his eyelashes flutter in that wondering-thinking-hmm way you know so well.

Then his Adam’s apple bobs, and you tear your eyes away.

“Well,” he says, voice hoarse from the strain of baring his neck. Your teeth work the inside of your cheek at the sound. “We don’t have any better ideas yet.”

You hum, sinking in the armchair. There’s a loose thread on the seam of the cushion, the same color as your best friend’s hair. “Still, staying inside forever to avoid your new fanclub is stupid.”

“Alright, but you were the one who complained about missing me.” He lifts one of his lax hands, shooting a finger gun your way.

You want to strangle him.

Because sure, you missed him. You missed having him whisper in your ear during CHEM-1A5 when you didn’t understand a concept, not caring if others saw. Missed it when you took lunch together; missed throwing your legs over his, leaning on his shoulder, and watching as he easily cleared the mobile game stage you’ve been struggling on for days.

But you’d never tell him that, so you have no idea where he got the concept of you missing him from.

"I—don't know what you mean," you trip over your words, looking everywhere but at him. "I just said I never got a chance to beat you in Smash recently."

"Oh, don't be like that," Jinu teases, pitching his head down in amusement. He tilts his eyes back up to look at you through his lashes, brows held in that jaunty, skeptical tilt you know too well. "You can never beat me at Smash."

Not true. (Alright, maybe true.)

You jump out of the armchair and march over to the couch, stopping once your knees bump into his. Jinu gazes up at you with a sweet, innocent smile, one that would definitely work on his fangirls.

"What's up?"

You fight the urge to scoff. Of course he'd act like everything in the last five minutes hadn't happened.

Rolling your eyes, you collapse next to him with a soft oof. "What's up is that we're working out a way to make sure you get to CHEM-1A5 on time."

"I'm," Jinu starts, suddenly interested in the wall opposite to your scrutinizing stare. "I'm not late to class every day."

"Yes, you are," you say, leaning close to his ear, taunting. Holding up your fingers, you begin counting off his latest grievances. "You walked in thirty minutes late for last week's quantum mechanics test. And then you skipped the lesson on reduction-oxidation. And, you still haven't gone to office hours for the three missing assignments from the electricity unit—"

"Alright, alright!" He rubs the back of his neck, agitated by the airing of his dirty laundry list of academic misfit behavior. "God, you'd never guess that we're best friends with how mean you are."

He turns his head back to face you, which would be a great, honest gesture if he still wasn't looking at the ceiling like it was the most captivating thing in the world. And it's stupid, how your breath stills at the sight. Just a little, a minute pause.

You know Jinu has always been handsome. Pretty, even. Attractive, definitely. The fact is shoved into your face every day, whether it be a barista's number on his to-go cup or the multiple DMs he makes you formulate polite rejections to.

("'Cause you're nicer than I am," and the whole works of that lame excuse.)

But you've never stared like you're staring right now. Maybe it's the fact that you—totally don't—miss him. That he hasn't shown up to whisper in your ear during class. That you've been seeing Abby more than your best friend.

Maybe it's the fact that you're...a little jealous. Of all the others vying for his attention. Of the pretty girls trying to hit him up, even though you know he'll reject them.

Or, maybe it's the fact that you know everything about your best friend, down to the number of times he sprays his kind of intoxicating cloves-and-wood cologne onto his clothes, and now you're realizing that knowing the fact is definitely weird and bordering on couple behavior.

Because when Jinu finally meets your eyes, he doesn't let go. Just stares, lets his gaze drift down and back up, and like second nature, he smiles.

Sharp at the edges, but soft all the same. Your stomach does a sharp little kick. You kind of want to kiss him.

The next thing that comes out of your mouth is going to be blamed on demonic possession.

"We should date."

Jinu's eyes blow up at the same time as his cheeks bloom with red. He blinks, hard, and says a little too hastily, "Great. I mean—what? Date me?"

He laughs to himself like he can't really believe it, eyes darting back and forth. Your face burns.

You push his stupid, pretty face away with your hand. "I meant fake date. So you don't have to be a vampire."

"Obviously," he breathes out, a little calmer.

You match his breathing pattern, the in-out rhythm that brings a sort of peace to your mind. "Yeah. You're stupid, Jinu."

"Says the one who sucks at Smash," he huffs, under-breath. Then he slips his broad hand into the pocket of his sweats, coming back out with his phone dangling from his slim fingers. "Here."

You take it; the metal is warm with his heat. "Wow, you're a great fake boyfriend. Already giving me a free phone?"

Jinu laughs, shaking his head. The movement makes a thick stroke of hair fall over his eyes, and you almost (keyword, almost) brush it away for him. "No, dummy. We're posting it online, like normal people do."

Huh. Normal people. As if you and Jinu, best friend extraordinaires, are normal. Like, actually mundane, and not two people who are pretending to date so they can have more time burping up ramyeon and beating each other's asses in Smash.

"Right," you say, and leave it at that.

You both nod to yourselves, though you aren't sure what Jinu's trying to convince himself of. On the other hand, you're psyching yourself up for the next few weeks of people knowing to keep their hands off your best friend.

Jinu tears you out of your thoughts with a nudge to your shoulder. "Sit over there."

Abiding, you scoot over to the end of the couch, back propped up against the arm. Smoothly, Jinu follows and sits on his calves, legs on either side of you. His breathing stutters when you press a hand to his chest, just above his heart.

"The hell are you doing?" you mutter to no one in particular. His hoodie is soft beneath your touch, warm. Smells like the cloves and something woodsy of his too-familiar cologne, and crisp, faint detergent from the laundry machines in the dorms.

Jinu smiles, shrugging. This is so unfair, you lament.

"Taking a picture?" he says, eyes crinkling sweetly. He holds up his phone—you didn't even realize he took it from you. Bastard. "Is this okay?"

Fingers playing with the hem of your own sweater, Jinu looks to you for permission. And fuck, how could you not, with the way he looks at you like you're the only sun in his orbit?

A nod is all it takes for his hand to push underneath the worn fabric, warm touch lighting a string of sparks up your bare waist. A gasp almost tears out of your throat, but you push it down until it's nothing more than a lump and an uptick in your pulse. Oh, you might die here, and you'd be happy.

Jinu's free hand grasps your limp one, guiding it to the edge of his hoodie. "It's okay," he breathes, the faintest shiver running up his spine when you copy him.

Your fingers still once they skirt the bottom of his ribcage. He's burning against you, and it's almost like the bones are stretching to try and burst through his soft skin so they can touch you.

"Have you been eating well?" You frown, shifting so your thumb can press against the bony swell of his ribs. "You feel thin."

"'S what happens when you're always running from suitors," he drawls, grin lopsided. You give him a look. "Alright, if you're really concerned, we'll go out to barbecue."

"Weekly?"

"That's a little far," Jinu grumbles, lips pinched. He starts lowering himself onto you, chest to chest despite your small squeak of protest. "But I guess."

You can only hear the faint snap of his camera with your face buried in the space below his chin. He smells like heaven, warm like heaven. His Adam's apple bobs just centimeters away from your eyelashes, and you swear you're melting into the sofa cushions.

Jinu's nose presses into the top of your head, voice rumbling through his chest, and by extension, straight into your fingers. "You good?"

You don't get a chance to answer, because the door is popping open with a bang, and the chatter of Jinu's roommates comes in, and then abruptly cuts out.

"Man." Fuck, that's Abby. You can practically see his face in your head, sharp brows all angled and raised, mouth drawn into a teasing grin. "Get a room."

Jinu jumps, but he stays straddling you. His mouth is half-open, like he's been tasting the air, and his eyes are wide, panicked. "It's not what it looks like."

"Yeah, right," scoffs...you vaguely remember his name being Romance. Or, at least, that's what his username on Instagram is. Anyways. His annoying pink hair sticks out at the forefront along with Abby. "Anyways, it's ten minutes to curfew, so..."

Shit. You'll be dead if you aren't in your own dorm soon.

Jinu must realize the same thing, because you're both scrambling for the door in seconds. His roommates clear the way, snickering as they walk into the mess of the living room.

"Sorry," Jinu mutters once you're out the door. He leans against the frame, hair messy and hoodie still slightly hiked up on the side.

The night air bites at your still-burning cheeks. Your fake boyfriend's eyes are darting back and forth, up and down. Well, particularly downward, like he can't really decide on whether to stare into your eyes or at your...mouth.

You almost lean in. You're so close, barely on the cusp of rocking forward and showing Saja University a real curfew incident.

And you think Jinu's on the edge too, because he stands straight up, hands reaching out with the palms up, welcoming. Could you stay the night, you wonder. The RA doesn't have to know. You could totally bribe Abby and Romance and the other guys not to tell a soul.

Jinu's head jerks forward with a pained groan.

An empty cup of ramyeon, white inside stained with sauce, rolls on the floor.

You blink, hard, and press your hands to your mouth.

"Dude, you gotta clean up," Abby shouts from inside. Jinu shakes his head, still looking sheepishly at you.

He's got that stupid, sweet smile on his face when he steps back into the dorm and kicks the cup with the heel of his foot. "Sorry," he whispers, face crinkling into a fake wince. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," you manage, crossing your arms. Smiling in the same gentle way as he is, you tilt your head. "Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The sliver of warm, orange light from his door thins by the second. Jinu's eyes don't leave, chasing the closing gap every second, like he's making sure that you're real and okay.

You hide your grin behind your hand, catching a whiff of his cloves and wood cologne lingering on the fabric. Your heart flips.

Fuck.

notes. title from beabadoobee. bffs who fake date to supposedly spend more time with each other is my jam forever LOL