oh How I Love

The prison had been tense for days.

Not the normal kind of tense, either. Not walkers-at-the-fence tense or food-running-low tense. This was people tense. Too many close calls. Too many arguments. Too many exhausted survivors trying to pretend they weren’t unraveling.

Everyone was frayed thin.

You especially.

You’d spent the entire morning hauling water, patching torn clothes, helping Hershel with the sick, and trying to keep two terrified children from crying after another nightmare. By the time evening rolled around, your head hurt, your back ached, and all you wanted was ten minutes alone.

Instead, you got Daryl storming into the cellblock covered in mud and blood after a disastrous run with Rick.

He looked furious before he even opened his mouth.

“Where’s the damn medical bag?” he barked.

The entire room went quiet.

You looked up from where you were sorting canned food. “What?”

“The bag.” He yanked an arrow from his quiver harder than necessary before immediately shoving it back in. Agitated. Pacing. “The one from storage.”

“I moved it to the infirmary yesterday.”

“Well it ain’t there now.”

His voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Normally, you would’ve snapped right back. Daryl respected people who bit back. But today every nerve in your body already felt scraped raw.

“I didn’t lose it, Daryl.”

“Didn’t say ya did.”

“You’re acting like I did.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can nobody in this place put shit where it belongs?”

The words themselves weren’t even the problem.

It was the tone.

Sharp. Angry. Exhausted.

And because you were already hanging by a thread, it felt personal.

You stared at him for a second too long.

Daryl noticed immediately.

His irritation faltered.

“...What?”

You swallowed hard. “Nothing.”

“Ya got somethin’ to say, say it.”

That did it.

Not because he was being cruel intentionally.

Because he wasn’t.

Because Daryl’s rough edges usually hid something careful underneath, especially with you, and right then you were too tired to brace yourself against the impact of his temper.

Your eyes burned before you could stop it.

Embarrassment hit instantly afterward.

God, no.

Not here.

Not in front of everybody.

You looked away fast, but it was too late. Your vision blurred and suddenly tears were sliding down your cheeks before you could suck in a steady breath.

The silence afterward was horrific.

Daryl froze completely.

You heard Glenn quietly go, “Oh, man.”

Like someone witnessing a car crash.

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, wiping at your face. Which only made more tears come. “Forget it.”

Daryl looked genuinely horrified.

Not uncomfortable.

Horrified.

Like he’d accidentally kicked a puppy off a cliff.

“Hey,” he said immediately, voice dropping hard. “Hey, I—I weren’t yellin’ at you.”

You shook your head once, mortified beyond belief. “I know.”

But your voice wobbled.

Daryl visibly panicked.

“No, I didn’t mean—shit.” He took a step toward you and then stopped like he wasn’t sure if approaching would make things worse. “I weren’t mad at you.”

“It’s fine.”

“It ain’t fine, you’re cryin’.”

“Please stop saying that.”

His eyes widened further.

Wrong thing. Wrong thing.

Everyone in the room suddenly found somewhere else to be.

Carol disappeared first, because Carol was smart.

Rick abruptly remembered he needed to check the fences.

Glenn physically dragged Maggie away while whispering, “Do not stare at them.”

Within seconds, the entire cellblock emptied out until it was just you and Daryl standing there in unbearable silence.

You covered your face with your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

And Daryl looked like that sentence stabbed him directly in the chest.

“Why’re you apologizin’?”

“Because now you feel bad.”

“Well, yeah, I feel bad!” he burst out. “Yer cryin’!”

You made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and another sob.

Which somehow made him even more frantic.

“Jesus Christ.”

Daryl started pacing.

Actually pacing.

You’d seen him fight walkers with less visible distress.

“I didn’t mean t’make ya cry,” he said rapidly. “I weren’t mad at you, I was mad ‘bout the run an’ Rick keepin’ dumb shit from me an’ then the bag bein’ gone an’—”

“It’s okay.”

“It ain’t okay!”

He sounded deeply offended by the very concept.

You stared at him through watery eyes.

Daryl stopped pacing long enough to point at your face helplessly.

“That’s not okay!”

You let out another watery laugh despite yourself.

And for one tiny second relief flashed across his face.

Good. Laughing was better. Laughing meant you weren’t devastated. Maybe he hadn’t permanently ruined everything.

Then you wiped your eyes again and his panic returned full force.

“Don’t cry again,” he said immediately.

“I can’t exactly turn it off.”

“Try harder.”

You blinked at him.

Daryl looked horrified at his own words the second they left his mouth.

“Not like that,” he said quickly. “Shit. I mean—”

Another laugh escaped you.

Small, shaky, but real.

Daryl seized onto it like a lifeline.

“There y’go,” he said urgently. “See? Better.”

“You’re acting insane right now.”

“Probably.”

He rubbed both hands over his face hard enough to drag his skin downward.

Then, abruptly, he vanished.

Just turned and walked away so fast you barely processed it.

You blinked after him.

“…Okay.”

An hour later, there was a dead rabbit outside your cell.

You stared at it.

Then at Daryl.

He stood three feet away with his arms crossed, aggressively refusing eye contact.

“…Is this an apology rabbit?”

“No.”

“It’s definitely an apology rabbit.”

“Ain’t.”

“It has flowers.”

There were, in fact, several badly crushed wildflowers shoved beside the rabbit’s ear.

Daryl looked furious you’d noticed.

“Carol said girls like flowers.”

Your mouth twitched.

“You asked Carol for advice?”

“No.”

“You absolutely did.”

“She said I was bein’ stupid.”

“She’s right.”

Daryl grunted.

You crouched carefully beside the rabbit, emotion swelling unexpectedly in your chest.

Because this was Daryl.

Daryl, who barely spoke when he didn’t have to.

Daryl, who hated emotional conversations so much he treated feelings like active landmines.

And somehow this man had decided the solution to making you cry was emergency gift-giving.

“I really am okay,” you told him softly.

He finally looked at you.

Still guilty.

Still miserable.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “didn’t look like it.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

The thing was, Daryl wasn’t good with polished comfort. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d sit you down and talk through emotions gently.

Daryl loved like an animal did.

Protective. restless. instinctive.

He’d sooner bleed for someone than say something vulnerable out loud.

And right then he looked ready to crawl out of his own skin because he thought he hurt you.

“It wasn’t really about you,” you admitted quietly.

His brow furrowed immediately.

“What?”

“I was already overwhelmed.”

“You still cried ‘cause of me.”

“You just… happened to be the last thing before I cracked.”

That somehow looked worse.

“Oh, that’s great.”

“Daryl—”

“So yer sayin’ everybody else managed not t’make ya cry an’ I’m the one dumbass that pushed ya over?”

You stared at him.

“That is not what I said.”

“S’what happened.”

He looked genuinely stricken.

Like this revelation had devastated him personally.

You stood slowly. “You didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“Still did.”

There it was again.

That brutal honesty.

No excuses. No defensiveness.

Just guilt.

You stepped closer carefully. “Hey.”

Daryl’s eyes flicked toward yours.

“You’re not a bad person because you snapped after a terrible day.”

His jaw tightened.

“You cried.”

“You’ve yelled at Rick worse than that.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

He looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious.

“Because it was you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your heart stumbled hard against your ribs.

Daryl seemed to realize what he’d admitted a second too late.

He immediately looked away.

“Forget I said that.”

“No.”

His ears went red.

“It come out wrong.”

“It came out honest.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Breathing space suddenly too small.

Daryl shifted awkwardly, looking cornered now in a way walkers had never managed.

“You hungry?” he blurted.

You blinked.

“…What?”

“I cooked the rabbit.”

“You cooked my apology rabbit?”

“Was I supposed t’keep it as a pet?”

A startled laugh burst out of you.

Daryl visibly relaxed again at the sound.

“There it is,” he muttered quietly.

“What?”

“That laugh.”

The way he said it made warmth spread through you so quickly it almost hurt.

He looked embarrassed immediately afterward, like he regretted letting the thought out.

So you saved him.

“You know,” you said carefully, “most men just say sorry.”

Daryl scoffed softly. “Most men ain’t me.”

“No,” you agreed. “They’re not.”

Something unreadable crossed his face then.

Something soft.

Terrified.

Hopeful.

He cleared his throat roughly. “C’mon. Before Carol steals half the damn food.”

You started noticing things after that.

Maybe they’d always been there.

Maybe you’d just finally learned how to see them.

Daryl lingering near you constantly.

Daryl silently handing you the better portion during meals.

Daryl checking the fences nearest your cell first every night.

Daryl appearing out of nowhere anytime someone upset you.

And God help anyone who did.

A week after the crying incident, one of the newer survivors grabbed your wrist too hard during an argument.

Daryl saw it from twenty feet away.

The transformation was immediate.

One second he’d been skinning a squirrel.

The next he was across the yard like a storm.

“Take yer hand off her.”

The man let go instantly.

Mostly because Daryl looked fully prepared to kill him.

You touched Daryl’s arm quickly. “I’m okay.”

He didn’t look away from the man.

“Didn’t ask.”

The survivor backed up fast and wisely disappeared.

Daryl stood there breathing hard for another second before finally turning toward you.

“You okay?”

The difference between the softness in his voice now versus the anger from before nearly melted you on the spot.

“Yeah.”

His eyes scanned your face carefully anyway.

Checking.

Always checking now.

Like he never wanted to accidentally hurt you again.

You reached up before you could second-guess yourself and touched his wrist lightly.

Daryl went completely still.

“You know,” you said softly, “one crying incident doesn’t mean I’m made of glass.”

His gaze locked onto yours.

“Ain’t worried you’re glass.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

His throat worked once.

“That somebody’s gonna hurt ya.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

Because he meant everyone.

Including himself.

You stepped closer.

“So don’t.”

Daryl looked wrecked by that sentence.

Absolutely wrecked.

Like wanting you was the most dangerous thing he’d ever experienced.

“You make this real hard,” he muttered.

“How?”

His laugh came out quiet and disbelieving.

“Sweetheart, I about lost my damn mind ‘cause you cried once.”

Your breath caught.

Sweetheart.

He seemed startled he’d said it aloud.

But this time he didn’t take it back.

You smiled slowly.

Daryl stared at you like the sight hit him directly in the chest.

Then, with the hesitant uncertainty of a man approaching a wild animal, he lifted a hand and touched your face.

Rough fingertips.

Unbelievably gentle.

“You cryin’ now?” he asked suspiciously.

You laughed softly. “No.”

“Good.”

“You’re still panicking, though.”

“Ain’t panickin’.”

“You brought me three different flowers today.”

His expression turned defensive. “Found ‘em while huntin’.”

“You hate flowers.”

“They were there.”

You grinned.

Daryl groaned quietly, realizing you were making fun of him.

Then his thumb brushed your cheekbone once.

Tender. Careful.

Like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

The smile faded from your face slowly.

Not sadness.

Just feeling.

Too much of it.

Daryl noticed instantly and looked alarmed again.

“Oh hell, are you cryin’ again?”

“No!”

“You got that face.”

“What face?”

“That face before the tears start.”

You burst out laughing.

Real laughing this time.

Daryl stared at you for a second before something in him finally loosened completely.

Relief flooded his face so openly it made your chest ache.

“There y’are,” he said quietly.

And before fear could stop either of you, you leaned forward and kissed him.

Daryl made a startled noise against your mouth.

Then he kissed you back like he’d been starving for it.

One rough hand cupped the side of your face immediately, protective even now, while the other settled carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might disappear.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard, Daryl rested his forehead against yours.

“You got any idea what ya do to me?” he muttered.

You smiled softly. “Probably something close to a panic attack.”

He barked out a laugh.

“Yeah. Sounds ‘bout right.”

Then he kissed you again.

Your hands flew across the keyboard without stopping, that familiar click click click sound that you didn’t even notice anymore because it had become so ingrained in your mind it was like breathing. Every now and then, you clicked your mouse once, then again, then again, as if that would somehow make the words come faster. But it didn’t. You were still stuck on the same sentence you’d been wrestling with for the last fifteen minutes.

You stretched your neck from side to side, feeling it crack slightly, and the small relief was enough to keep you going. You shifted in your chair because you could no longer feel your butt; honestly, you’d lost all sensation after sitting there for so many hours in a chair that was clearly begging to be replaced.

You adjusted the glasses you only wore for computer work. They were uncomfortable, always slipping down your nose or pressing painfully behind your ears, but without them the screen blurred and you’d end up with a headache.

You let out a deep sigh and looked over your monitor, directing your gaze toward the office elevator.

No one important.

Just familiar faces. Coworkers carrying coffee cups or folders.

But not the person you’d been waiting for since yesterday.

Since this morning.

Since the moment you arrived.

“Waiting for someone special?” Lois asked, watching you glance toward the elevator for what had to be the tenth time.

One eyebrow was raised, and she wore the mischievous smile you knew all too well.

You looked at her and shook your head, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.

“No... well... no,” you said shyly, smiling as you lowered your gaze to your keyboard as though the letters had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

You didn’t type a single word.

You simply stared while your fingers remained frozen above the keys.

“No?” Lois leaned toward you like a curious puppy. “Is someone coming to pick you up? A guy, maybe?” she asked, her voice quiet but excited, as though she already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear you say it.

You laughed.

A nervous laugh.

The kind that slipped out when someone caught you doing something you hoped they wouldn’t notice.

Eventually, Lois gave up and returned to her article, though that little smile remained firmly planted on her face.

The smile that clearly said, I know something you’re not telling me.

“A guy?”

Jimmy’s voice sounded directly behind Clark, causing the poor man to nearly drop his coffee.

It was strange because, well, Clark could normally sense anything approaching him from yards away. Hear footsteps. Feel vibrations. All those things that came with his abilities.

But something about being Clark Kent seemed to interfere with those hidden Kryptonian instincts.

When he was in the office, he wasn’t the man with the cape.

He wasn’t Superman.

He was just Clark.

And somehow that made things weird.

One moment he could hear a sigh from across the city.

The next, he failed to notice his best friend standing directly behind him.

He jumped, nearly spilling his coffee, surprising even himself with how startled he’d become.

You and Lois looked over briefly before returning to your work, as though Jimmy sneaking up on Clark had become a perfectly normal part of office life.

Of course, Jimmy didn’t know.

No one did.

Jimmy was interested in Clark, but not in the way Clark was interested in you.

Jimmy simply enjoyed teasing his friend.

It was entertaining watching Clark turn red whenever someone mentioned you.

Clark glanced in your direction while you continued typing, and the moment Lois whispered something to you, his attention abandoned his article entirely.

If anyone were being honest, Clark could probably be called nosy.

Or perhaps, to him, invading someone’s privacy wasn’t really a crime if the intentions were good.

And you were the girl he liked.

The girl who stole his attention every chance she got.

The girl who made him forget how to breathe whenever you smiled.

Listening a little wasn’t so terrible, right?

Right?

Clark looked at Jimmy, blushing.

How had his powerless friend gathered all that information so easily?

It seemed Jimmy possessed the superpower of overhearing other people’s conversations.

Or maybe Jimmy had only pretended to use Lois’s printer so he could come directly to Clark and extract information.

Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Clark said casually, though his voice came out tighter than usual.

“They’re stealing your girl, buddy,” Jimmy said, shaking his head as though he’d already accepted his friend’s inevitable suffering.

“She’s not... Jimmy, she’s not my girl,” Clark replied, raising a finger like a teacher delivering an important lesson. “She’s not an object that belongs to someone.”

Then he glanced at you.

Just for a second.

Long enough to see you laughing at something Lois had said.

“Besides...” he added quietly, “she’s allowed to date other people.”

His voice softened as though hope itself were slipping away.

As though the words weighed heavily on his tongue.

“Sure. Because you never actually ask her out,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.

There was equal parts affection and frustration in his expression, as though he’d already had this conversation a thousand times in his head.

“You heard Lois say she liked Andrew. Steve’s coworker,” Clark said, directing his gaze toward the man standing a few desks away.

Andrew.

The guy currently showing off his gym routine with his hands on his hips and his chin raised as though he owned the world.

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “But I heard it. Sorry. Couldn’t keep it in.”

Then he looked toward Andrew.

“But come on. The guy is basically ‘Look at my biceps’ or ‘Yesterday I worked out for three hours’ or ‘I drink disgusting spinach smoothies every morning.’”

Jimmy imitated him in a ridiculous voice while flexing his skinny arms.

Clark couldn’t help smiling.

The day continued that way.

People coming and going.

Lois disappearing to discuss an important article with Cat.

Jimmy working through his fourth cup of coffee while flirting with the woman from the Culture section—the one who always wore enormous earrings and laughed loudly.

Clark looked at you.

Then at Andrew.

Andrew picked up a folder and smiled at you.

You smiled back while continuing to type, nodding as he walked away at an annoyingly leisurely pace.

Clark lowered his eyes to his keyboard.

A heaviness settled in his chest.

Maybe it simply wasn’t his time.

Maybe he was destined to be the supporting character.

The one who never got the girl.

The one who stood by and watched the person he loved fall for someone else.

Maybe under different circumstances.

Maybe in another life.

Things would be different.

“You’re here!”

You jumped up from your chair so quickly that you nearly sent it crashing backward.

Clark’s head snapped up immediately, his spine straightening without him realizing it.

You hurried toward the elevator, excitement radiating from every step.

For one terrifying second, Clark thought you were already spoken for.

That the guy you’d been talking about had finally arrived to take you away.

Then he looked closer.

The person stepping out of the elevator was a woman.

Shorter than you, but undeniably similar.

The same smile.

The same eyes.

The same lightness in her walk.

Clark tilted his head, confused.

Then he smiled.

Your mother.

There was no doubt.

Not after the way you hugged her.

Not after she lovingly brushed your hair back.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t find the right floor. I got off on the fifth floor, and they told me you didn’t exist. I said, ‘What do you mean my daughter doesn’t exist?’ Then they finally realized who I was talking about,” your mother said as she walked beside you toward your desk, looking around with fascination as though the office were a museum filled with treasures.

You smiled.

That big smile that only ever appeared around her.

“I told you I could come get you, Mom,” you whispered, kissing her cheek.

Meanwhile, Clark kept his eyes glued to his computer screen while paying absolute attention to every word.

Every laugh.

Every touch of your mother’s arm.

“This is my desk,” you said, sitting down and gesturing toward the chair beside you so she could see where you worked. “I’m writing an article.”

You pointed toward the screen filled with words you’d written and deleted a hundred times.

Your mother nodded seriously.

“Mhm.”

She looked around.

Then leaned closer.

Without taking her eyes off the office.

“Which one is Clark?” she whispered, scanning the room like a spy in a movie.

You blushed instantly.

Heat rushed up your neck and into your ears.

“Mom,” you whispered, practically sinking beneath your desk.

Even though she’d spoken quietly.

Even though it was barely audible.

“What?” your mother replied with a knowing smile, leaning closer. “You spend hours talking about him on the phone. I deserve to meet the man my daughter is in love with.”

Those words echoed through your mind like they’d been shouted through a megaphone.

Across the room, Clark felt his heart somersault.

“It’s him,” you whispered, barely moving your head toward Clark.

Just a tiny gesture.

Your mother followed your gaze.

Clark wasn’t sure whether it was your heart beating that loudly or his own.

He could hear two racing heartbeats.

One closer than the other.

And he couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.

He licked his lips, trying to suppress the enormous smile threatening to spread across his face.

He lowered his gaze to the keyboard.

Tilted his head.

Tried to hide it.

Oh, sure.

This was definitely one of the advantages of super hearing.

Listening to the entire city wasn’t always enjoyable.

But moments like this?

Hearing your voice whisper that you were in love with him?

That made every second worthwhile.

“So you’re the beautiful mother of my best friend.”

Lois interrupted with her brightest reporter smile.

She approached with her hand extended and a sparkle in her eyes.

You stood so quickly you nearly knocked into your chair.

“Lois Lane, right? Of course. Black hair. Eyes capable of making any man fall in love. Gorgeous. That’s you,” your mother said, shaking her hand firmly while looking her up and down as though she’d just met a celebrity.

You laughed and shook your head.

Embarrassed.

Happy.

Both at once.

Lois looked at you with curiosity, one eyebrow raised.

You shrugged with a mischievous smile.

“She’s the one who gives me all the advice I give you.”

Lois laughed loudly before pulling your mother into a hug as though they’d known each other for years.

From his desk, Clark stared at his keyboard with an idiotic smile he couldn’t erase, listening to the laughter of the three of you blend into the sounds of the office.

Then Clark stood up.

Not gracefully.

Not remotely.

It was the kind of standing up that happened when someone’s legs suddenly forgot how to function.

His hands trembled around a sheet of paper.

His eyes shifted from you.

To the floor.

Back to you.

As though he couldn’t decide where it was safest to look.

Thankfully, Perry had asked Clark to print an article and deliver it to you so it could be passed along to the editors, just like always.

A real reason to approach you.

A legitimate excuse.

Not one he’d invented.

Yet even with that perfectly reasonable excuse, Clark felt as though his knees might give out at any moment.

He walked toward you in short steps, clutching the paper against his chest like a shield.

With every step, his heart climbed higher into his throat.

You looked up as he approached.

Your heart stopped.

Or maybe it stopped twice.

Or maybe it stopped altogether.

Your mother glanced at you from the corner of her eye, wearing that familiar smile.

You looked at her.

Or maybe you swallowed.

You honestly couldn’t remember which came first.

You only knew that the office suddenly felt warmer.

And your palms had started sweating for absolutely no reason.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Clark said quietly.

So quietly it sounded as though he were asking permission to exist within your space.

He smiled at you.

A trembling smile.

The kind that escaped before he could stop it.

His fingers continued squeezing the paper as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“No, no,” you replied immediately.

Far too quickly.

Then you looked at your mother with eyes that clearly pleaded, Please don’t say anything weird.

“I... this is my mother, Clark... no... what’s wrong?” you said, realizing halfway through the sentence that none of those words made sense.

You sounded as though you were apologizing.

Or answering a question he’d never asked.

He only wanted to hand you a paper.

Not meet your mother.

At least, that’s what you assumed.

But your mouth had sprinted ahead of your brain.

And it was far too late to catch up.

Clark smiled anyway, despite not fully understanding what you’d just said.

He extended a hand toward your mother.

Then immediately pulled it back.

Wiped it on his jacket.

Then offered it again more carefully.

As though presenting something fragile.

“Clark Kent, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”

His voice came out slightly higher than usual.

The unmistakable sound of someone who was desperately nervous.

You smiled at your mother.

The kind of smile that hurt because of how hard you were forcing yourself to appear calm.

“Clark Kent,” your mother repeated, savoring the name like candy. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

She dropped the words casually.

Like someone tossing a grenade and waiting to see the explosion.

“About everyone,” you corrected quickly.

Far too quickly.

Far too obviously.

Your voice sounded rushed.

Artificial.

You fooled absolutely no one.

It was as obvious as the sky being blue.

As obvious as coffee being hot.

Your mother gave you a look that clearly said, Oh, my sweet foolish daughter.

Clark turned as red as a tomato.

“Yes, well, I hope my daughter does a good job and is a good coworker to everyone,” your mother said, releasing Clark’s hand after holding it a second longer than necessary.

Then she turned toward Lois as though she hadn’t just left her daughter internally screaming.

“She is. She’s the best.”

Clark’s words came out instantly.

Purely.

Directly from his heart before his brain had a chance to intervene.

Even he looked surprised.

You stared at him.

Speechless.

Your mother stared at him.

One eyebrow raised.

A huge smile spreading across her face.

Lois stared at him too.

Barely managing not to laugh.

Her expression practically screamed, These two are hopeless.

You smiled without entirely understanding why.

Then looked at your mother with a mixture of embarrassment and happiness you couldn’t conceal.

“I’m glad to hear that. I won’t take up any more of your time. Your work is important,” your mother said, waving a hand as though dismissing an entire army. “I’ll wait for my daughter downstairs.”

She paused for a moment.

Thinking.

“I’ll look for a restaurant while I wait. I hear Metropolis has excellent restaurants.”

She looked around as though expecting someone to hand her a map.

“The Italian restaurant next to the park is amazing,” Clark recommended.

The moment he finished speaking, he blushed so intensely it looked like he’d suddenly developed a fever.

He adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger.

A habit he always had when he was nervous.

Though he had no idea he did it.

“I think,” he added quietly, suddenly uncertain of his own recommendation.

You smiled.

One of those smiles that appeared without permission.

The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

“Of course. When we went there with Jimmy,” you said, remembering.

Clark nodded, relieved that someone had confirmed he hadn’t imagined the place.

You turned to your mother, your eyes shining.

“It really is good.”

Your voice carried far more conviction than one would expect from a conversation about food.

“Oh, then you should come with us, Clark. You seem to know the city well,” your mother said casually, as though inviting an old family friend to dinner.

You shook your head so quickly your neck nearly hurt.

“He’s lived here exactly as long as I have,” you tried to point out, as though that were a perfectly reasonable argument against him joining.

Your mother didn’t even look at you.

Her eyes remained fixed on Clark with the determination only mothers possessed when arranging something their children never requested.

“It would be my pleasure to join you. I... yes... Perry said...” Clark began.

Then immediately tangled himself in his own words.

He pointed at the paper still clutched in his hands as though he’d only just remembered it existed.

“This is for you,” he said finally, extending it toward you with the care of someone presenting an important trophy.

His fingers brushed yours.

Just for a second.

Both of you pulled away at exactly the same time.

As though the contact had shocked you.

“I... I’ll leave on time so I can take you both,” Clark said.

Then he retreated so quickly it looked like he was escaping a fire.

He nearly tripped over a chair.

Caught himself at the last second.

Then walked straight into a doorway that had been there forever.

And kept going.

His cheeks were so red they looked like two apples hanging from either side of his face.

You looked at your mother with wide eyes, having absolutely no idea what expression you were supposed to make. Whether you should be offended, laugh, or simply crawl under your desk and never come out again.

Lois smiled at your mother, shaking her head from side to side with the expression of someone who had seen this story before and already knew how it ended.

“See, ma’am?” Lois teased, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk as though she were watching her favorite television show. “Those two are complete lovebirds. It’s only a matter of time before they end up together.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the silly smile that slipped onto your lips.

Your mother simply nodded.

Serious.

Thoughtful.

As though she were mentally documenting every single thing she had witnessed.

Saving every detail for later.

For one of those phone calls when the two of you were alone.

When she could finally interrogate you properly and you would end up confessing everything you felt for Clark Kent.

soldier boy who pushes you against the wall when you’re being loud. he bathes in that shit—likes you loud and needy, whimpering about how it’s too much, drooling on his fingers as he takes you from behind. it’s no surprise honestly, he just loves when he can hear how good he makes you feel, and he sure as hell enjoys knowing that the entire vought building knows the same.

“you wanna be fucking loud huh? want everyone to know how much of a mess you are taking this cock?” he grunts, lips curled into a smirk as he comes closer, “it’s no use to act so shy now, let them hear how good i make this pussy feel”

soldier boy who doesn’t give two shits about fucking in a public display. he’ll dismiss it gruffly, tone suddenly a pitch lower than usual “you think i care about an audience?” with his hand loosely travelling down your thigh, playing with the hem of that skimpy skirt you were wearing that made him wanna grab you and take you right then and there. a dark chuckle slips past him as his other hand traces the curve of your jawline. “if i wanna fuck my girl? I'll do it right fucking here.”

soldier boy who loves it when you start whining, asking him to slow down, whimpering and begging him to stop—cause he gets too rough sometimes. when he does eventually slow down and lean closer to you, your body relaxes instantly, and you´re dumb enough to think that he actually heard you. but the moment your lips part to speak up, he immediately speeds up, smile so smug and proud of himself when he sees your teary eyes widen. yeah he’s a menace like that.

soldier boy who believes that using a condom is a waste of plastic. why use it when he can feel your overstimulated walls spasm around his length, making you feel every inch? it’s not like he didn´t look forward to having any children either, so why not better than to breed you instead? watch thick ropes of cum leave your insides, it’s just a sight that undoes him completely.

cybella’s thoughts⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ lawd save me. i’m back and as needy as ever. i haven´t even finished s5, yikes.

Life was all about appearances. Or at least it was for you. The most famous woman in America. You hadn't gotten your spot because you were particularly interesting or some kind of one-in-a-million genius, you were where you were because you fit a list of criteria.

You were between the ages of 20 and 25, you were not a previously known supe, you had no criminal record, you were healthy and you were fertile. Homelander had chosen you out of the hundreds if not thousands of headshots he examined for days.

The day you signed your name on that marriage license, you made your choice. Be the trophy wife of the most dangerous man in the nation, in exchange of fame and luxuries you never could've dreamed of before.

Your life seemed picturesque, a page taken straight out of a magazine. Maybe it was that way, just not for you. You were on Vogue, you were invited everywhere, people would kill simply to get an interview with you.

All that, because of a rock on your finger. A symbol of the man responsible of you. Homelander, or John as he insisted you called him.

When you first met him, it was obvious to you that John was not like other men, not only on account of his powers. He was possessive, treating you like a very well-behaved pet rather than an actual person. But it seemed you had it better than most when it came to him. Along with Sister Sage, you were the only person he was somehow at ease with, happy even.

You made sure to always keep him pleased, you'd seen the way he'd rip people in half with his bare hands or burn their skulls with his lasers. You learned to control your heart rate around him, to make sure he never doubted your loyalties.

With no warning from John, he announced a new person would be joining your dysfunctional family unit, so two would become three. Or at least that's what John wanted and he rarely didn't get his way.

You were sitting at your seat in the Seven's conference room on the left of Homelander's at the head of the oddly-shaped table. Your legs were crossed and you were leaning your head on your knuckles as you scrolled through your social media, looking at what people were saying about you today. It had become a daily ritual of yours.

It was mostly positive, except for the occasional 'she's reinforcing traditional gender roles !' here and the 'why is a woman taking so much space at Vought ?' there. The idea of society unanimously agreeing on anything at all was impossible.

You looked up as you heard two sets of footsteps approaching you. One you recognized all too well and one was foreign to your ear. You looked up and saw John, as expected, and... Soldier Boy ?

"Father, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Victory." Homelander said gesturing towards you. You almost cringed at the sound of your supe name, but you managed to hide it.

You immediately stood up and extended your hand for Soldier Boy to take. "Please, call me Y/N." You said with a warm smile.

"Alright, you can call me Ben." He said with a smirk. He shook your hand at a slow pace and held it for a second too long, which Homelander obviously noticed.

You pulled your hand away. "It's an honour to meet a true patriot like yourself, sir. Especially John's father."

"John's father." He repeated and looked back at his son. He'd just learned Homelander's legal name. "How'd you manage to land this one ?"

John mumbled something about that not being relevant. You wondered, if asked again, should you give your relationship's PR story or the truth to your father-in-law ?

There was a short moment of silence. Ben made no effort to hide the way he was staring at you. It wasn't entirely his fault, seeing as your costume's primary objective was to have as many eyes on you at all times by showcasing as much skin as possible.

You just kept a welcoming smile on your face. Unlike your teammates on the Seven, or any supes for that matter, the act never ended for you. Most supes have two personalities, the one for when the cameras were rolling and the one for when they weren't. But for you, the cameras never turned off. Your whole life since you met John had been a big performance to ensure you would live to see the next day.

Homelander never wanted to see you angry or unhappy, you needed to be there for him with an almost cheerleader-like attitude constantly. You needed to stand at his side in front of the public, never disagreeing with him, no matter what unhinged thing he said. You needed to be there when he needed to release his frustrations, ready for fucking and taking it like a champ with an Oscar worthy performance every time.

"Soldier Boy will be on the Seven starting today." John said as he sat down on his chair. "As my right hand."

For the duration of the meeting, Soldier Boy sat in front of you, sneaking glances whenever he thought you wouldn't notice. But you did notice, you were trained to. But under watchful eyes, you made sure your attention was only ever focused on one man, your husband.

Today was a media day, interviews, photoshoots and announcements. It started with Soldier Boy being given a medal by the vice-president, ex-Vought CEO, Ashley Barrett. The cameras flashed without stop as you stood behind the two, Homelander by your side, as always.

After Ashley's speech came to an end, the most important part of any political ceremony began, pictures. It started with Ashley shaking Soldier Boy's hand, then Homelander and Soldier Boy standing next to each other. "Y/N." John called your name as he gestured for you to come over, you didn't waste a second before joining the duo.

You stood beside your husband, but before any shutters could click, one of the photographers spoke out. "Victory, move to the middle !"

You complied, not thinking much of it. John moved over to give you some space. He stood tall, as always, his hands placed behind his back. You smiled for the cameras, your usual media trained-smile. The one that had become like a second resting face to you.

You felt a hand creep up on the small of your back. It should've been the most ordinary thing, only this hand wasn't wearing a glove, or at least not one covering the fingertips like you were used to.

You glanced to your left quickly. Ben.

He kept his gaze aimed at the people in front of him, not acknowledging his own action. The random grabbing was only the start of it.

Later on during the day you were booked with Homelander and Soldier Boy for an issue of a Vought-controlled magazine to really sell the image of this great American dynasty that you now were.

John was sitting down on a chair, Ben stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder as if he were a proud father, and you were on the ground, your head leaned on John's leg.

You stayed still for as long as they asked, not moving by an inch. Every bend in your body, every part of you being shown and every angle had been carefully arranged by a choreographer. No mistakes allowed.

Although you couldn't turn around to confirm it, you felt the weight of Soldier Boy's gaze on you whenever the camera was off.

"Okay, let's move on to the next one !" The photography director yelled, but before anyone on set could move from their positions, John stopped them.

"Hold it. Let me see and I'll decide when we're done."

The crew all looked at each other, fear starting to settle in their hearts. Unsurprisingly, they all complied, too afraid to stand up to your husband.

You lifted your head from John's lap to allow him to get up. Before going to see the photos, he softly placed a hand on the top of your head and said, "You're doing good."

You heard a low chuckle behind you. "What are you, his fuckin' dog ?" You finally allowed yourself to look at him. He looked down at you, considering you were still on your knees. "Don't worry, I'm the last person to kink shame."

"I'm not a dog, John's just letting me know he... appreciates the way I'm acting." Your own logic was starting to confuse you.

"That's okay sweetheart, I think that just makes me like you more." He whispered as Homelander came back.

You took a few more pictures in this setting and then came the duo pictures. When you were finally paired with Soldier Boy, you wondered why John was even allowing this.

Ben stood straight, his back facing the camera, and you were leaning your elbow on his shoulder. Halfway through, the director announced he wanted to try something different, something bold, or at least for you.

They placed a stool in front of you. As you were being given instructions, you began climbing. Instinctively, you used Soldier Boy's shoulder to help lift yourself up. It was difficult to do so in your heels, and once you almost reached the top, you missed the last step, causing you to fall back.

A quick whimper escaped you, but before you could even start falling, a hand had placed itself on your hip, steadying you. "Careful doll, I ain't always here to catch you."

"I don't need you catching me all the time." You awkwardly laughed, trying to brush off the interaction. You both got in position as the director instructed, Ben still looking away from the camera and you looking down at the top of his head from your stool.

The set went silent, the only noise filling the room being the camera clicking. Suddenly, you heard the sound of fabric stretching, you knew exactly what that was. It was low, low enough that anyone without powers wouldn't have known. Your gaze shifted to meet his eyes. A huge smirk painted his face as he looked down then towards you.

You prayed silently that John was too distracted in that moment to notice what had transpired. To say this was the strangest interaction you'd had with Soldier Boy was an understatement, worse was yet to come.

Interviewers then came to get material for their articles. Ben was obviously the one with no PR training in the group as when asked about you he said you were a 'real class act, if she wasn't married I'd've snatched her for myself. Not that that's ever stopped me before.'

The odd interactions between you two just started from there on out. Any time a picture was being taken, Ben was always next to you. When talking about Homelander, the only thing he would praise his son about was his choice of wife. And of course, many, many stares.

After another draining day, you were sitting on the white marble floor of your shower, holding your knees close to your chest and letting the burning hot water fall on your skin without a care in the world. Moments like these were one of the rare times you were truly by yourself. Homelander thankfully didn't care to be present for your bi-weekly everything shower.

You'd actually finished your routine ten minutes prior, the smell of your sugary vanilla products still lingering in the air. The sound of the water hitting the tiles created this calming atmosphere, silencing all your worries and problems.

Unbeknownst to you, Soldier Boy had just let himself into yours and Homelander's apartment. Call it father's intuition or just being a creep, even he wasn't sure what he was looking for. He quickly took in the Americana themed living room, which he thought was the tackiest thing he'd seen in a long time, before making a beeline straight to the bedroom.

He looked at the images that adorned the walls around him, dozens of Vought-approved photoshoots of yourself and your husband in all sorts of settings to make it seem like your relationship was healthy and normal. There wasn't a single frame where you weren't smiling, but Ben knew it was disingenuous. You could fool everyone but not him, no one could fool him when it came to women.

He noticed a fresh pile of clothes neatly folded on the red, white and blue duvet. At the top of it was a little pair of pink underwear. Ben looked to his left, then his right, as if to check if anyone was looking at him, and shoved the fabric in his pocket.

He moved towards the first of two nightstands on either sides of the bed. He opened it to find a pile of magazines, mostly of Homelander and a few of you.

At the bottom of the drawer was a magazine with the words 'Cancelled project' stamped in red ink over the cover. Ben decided to have a peek inside, and boy was he glad he did. You, the girl he'd been eyeing for a little over two weeks, with close to nothing on in poses that would make a pornstar blush.

Soldier Boy chuckled as he quickly turned the pages but his amusement ended once he noticed that some of them were wrinkly and stuck together. He instinctively let go of the magazine, letting it fall to the floor, a disgusted look on his face clear as day.

He moved on to the second nightstand. This one was more typical, a bottle of pills, a pair of glasses and various skincare products. It wasn't hard to deduct whose nightstand was whose. He lifted the small orange bottle to read what was written on its label, 'Lactoxene - Gillman, Y/N'.

At that moment, you walked out of the adjacent bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around your wet body. The second your eyes landed on the man, you froze and gripped the fabric shielding you from him tighter. Your usual smile appeared back on your face almost automatically. "Soldier Boy ! What are you doing here ?" Although you tried to hide it, the surprise in your voice was impossible to mask.

"What's Lactoxene ?" He said with a smirk as he showed you what was in his hand.

For once in your life, you couldn't think of an immediate response. Your eyes went wide, what were you supposed to say to that ? "It's Vought prototype medication." You answered, staying vague enough, or so you thought.

"Depraved little bastard. What kind of fucking sicko is into that ?" Soldier Boy huffed, almost holding back a laugh. "So you're... Right now ?" You didn't even have to answer, he already knew by your avoidant demeanour. "Well he definitely didn't get that from me."

"You shouldn't be here." You simply stated.

"Why not ?"

Your gaze kept shifting between Soldier Boy and the bedroom door, scared someone would walk in. "John could come back at any moment."

"Ah, scared your husband's gonna catch you with his daddy ?" Soldier Boy slowly walked towards you. "Trust me sugar, he ain't gonna find out."

For every step forward he took, you took a step back, until you reached the bedroom wall. "'Ts really a shame a pretty thing like you is stuck with a pussy like him. What you need, is a real man."

"John is a real man." You said, not hesitating to come to your husband's defence, but was it out of love or habit ?

Ben finally reached you, he placed his arms on the wall, blocking you in front of him. You could've pushed him, you were a supe after all, but you didn't, you let him stay.

"Really ? How often does he get you to finish ?"

Your eyes widen at his question. As much as you wanted to prove him wrong, you couldn't. He examined your face closely as he waited for his answer. He could almost see the cogs turning in your head.

"... He never has."

"Well, that tells me everything I need to know." He brushed away some hair that was in front of your face. "Let me give you what you need." He said in the gentlest tone you'd ever heard from him. And with that simple phrase, something in you changed.

You looked at the wedding band you'd taken off for your shower that was sitting on your nightstand. The diamond on it could probably rival a small city's GDP. The sun clashed with it and made it sparkle in all the right ways. But that wasn't important, not now.

Before Ben could make the first move, you grabbed the sides of his face roughly and crashed your lips on his. Even he was taken aback by your initiative, but he sure wasn't complaining.

Years of repressed sexual dissatisfaction all coming out onto one man. One man you shouldn't be with.

His hands moved away from the wall and instead placed themselves around your back, bringing you closer to him. Your noses hit each other due to the sheer intensity of the act.

He lifted you up from the floor and threw you on the bed. You whined almost instinctively due to the sudden loss of contact. "Take it off, let me see what I'm workin' with." He instructed as he began removing his own armour.

You tugged at the tucked-in pieces of the towel that were keeping it in place, and once his uniform's chest plate hit the ground, so did the fabric separating you from his gaze.

He let out a small whistle. "Honey, with a body like that it's mind-blowing that Homelander ain't pouncing on you every chance he gets. What a waste."

You were sitting on your knees as you watched Ben undress. You caught yourself comparing him to John. You knew Vought padded his Homelander suit, but you remember the first time you saw what was underneath and you couldn't believe how truly scrawny he really was.

In comparison, Soldier Boy was pure muscle. Even without the V1 he would've been stronger than most. And he was big where it mattered, much bigger than his successor. In that moment it felt like the roles were reversed, now you were the one ogling him with no shame.

Once he was finally done, he quickly approached you, and out of instinct you leaned forward, as if it would bring him to you faster.

"Eager aren't we ?" He said as he grabbed your chin with his index and thumb, moving it along your cheek slightly.

"Can you really blame me ?" You opened your mouth and took his finger in. What were you doing ? You had never done anything like this before. It was like you'd been replaced by a wild animal in heat.

Ben began pushing you into lying down, following along with you. It wasn't long until your mouths were connected again. He began tracing his fingers on your skin, progressively bringing them lower and lower until they reached their wanted destination.

He started rubbing slow circles on your clit and you let out a sigh you didn't even know you had in you. Considering his slow pace, you began bucking your hips in hopes of creating more friction. You felt two of his fingers carefully entering you. "Oh !" You said as you slightly pulled away from his mouth.

"What ?" He simply answered as he began increasing the speed of his touching and moving his digits in and out of you.

"Joh... Homelander's never..." Your speech was hindered by all your laboured breathing due to the new sensation. "... Done this to me... Before."

"What does he do to you ?" Ben began slowing down.

"I-it never lasts long... Usually missionary... He sucks on m-my tits. He makes... He makes me s-suck him off under his d-desk sometimes... And that's it.."

"And he's never made you come. That's pathetic. Truly." He said as he removed his fingers from you, leaving you on edge. "Good thing I'm here. What you need..."

He sat himself up and moved away from you, towards the top of the comically-large bed leaving you alone at the end of it. "...Is a real fuck." He leaned his back on the headboard as he extended out his arms. "C'mere."

You got on all fours and crawled towards him, making it a painfully agonizing display for you and him, pushing back the time of your release. Once you reached him you stalled, unsure what to do next. You lowered your head towards his manhood, as you assumed it was your turn to give back. But before you could get far, he brought you back up.

"This ain't about me." You looked at him almost in amazement. John had never cared about anything other than his own dick. But now, it was all for you. Out of everyone you knew, you were quite surprised at how caring Ben actually was.

He brought you closer to him and began leaving kisses all over your skin. On your neck, your chest, your arms. In between ministrations, he began talking. "Look at you, poor girl. Never satisfied and stuck with an ungrateful man. But you don't need to worry anymore, 'cause Ben's gonna take care of you."

You felt him lifting you up by your hips delicately and placing you where he wanted. He lined you up and let you take the lead, a first for you. You slowly sunk down on him. It stung, as if it were your first time.

It took you a moment to really settle, but once he was all in, you felt full. Your breathing became heavy as you slowly started to move up, then down. You began gaining speed in your movement, and the more you did, the more you realized there was a whole world you were missing out on because of John.

Ben laughed loudly as he caressed your breast. "Goddamn this might just be one of the best I've had."

The room was filled with the sound of moans, grunts and skin slapping, without a care in the world for who could potentially find you both in this compromising position.

You wrapped your arms around his neck to stabilize your body and you wondered how you were still standing. Ben thrusted his hips beneath you to really accentuate his own pleasure. You pushed yourself harder on him, you were sure if you had the ability to bruise, you'd be all blue by now.

The level of ecstasy you were feeling was unmatched to anything you'd ever lived before. There were tears in the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall from the sheer bliss of it all.

You could feel the crashing wave of satisfaction slowly creeping in. You leaned your head in the crook of his neck and he whispered, "You're takin' all of me so well. You're so greedy after bein' deprived from this for so long, ain't you ?"

"Mm-hm." Was all you could mutter back in response.

You were both close, you could sense it. So he kept talking. "Next time you're with him, next time he fucks you, all you'll be able to think about is my cock."

Your moans got higher and louder as you felt your orgasm fall upon you. You almost went limp in his arms, but he kept pushing, chasing his own high. You felt his release in you, the come even leaking out of you. He then fell back in exhaustion.

You might've been super-abided, but you both needed a minute to rest from all that. You laid down on his chest as you felt him wrap his arms around you.

"For a first time on top, I'd say you did pretty well." He said.

"I don't know how I can ever go back to just John after this." You chuckled.

You pulled yourself off his body and sat down next to him, feeling quite empty. You could feel the slow trickling of bodily fluids down your thighs. It was never like this with Homelander. Never.

Your bodies almost shimmered from the sweat you'd worked up. You looked around at the mess your usually tidy bedroom had become. You noticed the clothes Soldier Boy had left on the floor, more particularly a pocket in his pants, which a light pink fabric was protruding from.

"Are those my panties ? You're such a weirdo." You joked.

"Hey, you're drugging yourself so your man child of a husband can sucks milk from your tits because he didn't have a mama growing up."

"Touché. But you should be grateful, those pills made my girls grow three cups."

"Oh I'm grateful." He nodded in agreement. "Can you imagine if he walked in right now ? Seein' his sexy wife, full of come, in his own bed with his dad. And the press around it ? 'Homelander's wife stolen by father, Soldier Boy'."

"Woah, slow down, cowboy. Let's at least do this a few more times before we get there."

"'Right, wanna get started on round two then ?"

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in fact, he’s going in the wrong direction. you’ve both lost count of the amount of times you’ve told him to fuck off, or shut the fuck up (another thing that sends blood straight to his dick - you’re feisty, not afraid of him. he unexpectedly loves it). regardless of how much he’s enjoying the back and forth between you, he can tell he isn’t getting anywhere.

at least, not until you’re put on babysitting duty, and he spouts some emotional, pussy bullshit that somehow makes the annoyance in your eyes soften.

“i didn’t mean to kill those people.” it’s a soft murmur - he hadn’t even meant to say it out loud. he looks up after it slips out. he lifts his head to regain his manliness, but pauses when he sees how your head has tilted slightly, how your eyes have softened.

you encourage him with a small hum. "hm?"

he sighs. this is the closest he's gotten to anything with you in weeks. he can't back off now, even if he's sacrificing his masculinity.

"those people in the street... i didn't mean to kill them. i didn't blow anything up on purpose," he mutters.

"i guessed that. and you didn't really fight in world war 2, did you? or all those other wars they said you were in?" you ask. well, not really. there's a knowing look on your face that he's seen before. he sighs and glares, and you smirk.

holy shit. his heart stops.

he bites back a comment about how you should smile more. if normal women in this day and age don't like it, he can only imagine you having a visceral reaction... and probably hating him forever.

"so... big man soldier boy was just a vought prop?" you tease.

"don't start, doll," he mutters. if you were an animal, your hackles would be standing up.

your face changes and your voice is suddenly sharp. "don't call me doll."

right. princess, doll, sweetheart were off-limits to practical strangers nowadays. "got it."

there's silence for a long moment, but it's not uncomfortable, and you don't have a constant look of annoyance on your face anymore. he's getting somewhere.

you get up eventually, heading to another room. before you leave, you turn around with a small smile.

"y'know, you're not as bad as they say, soldier boy," you tease lightly. god, he loves the look of that smile on your face.

"ben," he says. he has no idea what possesses him to say it.

you nod, the smile getting softer. "ben. you're kind of alright, ben."

Bob’s forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body going limp over yours; its warmth seeps into you seemingly even more intensely than it did before, and you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as it’s tightly pressed against your own when you both silently fall into that comfortable matched rhythm.

You feel hazy, fingers mindlessly curling around the hair at the back of his neck when he nuzzles the juncture between your shoulder and neck, warm breath fanning over your cooling skin, soft curls tickling it. 

You stay like this for a little while, light and comfortably quiet – you wouldn’t ever want to move in moments like this, would let him cling to you like a second skin forever if you could, if your body didn’t eventually have to remind you it has needs outside of him. You know that if you don't get up, the idea of having to do it is only going to get worse. 

Your hand slides down against his back, mouth gently pressing against his cheek as a preemptive apology before you have to break it to him; “C’mon, ‘gotta use the bathroom” you mutter softly, to which he responds with a soft, tired noise before he reluctantly slides himself off of you in order to let you go from the cage of his own limbs. 

He flops back onto the mattress with a sigh, one arm lazily flung over his eyes while you quickly shift to grab a tshirt and an underwear to wear before you head towards the bathroom linked to his room. 

When you come back, you find Bob sitting at the edge of his side of the bed, still shirtless, turned away from you, shoulder sagging. You crawl back over the bed and settle behind him, fingers running along his bicep, tracing lines down his arm as you press soft kisses against his bare shoulder. “You okay?” you murmur, nuzzling into his hair. 

You feel him nod, but it is small, barely convincing, so you’re quick to sense something is wrong. Your intuition is easily confirmed when you push the hair covering the side of his face to take a look at him. “Bob–”

“I’m sorry,” he quietly breathes out when he looks at you, soft eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t even know,” his head shakes, and he turns away from you as he tries to hold it back, to not have you see him like this. 

“Hey,” you softly call. Your hand comes to cup the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair. “That’s okay”

He nods like he’s trying to convince himself of it, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. “It’s not you. It’s not anything you did,” he hurries to explain, voice hoarse. “It’s just– I don’t know,” he shrugs, finally turning back to look at you. “A release of tension I think. But it’s so much, and so fast, and I don’t know what to do with it” he chuckles, the ghost of a smile appearing over his face for a second before he brushes it off by rubbing a hand over his face. 

You don’t say anything, just watch as he tries to steady himself. You try to make it easier for him, more comfortable, your thumb soothingly running back and forth at the nape of his neck. It’s quiet for a while – you let him cry, let it soak, because you know it’s the good kind of cry, the kind that will make him feel lighter afterwards, the kind that he needs to move forward. You hold him like you know how much it costs him to feel this much, this intensely.

Bob eventually turns to look at you after a while, deep blue eyes gentle, breath trembling as it leaves him. “It just– It feels a lot. How you make me feel safe. Loved.”

Your heart leaps inside your chest, stomach fluttering in a way you can’t explain, blooming with an overwhelming warmth at his words. You could almost cry too; the deepness, the softness in his glassy eyes, the sincerity and the vulnerability of it all as he looks at you. 

“Maybe that’s why your body lets go” you nod, grinning softly as you reach to take his hand in yours. “It just has to get used to it.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like half a laugh, half a sigh. “I guess that makes it sounds a little less pathetic” 

You smile, leaning forward to press a kiss just beneath his ear. “It’s not pathetic,” you say. “It's honest and a little sweet, if you ask me” you smile, reaching to wipe away the remaining trails of tears over his cheeks. 

He chuckles and sniffles quietly, head leaning to settle at your shoulder, hand letting your fingers intertwine, tightening around yours, gently squeezing in silent affection. He sighs softly when the hand that is not holding his buries into his dark locks, and again, you remain like this for a while, dwelling in that floating atmosphere, time stilling while it all quiets down, while you hold him until his breath gets even again.

“So I'm gonna have to make you get used to it, huh?”

You feel him smile against the fabric of your shirt. “Guess so,” he grins as he looks up at you, a glint of playfulness shining inside his eyes beyond the sheen of remaining tears. 

Everything in that gaze alone makes you want to try your hardest.

—

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