Jayce Sniped U

"'S just a bunch o' yankees runnin' lose. Have ya seen 'em? Dirty horses, dirtier clothes...there's this big one, saw him sprinting through town like a lunatic..."

"Yes, I saw him too."

You were distracted in your answers, tracing circles on the table top with the condensation that had dripped all over it from your glass.

Because you knew that big one. You knew him in a way you did not exactly wish to tell others.

Your first encounter with Arthur Morgan had been strange, the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels. He'd burst into the bar you were at and, as he was walking up to the bartender, he glanced at you.

He'd had the most striking turquoise eyes you'd seen in your life. Blue under the shadow of his hat but green when he tilted his head up and let the sunlight hit them.

You'd turned your head to look at him so quickly, you woke up the next day with a pulled muscle. You'd never seen a man like that. With shoulders like that, with a waist like that, with legs like that! It took you til the woman you'd been talking to moments earlier scoffed loudly and began fanning herself in offence to realize you'd been absolutely gawking at him for much longer than necessary.

"Sorry, madame," was the best you could manage. "you know we don't get men like that often, in Saint-Denis."

He drank a shot of whiskey without batting an eye, put his glass down harder than was proper. He argued with the bartender, left in a huff, but not before getting hassled by a drunkard- who apparently told him what he'd come to hear, because he walked out the bar looking rather resolute.

Something possessed you to stand and follow him out, much to the chagrin, once more, of the woman you'd been entertaining. By the time you made it outside, he had disappeared into an alleyway.

Your words were true- you did not get men like him in Saint-Denis. Ever. Herders never came into the city, either hating the civilization or simply not needing to, for their business was in the countryside. Outlaws were only ever here to be hung, otherwise they avoided the place like the plague- too much law. The closest you'd ever seen were the sailors, but they were always drunk and buried in the nearest brothel for you to care particularly.

This, you deduced, was a real, authentic American cowboy. Hat and all.

The next time you met Arthur, it was he who spoke to you.

"'Scuse me, mister." He said, coming up next to you as you mounted your horse, leaving the theater after viewing a show.

"Yes sir, how can I help?" You'd said, leaning down to make sure you'd hear him well.

He set a hand on the neck of your horse, as though to make sure you weren't going anywhere, then tilted his head up to look at you past the brim of his hat.

"You wouldn't mind pointin' me to the stables, would'ja? 'M new in town, my horse needs some carin' for..."

"It is not so far from here, sir. If you only continue down this street, towards the boardwalk- it will be on your left." You told him, gesturing slightly to help him orient himself.

"Mighty kind of you." He said, tipping his hat slightly. Then, he added, "Feels like I know your face, mister."

"You might. We met eyes in the saloon, a day ago, but only briefly. What is your name?"

"Arthur Morgan."

You told him your name, and he offered you a quick handshake- a firm one, almost startling you with the strength in his grip, before he thanked you again and was on his way.

You stared at your hand, as though amazed, for an odd moment. You then shook yourself out of it. This strange man had you all out of sorts, acting like a blushing virgin before him! Embarrassing behavior for an adult man, you told yourself, before being on your way.

But then you saw him again. And again.

The longer Arthur stayed in town, the more your paths seemed to cross and the more you heard about him. You liked to talk to the people in the streets, and they all had something to say about him. The more you heard, the more you liked. The more you liked, the more you questioned.

You were not a man of...of alternate romantic persuasions, you did not think. But when you thought of him, you got hot under the collar- and you thought of him a lot.

Yes, he was a large, fairly...attractive man, but he was also a very kind one, so you heard. At least, kind of heart, while maybe a little bit rough around the edges.

Eventually, you found yourself sharing a drink with him.

"You're making a name for yourself in Saint-Denis, mister Morgan." You told him.

"That so? Well, it ain't on purpose..."

"Not in a bad way. They say you're quite the good man."

He scoffed at that, and downed his glass. "Nah, nah...Not a good man at all. You don't know me."

Something, once more, possessed you to do something stupid, and you murmured around the lip of your glass, "I would not mind knowing you, mister Morgan."

Luckily, he did not hear you well- or perhaps he pretended not to.

You and Arthur met up for drinks a few more times after that. You also took him up to the tailor to fit him for a new shirt. You showed him around town, and he took you out into Rhodes' environs to show you what he rather see.

You were much too weak to him, and being around him so much rendered you weaker. Seeing him on the saddle, watching him set up camp for you both, observing the way his back worked- it was becoming the object of your daily fantasy, and, try as you might, you could not find a logical explanation to this sudden illness of the mind you had been attacked by.

This fascination that bordered on obsession- or worse, on lust- was unnatural. A man should not look at another, a man should not wish for another!

But Arthur Morgan was not any man. He was one in a million, you told yourself, something you may never see again, once he leaves Saint-Denis and returns west, like he keeps telling you he wishes to do.

Slowly, as though pulled out of a drowsy trance, your eyes dragged back up to meet Arthur's. Only now did you realize, that the whole time you've been sitting across from him, you've spent looking at the flesh exposed by the undone buttons at the top of his shirt, and the slight smattering of hair you could see poking out of there.

"Sorry." You murmured, placing your chin in your hand and turning your gaze away to stare, instead, at the floorboards in shame.

"Fer what?" Arthur asked, thumbing at the side of his glass.

"For ogling you so indecently, my friend. There must be something in the air, I have been acting most strangely, as of late..."

"Indecently?" He repeated, before glancing down at himself, and clearing his throat slightly. "S not like I'm naked. Yer fine."

For once, you managed to hold your tongue.

It was after a sleepless night spent in deep reflection that you chose to confront Arthur about this illness of the mind you'd been attained by.

You almost felt guilty, putting the blame on him for how you felt after spending such lovely moments with him. After all, it was not his fault he was unbearably attractive. He was only born that way.

Alas, you finally told him, while you both sat together off the side of a trail, watching a river flow.

"I have something I must tell you, mister Morgan." You said, and his head turned, so he could look at you.

He gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

"You make me feel a strange way." You said slowly. "I don't know...what I am meant to think."

"My lifestyle often has that effect on people."

"No. Not your lifestyle, mister Morgan. You. I feel for you as I should for a woman. And I do not know what to think."

That, he did not answer for a long moment.

"Well I...You seem pretty clear on what you think. You uh. Feel for me as y' should for a woman, or whatever y' said." He shrugged. "That's...fine."

"It's more complicated than that. It isn't natural...I should not feel this way. Perhaps...I am afraid..."

"O' me?"

"Yes." You said, guilty. "Of you. And how you make me feel."

He let out a gruff "Mm", ever a man of few words, then turned his body to face yours.

"Don't gotta be scared o' none. Don't s'ppose I ever heard anyone ever call love scary."

"Love is not scary. It is the novelty of loving a man. What am I to expect? Will it all be the same as a woman? And what will society think of me?"

Though you would not cry, distress was evident in your voice. Arthur kindly put a hand on your shoulder.

"I ain't a good man, and I certainly ain't a good lover. I don't think I can...can offer you much. M' sorry."

He then patted your shoulder, and stood, walking a few steps away towards his horse before you scrambled up to follow him.

"Arthur, please." You said, catching up to him at his steed- he seemed to startle at the first name basis.

Still, he turned to face you. It took you much courage to so much as grit out your final request- but Arthur heard it. And, after glancing up and down the trail to make sure no riders were coming, he cleared his throat, took his hat off- shielding you both, momentarily, from the world- and pressed your lips together.

Neither of you said anything after that, as he pulled away, fixed his hat back on, and got in the saddle, putting a rapidly growing distance between you two.

So, now here you were. At the mayor's garden party, talking to some factory owner or other, about that big one. Gods damn it, Arthur, was all you could think. Leave it to a cowboy to ruin your life- it was like all the romance novels said.

"Please, excuse me." You murmured.

The fireworks had started, and you needed a break from all the noise. Inside you went, hoping to escape to the upstairs balcony, which had recently been deserted. But on your way up the stairs...

"Scuse me."

"Oh, excuse me, sir, I..."

Good lord. He cleaned up beautifully. So beautifully, you thought you might vomit, so quickly did your heart seize.

"Mister Morgan, I...Hello."

He nodded curtly, mumbling out a polite greeting in return. His ears were red, so you noticed.

"You're dressed nicely." He commented lamely.

"So are you. You look...very..."

You were also rather lame.

Then, after a very long moment spent in stupid silence, you decided that you'd made enough of a fool of yourself around this man as it was. You could not possibly do worse.

And so you grabbed him by the lapels, and yanked him to your chest, kissing him as hard as you could manage.

He scrambled to grip your blazer at the back, much to your surprise, and you both stumbled down a few steps, before Arthur managed to press you up against a wall, stopping your clumsy decent.

You could taste cigar smoke on his lips and he could no doubt taste champagne on yours- his body was so warm, only a solid wall of man pressed to yours that you could, inexplicably, not stop touching, your hands running up the sides of his neck, then back down the front of his suit.

It took a ridiculous amount of time for you both to wrench away from each other, Arthur immediately glancing back to check the bottom of the stairs while you looked up to check the top. Coast was clear.

"The hell was that?" Arthur finally managed, pulling away from you as though being hit with a wave of clarity of sorts.

"I...I am not sure." You babbled, adjusting your collar like a moron. "I must've...I was..."

"Utterly stupid, that's what," He grunted, wiping his brow. "You know how many people-? Ah...hell..."

You both stood there, dumbly, before he glanced sideways at you, over his shoulder once more, then stooped back down to kiss you. You wrapped your arms up and around his neck, and you ran your fingers through his hair. He squeezed you tighter when you did so- like he liked it.

Maybe it'd go on forever. By now, you were past tracking time. You didn't care for much else other than how he felt...

"Arthur!"

You both jumped, and Arthur turned around incredibly fast. You noticed his hand reach for his hip, as though for a gun. You blinked in surprise.

Three men were at the bottom of the stairs, staring at you and Arthur quizzically. But then, they smiled. It was not good natured, but clearly friendly, and mocking.

"Need a minute?" The one with an impressive mustache said.

"No, no. I...uh.." Arthur glanced back at you- you'd never seen such a large man look so embarrassed. "We was..."

"Did you at least find anything?" Another asked, this one with a nasally voice and a few years more than the first.

"Yeah. I did...I..." He patted his breast pocket awkwardly, then glanced at you again, and gave you a little 'I am so sorry, I will see you later' kind of wave. "I think we're done here." He finally said, before making his way down the stairs to rejoin his...friends?

You stood, shell-shocked, on the stairs, while you heard the fourth man mock Arthur about being a "sly dog", while Arthur grumbled for him to shut up.

You managed to regain your senses enough to make your way all the way down the stairs, and watch them leave down the long hallway and through the open doors. When they reached the entrance gates, all four men retrieved guns from the guard at the front.

What exactly had you gotten yourself into?

The Zurich tunnel was a concrete wind tunnel that smelled like damp equipment and floor cleaner. It was the kind of place that amplified every noise, making the post-game headache behind your eyes pulse with every distant shout from the fans still hanging around the stands. You stood there with your gear bag heavy on your shoulder, leaning your weight against the cold wall. You were just waiting for the Japanese media swarm to clear out so you could get to the bus without being shoved aside by a cameraman.

Then you heard him.

Satoru Gojo had a laugh that was built for stadiums. It was loud and effortless. He rounded the corner with a dozen reporters trailing him, his jersey draped over his shoulders. He looked pristine. You felt like you’d been through a rock tumbler. Your jersey was damp with sweat, and your hair was a flattened mess from the helmet.

He saw you and detoured away from the microphones, ignoring a reporter mid-question. He stepped into your space, stopping just short of actually touching you. He smelled like mint and the sharp, metallic scent of the rink. Up close, he was tall enough that you had to lock your neck back just to keep him in view.

"Great game, Miller," he said. He flashed a grin that was all teeth.

"My name isn't Miller," you said. You kept your voice flat. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even if your pulse was jumping in your throat.

"Right. Close enough." He leaned a hand against the wall next to your head, pinning you in place. "You were fast out there today. A little desperate on that last break, but fast."

"I was playing hockey. You were putting on a show," you replied. You could feel the heat radiating off him. It was a physical weight in the cramped hallway. "There’s a difference between a teammate and a mascot, Gojo."

The grin on his face didn't disappear, but it got sharper. He leaned in closer, his blue eyes scanning your face. He was looking at the sweat on your forehead and the way your jaw was locked. He was looking for a crack. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he’d already solved but wanted to take apart anyway.

"Is that what we're calling it?" he asked. He spoke softly, his voice dropping below the noise of the reporters ten feet away. "I thought I was just winning. You should try it sometime. It might help with that miserable look you've got going on."

"Move your hand, Gojo. My bus is leaving."

"Let it leave," he murmured.

He didn't move. He stayed there for several seconds, long enough for the silence to turn heavy and weird. You could see the individual spikes of his white hair and the way his pupils didn't even flinch under the bright fluorescent lights. It wasn't Sparks. It was static. It was the feeling of a thorn in your side that had been there since the first time your names appeared on the same scouting reports. You hated how everyone compared you to him. You hated that he seemed to know exactly how much that bothered you.

Then, just as quickly, he pulled away and snapped his fingers. He turned back to the cameras without a backward glance, leaving you standing in the hum of the tunnel with your skin crawling. He was already laughing at another question before you could even get your breath back.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The training facility gym was tucked into the basement of the arena, a windowless box that smelled of industrial rubber and the heavy, metallic scent of iron. You were four sets into a back routine, trying to work out the knot that had settled in your neck after the tunnel incident. Every time you pulled the bar, the friction of your shirt against your skin felt like an irritant. You were focused on the rhythmic clanging of the plates, trying to drown out the fact that your team’s loss was the only thing on the morning news.

The door swung open, hitting the rubber stopper with a dull thud. Gojo didn't just walk in; he took up the entire doorway. He was with Suguru Geto, both of them dressed in black training gear that looked like it had never seen a drop of sweat. Gojo was tossing a medicine ball into the air with a casual, annoying ease. He didn't look at you, but he parked himself at the squat rack directly in your line of sight.

You focused on the mirror, watching your own form, but his reflection kept drifting into the frame. He was leaning back against the rack now, watching you with a look that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't friendly either.

"I've noticed some guys lift like they’re trying to punish the equipment," Gojo said. He wasn't looking at you, but his voice carried perfectly over the gym’s playlist. "Too much ego in the grip. It’s a miracle they don’t snap a wrist before they even hit the ice."

You dropped your dumbbells. The noise echoed off the concrete walls, sharp and final. You grabbed your water bottle and wiped your face with a towel, staring at him through the glass.

"And some people talk because they’re afraid of what happens if it gets quiet," you said.

Gojo finally turned his head. He let the medicine ball drop and walked over. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes dragging over your shoulders with a clinical interest that made your skin itch.

"I'm just offering an observation," he said. "You're stiff. Your shoulders are up around your ears. You play the same way you lift, like you’re waiting for a car crash."

"I play with discipline. You wouldn't know what that looks like."

"Discipline is a boring word for being scared," Gojo countered. He stepped closer, dropping his voice so it stayed between the two of you. "You’re so worried about making a mistake that you're missing the actual game. I saw it yesterday. You had the lane, but you passed it off because you didn't want the weight of the miss."

"I played the smart move," you snapped. Your hands were balled into fists at your sides.

"You played the safe move," he corrected. He reached out, his hand stopping just short of the collar of your shirt. "Safe doesn't win tournaments. Safe just gets you a seat on the bus home."

You stepped back, breaking the proximity. The heat in your face had nothing to do with the workout. "Stay out of my head, Gojo. And stay away from my rack."

He laughed, a sharp sound that felt too loud for the basement. "I'm already in your head. I've been there since Zurich. Just admit it."

You didn't give him an answer. You turned and walked toward the showers, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on your back the entire way.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The communal shower was a cavernous, tiled box that echoed with the heavy spray of water and the distant shouting of players further down the hall. Steam hung thick in the air, blurring the edges of the room into a grey haze. You stood under one of the corner heads, eyes closed, letting the hot needles of water hit the tension in your shoulders.

The rhythmic sound of footsteps on wet tile approached. A shower turned on two stalls over. You didn't have to open your eyes to know the silhouette.

You reached for the soap, blinking through the water, and your gaze inadvertently drifted. Gojo was standing with his back to the wall, head tilted back as he let the water wash over his face. He wasn't trying to hide anything. He never did.

Your breath hitched. You’d spent your life in locker rooms around athletes, but this was a different league entirely. Even flaccid, he was huge.  It was hanging with a weight that made your own stomach do a strange, tight flip.

You looked away quickly, staring at the grout between the tiles until your eyes burned. You felt a sudden, sharp spike of heat that had nothing to do with the steam. It was an intrusive, vivid thought of exactly how that would feel, and it made your throat go dry.

Gojo didn't say a word. He didn't even look at you. He just went through the motions of showering with a casual, bored grace, as if he wasn't currently making every other man in the facility look like an afterthought.

The silence followed you back into the locker room. It was that heavy, pressurised quiet that happens when two people are thinking about the same thing but refuse to acknowledge it. You sat on your bench, eyes fixed on your gym bag, tugging on your socks with trembling fingers.

Gojo was across from you, pulling a grey hoodie over his head. He didn't look like the stadium-filling star right now. He just looked like a guy in a locker room. He leaned over to lace his sneakers, the fabric of his sweatpants straining against his legs.

He sat back up, catching your eye for the first time since the showers. The smirk wasn't there. Instead, there was a look of quiet, pointed observation. He knew you’d looked. He definitely knew.

"My hotel has a private lounge on the penthouse floor," Gojo said. His voice was casual, but the volume was low enough that it didn't travel past the row of lockers. "They serve the good Scotch. Not the watered-down shit they give the teams in the common area."

You stopped mid-motion, your hand resting on the zipper of your bag. You didn't look up. "I'm not a big drinker, Gojo."

"It's not about the drink," he replied. He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He took a step closer, stopping just short of your knees. "I’m staying at the Grand—room 402. Come over after the media briefing. Or don't. But stop looking at me like you’ve got something to say and just come say it."

He didn't wait for an answer. He walked out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him. You sat there in the sudden silence, the image of him in the shower burned into the back of your eyelids.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The walk to the Grand was long enough for the cold air to settle into your bones, but not long enough to talk yourself out of it. You stood outside Room 402, staring at the brass numbers. Your brain told you to turn around and get back to your own hotel before this turned into something you couldn't undo, but your hand was already knocking.

Gojo opened the door almost instantly. He’d ditched the hoodie and was just in a black t-shirt and those grey sweatpants. The room behind him was a massive suite that looked out over the city lights, but the only thing you focused on was the way he looked at you.

He didn't say hello. He just stepped back to let you in.

"You actually showed up," he said, closing the door. The click of the lock was loud in the quiet room.

"I wanted the scotch," you said, though the lie felt thin the second it left your mouth.

"Sure you did." Gojo didn't move toward the bar. He just stayed by the door, watching you stand in the middle of the room with your jacket still on. "You’ve been looking at me for weeks. In the gym, the hallways, the showers. You've got this look on your face like you want to swing at me or crawl under my skin. Which one is it tonight?"

"You're full of yourself," you said, but your voice lacked any real bite.

Gojo crossed the room. He didn't stop until he was right in your space, forcing you to look up. He smelled like that same sharp mint and expensive soap from the locker room. He reached out, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw, tilting your head back.

"Then do something about it," he said.

You reached out and shoved him back a step, but only so you could grab the front of his shirt and haul him down.

The first time your mouths hit, it was messy. There was no grace to it, just a lot of built-up frustration finally snapping. Gojo made a low, rough sound in the back of his throat and crowded you backwards until your heels hit the edge of the sofa. He didn't let up, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting like the gin he’d been drinking.

His hands came up to frame your face, his fingers tangling in your hair to hold you still as he tilted your head to get a deeper angle. You gripped his waist, pulling him as close as the layers of your clothes would allow. Every time you tried to pull back for air, he followed you, his mouth staying glued to yours.

You heard the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric as you tried to get a better grip on him. Gojo’s hands drifted down, his palms flat against your back, pressing you flush against his chest. You could feel the heat coming off him, and lower down, the heavy, hard weight of him pressing against your thigh. Having it that close, knowing what was under those sweatpants, made your head swim.

He broke the kiss long enough to trail his mouth down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just above the collar of your shirt. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, your head falling back against the cushions.

"The bed," he rasped against your skin.

"Now," you said.

He didn't let go of you as he led the way, his hand locked firmly around yours. The clothes were gone before you even hit the mattress, a mess of discarded shirts and kicked-off shoes left on the floor.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The sun hit the white hotel sheets with a brightness that made your eyes sting. You woke up with the weight of Gojo’s arm draped heavily across your chest, his skin hot even in the air-conditioned room. For a minute, you just lay there, staring at the expensive crown moulding on the ceiling and trying to piece together the last few hours.

The bed was a mess, but you were both still in your underwear. There were no discarded condoms, no lingering ache of having been taken. Just the heavy, sugar-sweet smell of spilt scotch on the nightstand and the hazy memory of a make-out session that had been so intense it felt like a physical bruising. You had stayed up until four in the morning, mouths raw, eventually passing out mid-sentence while Gojo was trying to explain why he hated the Swiss team's defensive structure.

Gojo stirred, shifting his weight and pulling his arm back. He didn't do the awkward morning-after flinch. He just opened his eyes, blinked at the ceiling, and reached for his phone.

"You're late for your team meeting," he said. His voice was thick and raspy with sleep, but the smugness was already back in place.

"I know," you muttered, sitting up and rubbing your face. Your head was pounding from the alcohol and the lack of sleep.

You felt his eyes on your back. The room felt smaller now that you were both awake. You looked over your shoulder and saw him watching you, his white hair a chaotic mess against the pillow. He looked soft for about three seconds before he smirked.

"Don't look so worried," he said, propping himself up on an elbow. "We didn't actually do the deed. You just fell asleep on me while I was getting to the good part of my story. It was a little insulting, honestly."

"I was drunk, Gojo."

"You were exhausted." He hopped out of bed, completely unbothered by his lack of clothes. He headed for the bathroom, his stride easy and confident. "But don't worry. I won't tell your coach you were busy failing to keep up with me."

You winced at the jab. It was a joke, a way to reset the board. By making it about the rivalry again, he was giving you both an out. If he treated it like a comedy of errors, it didn't have to be a secret. It didn't have to be anything real. You got dressed in the silence, listening to the water of the shower start to run.

You left the room before he came back out. The hallway of the Grand was quiet and smelled like expensive lilies, a sharp contrast to the way your skin still felt like it was humming with the static of his touch. You had a game in six hours, and all you could think about was the way he’d looked at you right before you fell asleep—like he was waiting for you to say something that wasn't a joke.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The door clicked shut, and the lock turned with a heavy metallic thud. The sound was deafening in the small space. You were standing between two rows of tall shelving units packed with team bags and industrial-sized boxes of tape. The only light came from a single, buzzing bulb overhead that made the dust motes dance in the air.

"You're avoiding me," Gojo said. He didn't move from the door. He was still in his practice gear, the black compression shirt damp and clinging to the muscle of his chest.

"I'm busy," you said, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. You reached for a crate of pucks, but your hands were shaking.

"You're hiding." He moved toward you, his skates gone but his presence still taking up every inch of the room. He didn't stop until he was chest-to-chest with you, pinning you against the metal shelving. The scent of him—salt, ice, and that sharp mint—filled your head. "You left the hotel before I even woke up. No word. Just ran away like I’d done something wrong."

"We didn't do anything," you snapped, looking up at him. "We got drunk and made out. It wasn't a big deal."

"It felt like a big deal to me." He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck. His palm was hot, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. He leaned in, his breath hitting your lips. "Or maybe you're just scared of what happens when we aren't drunk."

You grabbed his wrists to push him away, but the contact only made it worse. You felt the static from the tunnel, the gym, and the showers all converge into one point of heat. You didn't push. You pulled.

The kiss was frantic. It was a mess of teeth and tongue, an outlet for a month of suppressed irritation. Gojo groaned, a deep, vibrating sound that you felt in your own throat. He hiked your hips up, shoving you onto the edge of a heavy wooden crate. The wood bit into your thighs, but you didn't care. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you.

He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point. "I haven't been able to think about anything else since the showers," he rasped.

His hands were everywhere—under your shirt, gripping your thighs, fumbling with the button of your pants. He worked them down with a single-minded focus, his breathing coming in jagged stabs. When he finally had you exposed to the cool air of the room, he didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees on the thin rubber floor mat.

You gripped the edges of the crate so hard the wood splattered into your palms. Looking down, you saw the crown of his white hair between your knees. The sight of him—the most famous player in the league, the man everyone wanted to be or be with—kneeling on a dirty floor for you made your head spin.

He took you into his mouth with a slow, deliberate suction that made your back arch. He didn't rush. He used his tongue to trace the length of you, his eyes flicking up to watch your face. He wanted to see you break. He wanted to see the moment you stopped being the "boring wall" and started being a mess for him.

"Gojo," you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair. You were past the point of worrying about the thin walls or the janitor in the hall.

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your gut. He picked up the pace, his hand wrapping around the base of you to steady the friction. It was intense and overwhelming. Every time you thought you were about to reach the edge, he slowed down, teasing the sensation until you were practically begging him to finish it.

He swallowed you deep, his throat working as he pushed you over the limit. Your world narrowed down to the feeling of his mouth and the frantic beat of your own heart. When you finally came, you let out a strangled sound, your head falling back against the jerseys hanging on the rack behind you.

Gojo didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there for a moment, holding you, before he slowly sat back on his heels. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his blue eyes dark and blown wide with his own heat. He looked at you with a look that wasn't smug for once. It was hungry.

He stood up, his breath still heavy. He didn't help you with your pants. He just watched you adjust yourself, his gaze lingering on the flush of your skin.

"See?" he said, his voice finally regaining that sharp, playful edge. "Everything is better when you stop overthinking it."

He turned and slipped out the door before you could even find your voice, leaving you in the quiet, dusty dark of the storage room.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The Gala was one of those high-stakes social traps where everyone pretended to be friends while checking for weaknesses. You stayed near the bar, the gin in your glass doing nothing to dull the sharp edge of your nerves. Across the room, Gojo was doing exactly what he was built for: dominating the space. He was leaning against a marble pillar, looking effortless in a tuxedo that probably cost more than your first car. He was deep in conversation with a blonde from the Swiss delegation, her hand resting on his forearm as she laughed at something he’d whispered.

You watched him. You watched the way he didn't pull back, the way he tilted his head toward her with that focused, intense charm he usually reserved for a puck. It shouldn't have mattered. You weren't his. But seeing him act like a free agent while your skin was still buzzing from the equipment room made your blood boil.

"He's a lot to look at, isn't he?"

You turned to find Elena standing next to you. She was a reporter you’d known for a couple of seasons. She was attractive and always easy to talk to. You’d gone out with women your whole life; it was familiar territory. It was safe.

"He's a headache," you muttered, offering her a tired smile.

"Come on," she leaned in, her perfume a soft, floral scent. "The music is terrible, and the drinks are worse. Let's go somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think."

You looked back at Gojo one last time. He caught your eye over the blonde's shoulder, his expression shifting into something cold and unreadable. Out of pure, jagged spite, you finished your drink and followed Elena out.

Her hotel room was a few floors up. The transition felt natural; the dimming lights, the soft click of the door, the way she pulled you toward her. This was what you knew. You’d been with girls since high school; you knew the rhythm, the expectations, the way it was supposed to feel.

When she pushed your jacket off and leaned in to kiss you, you leaned into it. You wanted to feel that familiar spark, that easy comfort of being with a woman. But as her hands moved over your chest, something was off. You weren't disgusted—you liked Elena, and she was doing everything right—but your brain was somewhere else.

It was like watching a movie with the sound turned off. You felt the physical contact, but the electricity was missing. Every time you closed your eyes, you didn't see her. You saw the flash of white hair in a dark storage room. You felt the ghost of a much larger, heavier hand on your neck. You tried to focus, tried to stay in the moment with her, but the more you tried, the more clinical it felt.

You pulled back, breathing hard, your heart hammering for all the wrong reasons.

"I... I can't," you whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Elena, I’m sorry. I think I’ve just had too much to drink."

"It's okay," she said, sounding more confused than hurt. "It happens. Long tournament, right?"

"Yeah. Long tournament."

You got out of there as fast as you could without making a scene. By the time you reached your floor, the frustration was a physical weight in your chest. You’d spent your whole life knowing who you were, and in one week, some arrogant Japanese superstar had dismantled all of it.

You rounded the corner to your room and stopped dead. Gojo was leaning against your door, his tie pulled loose and hanging around his neck like a noose. He looked like he’d been waiting for a fight.

"You took your sweet time," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.

"Get away from my door, Gojo." You fumbled for your key card, your hands shaking with a mix of adrenaline and shame.

"The reporter? Seriously?" He stepped into your space, his shadow looming over you. "I didn't think you were that desperate for a distraction. Was it worth it? Did she give you that 'discipline' you’re always bragging about?"

"It’s none of your business who I spend my time with," you snapped, finally getting the door to click.

He didn't let you close it. He shoved his way inside, forcing you to back up into the dark room. "It becomes my business when you’re out there making a fool of yourself just to get a rise out of me."

"I wasn't trying to get a rise out of you! I was trying to have a normal night with a normal person! Something you wouldn't understand!"

"Normal?" Gojo laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. He slammed the door shut behind him. "You think you can just go back to that? After the locker room? After the storage wing? You’re lying to yourself."

"I’m not lying about anything! I’ve always been with women, Gojo. This—whatever this is with you—it’s the mistake. It’s the outlier."

"Is that what we're calling it?" He grabbed the front of your shirt, his grip tight enough to choke. "A mistake? You looked at me in that shower like I was the only thing in the world, and now you’re going to pretend you’d rather be with some girl who doesn't even know your middle name?"

"At least she respects me! At least she doesn't treat me like a trophy she can win and then ignore!"

"I don't ignore you," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "I can't stop looking at you. That’s the problem. And it’s eating you alive that you feel the same way."

"I hate you," you whispered, though your grip on his forearms was tightening, pulling him closer.

"Good," he muttered, his eyes dark with a mix of fury and hunger. "Keep hating me. Just don't you dare go looking for a replacement again."

Neither of you mentioned the truth. Neither of you mentioned that you were terrified. You just stood there in the dark, the "no feelings" rule in absolute tatters on the floor.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The semi-final against Canada was a mess. You were watching from the bench when Gojo took a hit that made the whole arena go quiet. He didn't just bounce off the boards this time. He hit the wood at a bad angle and stayed down, clutching his side. It took two trainers to help him off the ice, and for the rest of the game, the stadium felt weirdly empty without him peacocking around the blue line.

An hour after the final whistle, the arena was mostly dead. The cleaning crews were working way up in the stands, but the hallways downstairs were silent and smelled like floor cleaner. You found him in the back medical room, a tiny space that was basically just a closet with a padded table.

Gojo was sitting there with his shirt off, a huge pack of ice taped to his ribs. He wasn't on his phone, and he wasn't surrounded by reporters. He was just staring at a crack in the floor tiles.

"You're missing the press conference," you said. You stayed by the door, leaning your shoulder against the frame.

He didn't look up. "Suguru is doing it. He’s better at the corporate talk anyway."

His voice was flat. The usual energy was gone, and without it, he looked exhausted. The bright overhead lights showed every bruise and every scratch from the game. He looked less like a superstar and more like a guy who had just been through a car wreck.

"Trainer says it’s a hairline fracture," he said, finally glancing at you. His eyes were tired. "I’m playing the final, though. I’ll just get them to numb me up."

"That’s a bad idea. You’ll be slow. You won't be able to rotate your torso for a shot."

"I have to play." He reached for a water bottle and winced as he moved. He took a sip and then just stared at the label. "If I'm not out there winning, I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing. People don't care about Satoru. They care about the guy who puts up four points a night. If I can't do that, I'm just a tall guy with a loud mouth."

You didn't try to comfort him with some cheesy line about how he was more than just a player. You knew as well as he did that in this sport, your value was usually tied to the scoreboard. You walked over and sat on a low stool a few feet away. You didn't touch him or try to be sentimental. You just sat there in the quiet.

"I don't really know who I am when the game stops," he said. He said it casually, like he was talking about a boring movie he'd seen. "Everything gets too quiet. I think that’s why I act the way I do. If I stop moving and making noise, I feel like I might just disappear."

You looked down at your shoes. "The noise is a lot of work, Gojo."

"Yeah," he whispered. "It is."

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. You stayed there for a long time. You didn't talk, and you didn't move. It wasn't some big romantic moment. It was just two people sitting in a cold room, hiding from the expectations waiting for them outside the door. For the first time, the wall between you didn't feel like a competition. It just felt like a place to rest.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

After the night in the medical room, the silence between you changed. It wasn't the competitive silence from before; it was heavy and awkward. You realised that seeing him look that human made it impossible to keep going the way you were. If you didn't stop now, the "no feelings" rule was going to collapse, and you weren't ready for what was on the other side of that.

You told him it was over on the bus back to the hotel. You didn't make a scene. You just leaned over the back of the seat and told him the equipment room was the end of it. Gojo didn't even look at you. He just kept his headphones on and nodded once, his jaw tight.

That lasted exactly six days.

It was the longest week of your life. Every time you were on the ice together, the tension was thick enough to choke on. He didn't make jokes anymore. He played with a jagged, mean energy, taking runs at people during practice and ignoring your existence entirely. You were just as bad, over-committing to hits and spending your nights staring at the ceiling of your hotel room, your body feeling restless and high-strung.

It snapped the night before the gold medal game.

You were in the hotel gym at 11:00 PM, trying to exhaust yourself on the cable machine so you could finally sleep. The door opened, and Gojo walked in. He wasn't wearing his gym gear. He was still in his suit from the team dinner, his tie gone and his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

You didn't look at him. You just kept pulling the weights, the metal clanking rhythmically.

"Stop," he said. His voice was low and rough.

"I'm working out, Gojo. Leave."

He didn't leave. He walked over and grabbed the cable, forcing the weights down with a loud crash. You spun around to shove him, but he caught your wrists. He pinned them against the machine, his body slamming into yours. He smelled like heavy cologne and the scotch he’d clearly been drinking.

"A week," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "You think you can just turn it off? You think I’m just some drill you can finish and move on from?"

"I said we were done. It was getting messy."

"It was already messy!" He let go of your wrists only to grab the back of your head, his fingers digging into your hair. "You think I don't see you looking at me? You’re practically vibrating every time I walk into the room."

He shoved you back against the equipment and kissed you. It was nothing like the first time. This was angry. It was desperate and rough, a release of all the static from the last six days. You didn't fight him. You pulled him in, your hands clawing at the expensive fabric of his shirt, needing the contact just as much as he did.

He didn't lead you to a bed. He pushed you down onto one of the weight benches in the corner of the gym, away from the door. He was frantic, his hands shaking as he worked your pants down. He didn't wait. He dropped to his knees, his white hair a stark contrast to the dark floor, and took you into his mouth.

It wasn't the slow, teasing pace from the storage room. He was focused, his tongue and throat working with a desperate intensity that had you gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders. You looked down at him, seeing the way his eyes were shut tight, his brow furrowed like he was in pain. It felt like he was trying to vent a week's worth of frustration out on you.

When you couldn't take the friction anymore, you pulled him up by the shoulders. You didn't want to just watch; you needed to feel him. You kicked your pants off and reached for the waistband of his trousers, tugging them down past his hips.

He was already hard, heavy and leaking, and the second you were skin-to-skin, the air seemed to leave the room. You gripped him, your hands slick, and pulled him flush against you. The feeling of him rubbing against you—frotting with a frantic, rhythmic heat—was almost too much to handle.

Gojo let out a low, broken sound against your neck, his weight pressing you down into the vinyl of the bench. It was raw and blunt. There was no finesse to it, just two bodies trying to grind the tension out of each other. You wrapped your leg around his waist to pull him closer, your heart hammering against your ribs as the friction built toward something white-hot.

You both came at the same time, a messy, shuddering release that left you both gasping for air in the dark gym. Gojo stayed slumped over you for a long minute, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.

He pulled away slowly, the silence in the room feeling heavier than before. He didn't help you up. He just stood there, breathing hard, looking down at you with an expression that was almost a challenge.

"Still done?" he asked, his voice shaking.

You didn't answer. You just started reaching for your clothes, your hands trembling. The rule hadn't changed, but the stakes had. You weren't just sleeping together anymore; you were destroying each other.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The gold medal game was brutal. You were playing the game of your life, logging heavy minutes because your team needed you to shut down the Japanese offence. Japan was leading 2-1 in the third period, and the energy in the arena was vibrating.

Gojo was stuck on the bench. He was dressed in his full gear, but his helmet was off, and he had a heavy coat draped over his shoulders to keep his core warm. He looked miserable. Every time you laid a hard hit on one of his teammates or cleared the puck, the camera found him. They wanted to see the frustrated star.

The incident happened during a puck battle along the boards. You took a heavy elbow to the ribs—the same spot Gojo had injured days prior—, and you went down for a second, gasping for air. You weren't badly hurt, but the wind was knocked out of you, and you stayed on one knee to catch your breath.

The Jumbotron didn't show the replay of the foul. It cut straight to the Japanese bench.

Gojo wasn't just watching; he was standing up, his hands white-knuckled as he gripped the top of the acrylic glass. He’d pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, and his eyes were wide, fixed on you with a raw, terrifying intensity. He looked like he was about to climb over the partition. There was no smirk, no arrogance, just a frantic sort of hunger as he tracked your movement.

The feed stayed on him for five long seconds. The entire stadium saw the mask slip. The commentators went silent for a beat before trying to pivot back to the play, but the damage was done.

By the time the final buzzer rang and Japan secured the 3-1 win, the clip was the only thing anyone was talking about.

The press conference was a disaster. You sat at the table with your silver medal around your neck, feeling the weight of the loss and the headache from the game. Gojo sat three chairs down, looking perfectly composed in his team jacket, but he wouldn't look in your direction.

"Gojo-san," a reporter asked, "your reaction to the hit on the opposing defenseman has gone viral. It looked very... personal. Would you care to explain your relationship with him?"

Gojo didn't hesitate. He gave a sharp, practised laugh. "I was just checking the officiating. It was a missed call, and I hate seeing a good game ruined by bad refs. I want to beat my rivals on the ice, not see them get handed free passes because they dived. There's nothing personal about wanting a fair game."

It was a cold, effective lie.

Then they turned to you. "And you? Did you notice the concern from the Japanese captain?"

"I was busy playing a game," you said. Your voice was flat and tired. "I don't watch the bench. People see what they want to see, but there’s no story here. We’re rivals. That’s the beginning and the end of it."

You felt Gojo’s hand tighten on his water bottle. The denial felt like a physical blow to the chest. You had both just stood in front of the world and called the only real thing in your lives a hallucination.

When the cameras finally cut, you stood up and walked out. You didn't wait for him. You didn't want to see the lie in his eyes anymore.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The parking garage was a place that smelled like dust and melting ice. The celebration from the Japanese locker room was a distant, muffled throb several floors up. Gojo was leaning against a support pillar near the team bus, his gold medal tucked inside his jacket like it was something he was ashamed of.

"You're a coward," you said. You didn't raise your voice. In the empty garage, the words carried perfectly, flat and cold.

Gojo didn't move. He kept his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. "I just saved your career and mine. You should be happy we still have jobs tomorrow."

"I'm not talking about the press conference. I'm talking about the way you live." You walked closer, stopping just outside his reach. "You spend every second of your life performing. You hide behind that plastic charm and the jokes because you're terrified. You think if you stop smiling for one minute, people will see that you’re actually just a hollow person who doesn't know how to exist without a crowd."

Gojo finally looked up. His eyes weren't bright or playful. They were dark, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above. "And you're any better? You spend all your time pretending you're some stoic wall that nothing can touch. You act like you don't care about anything, so you never have to risk losing. It's a pathetic way to live."

"At least I'm honest about who I am," you replied. "I don't need a script to get through a conversation."

"You aren't honest," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. He stepped into your space, his height looming over you. "You're just scared. You’d rather feel nothing than admit that I’m the only thing that’s made you feel alive in years. You’re using me as a distraction from your own boring life."

"I'm not using you. I was trying to find something real."

Gojo let out a short, bitter laugh. "There is nothing real here. You’re just another person who wants a piece of the 'Satoru Gojo' show, and I was stupid enough to think you were different. You’re just a fan with a jersey, and I'm bored of playing with you."

The air in the garage felt like it turned to glass. It was the kind of thing you couldn't take back. It wasn't a joke or a jab. It was a dismissal.

You looked at him for a long beat, waiting for the smirk or the punchline that would soften the blow. It never came. He just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes cold and distant.

"Fine," you said. Your voice was steady, which surprised you. "Enjoy the show, Gojo."

You turned and walked toward the exit. You didn't run. You just kept a deliberate pace, the sound of your boots on the concrete the only noise in the space. You didn't look back to see if he was watching. You just left him there, standing in the shadows of the pillar with his gold medal and his lies.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The flight home was a ten-hour vacuum. You sat in the middle of your teammates, the silver medal heavy in your bag, listening to them talk about the next season. You didn't join in. You just looked out the window at the clouds and felt the physical weight of the distance growing between you and Tokyo.

The silence that followed wasn't a relief. It was pressure.

You went back to your domestic league. You showed up to practice, you hit the weight room, and you played your minutes. You were perfect on paper. You didn't take penalties, and you didn't miss assignments. Your coach called it "professionalism," but your teammates stopped joking with you in the locker room. You were a ghost in a jersey. You did your job, went home to a quiet apartment, and stared at your phone until the screen timed out.

Gojo’s name still popped up in your feed. You couldn't avoid it.

He was spiralling, though the media called it "unpredictable brilliance." He was taking dangerous risks on the ice, getting into fights with refs, and blowing off mandatory team events. There was a photo of him leaving a club at 4:00 AM, looking haggard and sharp, his hair a mess and his sunglasses crooked. He looked like he was trying to burn himself out from the inside.

You drafted a dozen texts. Are you okay? That was a low blow. I'm sorry. You never sent them. You would type a sentence, look at the blinking cursor, and realise there was no way to bridge the gap without breaking the silence you’d both built. You deleted every draft.

He never called. He never texted. There were no "missed you" notes or cryptic social media posts. There was just a total, crushing absence. You slept on one side of the bed. You stopped buying the mint tea he liked.

The months didn't make it easier. Time didn't heal the argument in the parking garage; it just let the words sink in until they felt like part of your bones. You weren't a fan with a jersey, and he wasn't just a performer, but you were both too proud to be the first one to admit that the lie had hurt.

By the time the rosters for the next international meet were announced, you felt like you’d aged a decade. You saw his name on the Japanese list. You saw your own on yours.

The prospect of seeing him again didn't feel like a reunion. It felt like a collision you couldn't avoid.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The hotel in Prague was a labyrinth of limestone and heavy carpets. It was the kind of place that felt too old and too quiet for a bunch of hockey players. You saw the Japanese team bus pull up while you were standing at the lobby window. You didn't wait around to see him get off. You went straight to your room, shut the door, and sat on the edge of the bed until the sun went down.

The first time you actually ran into him was at the morning skate the next day. You were coming off the ice; he was heading on. Usually, this was when he’d lean over the rail and say something to get under your skin.

This time, he stopped three feet away. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a long flight, but a deep, structural exhaustion that seemed to have settled into his shoulders. He didn't have his usual designer glasses on. He just looked at you, and for the first time, he didn't have a comeback ready.

"You changed your hair," he said. His voice was scratchy and thin.

"You look like hell, Gojo," you replied. You didn't mean it as an insult. It was just a fact.

"Yeah." He shifted his weight, his skates scraping against the rubber matting. "I haven't been sleeping much. The noise in Tokyo is loud this time of year."

It was a clumsy conversation. It was restrained and careful, like you were both walking on ice that was way too thin to hold your weight. There was no heat in it, just a dull, aching awkwardness that made your chest tight. He lingered for a second longer than he needed to, then turned and skated onto the ice without another word.

That night, you didn't even have to wonder if he’d show up. You left the door unlocked.

When he walked in, he didn't turn on the lights. He just kicked his shoes off and moved toward the bed in the shadows. There was no bravado. No arrogant comments about how much you’d missed him. He just sat down beside you and stayed there for a long time, the only sound in the room being the distant hum of the city outside.

When you finally moved in together, it was slow. It was the quietest it had ever been. There was no frantic tearing at clothes or bruised skin. It was just skin on skin, a slow, deliberate exploration that felt more like a confession than a hookup. You stayed close, your hands moving over the familiar lines of his back, feeling the way his heart was thudding against your own.

You frotted against him, the heat between you building in a slow, steady climb. It wasn't about the release this time. It was about the fact that he was actually there, his weight heavy and real against you. When he finally came, he didn't make a sound. He just buried his face in the crook of your neck and held on until his breathing levelled out.

Afterwards, the room stayed dark. Gojo didn't get up to find his clothes. He didn't make a joke about your hotel room or ask if you were still "bored" with him. He just lay there on his back, his arm thrown over his eyes, silent.

That was the terrifying part. The jokes were his armour. They were how he kept the world at a distance. Without them, he was just a man lying in a dark room with nothing to hide behind. The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating, and for the first time, you realised that the game was truly over.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The practice rink was scheduled for maintenance at 3:00 AM. The overhead lights were dimmed to a low, orange hum, casting long shadows across the fresh sheet of ice. You were sitting on the player bench, your skates laced but your jersey left in the locker room. The cold was steady, the kind that got under your skin and stayed there.

You heard the heavy thud of the door, then the rhythmic scrape of blades on the rubber matting. Gojo didn't get on the ice. He sat down on the same bench, three feet away from you. He was wearing his team tracksuit, his hands tucked into his sleeves to stay warm.

"I can't play tomorrow if I don't get this out of my head," he said. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring at the goal crease on the far end of the rink.

"Then say it," you replied.

He let out a breath that puffed into a white cloud in the freezing air. "I've spent my whole life making sure everything I did was for the win. Every person I talked to, every girl I went home with, every interview. It was all just fuel for the image. It was easy because none of it was real."

He finally turned his head. His eyes were tired, stripped of the performative spark that usually defined him. "I'm scared. If I keep this up with you, it’s going to cost me the only thing I know how to be. I’m scared I’ll lose the version of Satoru Gojo that everyone wants, and I don’t know who’s left underneath that."

You looked at the ice, the smooth surface reflecting the dim light like a mirror. "It already cost me, Gojo. I haven't been the same player since that parking garage in Japan. I've been a ghost on the ice. I lost the peace I had when I was just a defenseman doing a job."

"I know," he whispered.

"We aren't the same people we were in Zurich," you said. "The 'rivalry' was a lie we told ourselves so we could keep touching each other. But the lie is dead now. We killed it at the press conference."

Gojo leaned back against the hard plastic of the bench. He didn't offer a promise. He didn't tell you he would change or that everything would be fine once the tournament was over. He didn't say he loved you, and you didn't say it back. Those words were too heavy for a cold bench in an empty rink.

"I don't know what happens next," he admitted. "I don't have a script for this. I don't know if we can even do this without ruining our careers."

"Neither do I," you said.

For the first time in months, the air didn't feel like it was about to snap. There was no performance, no ego, and no jagged edges. Just two people sitting in a cold, dark building, admitting they were lost. It was the most honest conversation you’d ever had, and it felt more permanent than any of the secrets you’d kept before.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The hotel room was quiet when you returned, the only sound being the low hum of the heater fighting the Prague chill outside the window. There was no frantic fumbling for the key card this time. No slamming each other against the door out of spite or adrenaline. You walked in, and Gojo followed, closing the door softly behind him. The lock clicked, but it didn't feel like a barrier anymore; it felt like a boundary.

Gojo sat on the edge of the bed and just watched you. The light from the bedside lamp was a warm, dull yellow that caught the frayed edges of his hoodie. He looked like a man who had finally run out of things to say. When you moved toward him, it wasn't an impulse driven by a bad game or a bruised ego. It was a choice. You stood between his knees, and he rested his forehead against your stomach, his hands curling loosely around your waist. He took a long, shaky breath, the kind that sounded like he was finally letting go of a weight he’d been carrying since Japan.

He started undressing you with a slow focus. His fingers were steady, unbuttoning your shirt one by one, his eyes following the movement of his own hands. There was no performance for a hidden camera, no mask of the "greatest player in the world" to maintain. When it was his turn, you helped him out of his layers, feeling the solid, heavy muscle of his shoulders under your palms. He had a faint scar near his collarbone you hadn’t noticed before, and a few fading bruises on his ribs. He was just a guy.

He leaned over to the nightstand, pulling a small tube of lubricant from his travel kit. He didn't make a joke about it or try to deflect the intimacy with a smirk. He didn't try to be "cool." He just looked at you, a silent question in his eyes, and you nodded.

You lie back against the sheets, the fabric cool against your skin. Gojo moved between your legs, his weight a grounding, physical presence. He was patient. He used his fingers first, coated in the slick gel, moving with a careful, rhythmic pressure. He wasn't trying to get to the finish line; he was just making sure you were comfortable. He watched your face, his thumb occasionally brushing over your hip bone, waiting for your breath to hitch or your muscles to relax before he moved deeper. It was clinical in its care, but deeply human in its tenderness.

When he finally lined himself up, he paused. He stayed there for a beat, his forehead resting against yours, his white hair tickling your skin. The air between you smelled like hotel soap and the faint, metallic scent of the ice rink that always seemed to cling to your skin.

"Okay?" he whispered. His voice was low, stripped of all its usual theatrics.

"Yeah," you breathed out, your hands finding the back of his neck. "I'm okay."

He pushed inside slowly. It was a heavy, overwhelming sensation, a fullness that made the rest of the world feel like it was disappearing into the background. You gripped his shoulders, your knuckles white, but it wasn't out of pain. It was just the sheer reality of him finally being there, without the rivalry, without the lies. Gojo didn't rush. He stayed still for a long moment, letting your body adjust to the weight of him, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that felt more exposing than being naked.

When he started to move, it was with a deep, steady pace. There was no frantic friction, just a quiet, shared heat. Every thrust was a slow climb that felt like it was pulling something out of your chest. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer, wanting to close every millimetre of space left. It felt like a conversation you’d been trying to have for months—one where you finally didn't have to keep your guard up.

Gojo's composure eventually started to break. His breathing turned into jagged, uneven gasps, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his grip on your hips tightening. He wasn't the "sun”, or a "god”, or a "superstar." He was just a man who was terrified of being alone, clinging to the only person who actually knew the difference.

The release wasn't an explosion; it was a slow collapse. You both came in the quiet, your gasps muffled against each other’s skin. Gojo didn't pull away immediately. He stayed buried inside you, his head tucked against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling in time with yours as his heart rate eventually slowed down. He felt heavy, warm, and real.

The silence that followed wasn't scary anymore. It was just a shared space. No one was running for the door. No one was reaching for a drink or a distraction. You just lay there in the dim light, two people who had finally stopped playing a game they couldn't win.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The morning sun in Prague was weak, filtering through the heavy hotel curtains in dusty slats of grey light. Gojo didn't leave in the middle of the night. When you woke up, he was still there, taking up more than his fair share of the bed, his face smashed into a pillow. Without the gel in his hair or the glasses on his face, he just looked like a person—one who happened to be a world-class athlete with a very loud mouth.

You sat at the small hotel desk, nursing a lukewarm coffee and watching the city wake up. You heard the bedsheets rustle.

"You're thinking too loud," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the blankets pooling at his waist.

"I'm thinking about the flight schedules," you said. "And the fact that my coach is going to kill me if I’m late for the bus."

Gojo stayed quiet for a second. He looked at his hands, then back at you. The bravado was still missing, but he didn't look scared anymore. He looked resolved. "My season ends in three weeks. I have a gap before the summer camps start. I could... fly out. It’s a long trip, but I’ve got the miles."

It wasn't a grand romantic gesture. It was a logistical nightmare. Different leagues, different continents, two massive reputations that would eventually collide again under the glare of a Jumbotron. It was going to be complicated, invasive, and probably a little bit miserable when the media eventually found out.

"It's going to be a mess, Satoru," you said, leaning back in the chair.

He stood up, stretching until his joints popped, and walked over to you. He didn't lean over you with that predatory smirk from Zurich. He just rested a hand on the back of your chair, his thumb brushing against your shoulder.

"Yeah," he admitted, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's going to be a disaster. But I'm bored with playing it safe. Aren't you?"

You looked up at him and felt a strange, quiet sense of relief. The weight of the silver medal, the gold medal, and the lies didn't feel so heavy anymore. "I've been bored for a long time."

An hour later, you were standing in the lobby, gear bags at your feet. The Japanese team was boarding their bus out front, and a crowd of fans already gathered behind the barricades. Gojo was standing by the glass doors, adjusting his dark glasses, the "superstar" mask sliding back into place as he prepared to face the cameras.

He caught your eye across the busy room. He didn't wink. He didn't blow a kiss. He just waited until you walked toward the exit, passing him one last time.

"Watch your step," he said, his voice low and smooth, a soft echo of the very first time he’d stopped you in that tunnel.

You stopped, looking at him over your shoulder. You didn't roll your eyes this time. You just gave him a faint, steady nod.

"Try not to get in my way, Gojo."

He let out a short, real laugh—the kind that didn't care about the acoustics—and watched you walk out into the light.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

​It was late, the sky outside bathed in inky darkness and speckled with bright stars. The only sound was the distant, muffled howl of a siren on the highway, a sound so common in this part of the city it had become a kind of white noise.

​Moonlight seeped in through the apartment's ruined blinds, illuminating the mess scattered across the wooden floor. The air in here was thick with the scent of stale beer and old cat litter, a heavy, familiar smell you barely noticed anymore.

​Clothes were scattered, dishes were left in the sink, and a few crumpled letters lay on the old wooden table that had seen its fair share of use. Cat food covered the mat around the cat's bowls, most likely from when Diesel had knocked them over earlier that morning.

​The TV was on, turned to some random channel that was mostly static and low fuzz. You lay sprawled against your couch, the one you'd picked up off the side of the road, which had definitely seen much better days before being tossed aside. Your cat, Diesel, lay across the back of the couch, a fat, dark lump of contentment, his purr a low, internal engine that was the most reliable thing in the apartment.

​Your eyes were hardly open. Your work shirt was tossed aside on the floor next to your boots, pants pulled halfway down your legs and boxers hanging loosely on your hips. An unlit cigarette hung from your lips, and you clutched a half-drunk beer bottle that was dripping condensation onto the cheap area rug. Your bare feet could feel the grit of the wooden floor—a mix of dust and spilled cat food—whenever you shifted.

​A loud, insistent knock at the door sliced through the low drone of the TV, and your eyes shot open. Past midnight. You automatically reached for an empty bottle—a habit—as the knocking persisted, three sharp, impatient raps.

​You rose from the couch, nearly tripping on your pants in the process.

​“Fuck,” you murmured, already pulling your pants off the rest of the way and tossing them aside. “Hold on!” you shouted.

​The apartment door creaked open, and your face went from tired to confused when you saw Lip Gallagher of all people standing there.

​He didn't initially say anything, simply pushed past you at first. He stood there, his eyes doing their usual quick, inventory scan—noting the grease and oil stains from your shift that you hadn't even bothered to wash off, the state of your barely-covered body, the whole disaster zone of the room.

​“You fucking stink,” he murmured.

​“Good to see you too, Lip.” You huffed, shutting the door and turning to face him.

​You were a couple years older than Lip, and your relationship could be described as complicated among other things. Lip would never put a label on himself, not like you or Ian did. You didn't mind; a part of you knew that Lip stuck around for the sex without the fear of getting a girl pregnant, and the fact that you had a reputation that could be put to use if needed.

​He didn't even move when you pushed past him and towards the couch.

​You grabbed your lighter, sparking it and lighting the cigarette that had dropped from your lips when you stood before. You leaned back, taking a long drag, meeting his gaze with a tired, "I don't care" smirk as Lip finally moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table.

​“I need your help,” he muttered, not looking at you.

​You blew the smoke from your lips, watching as the cloud dissipated into the stale air. “What, Karen kick you out before you could get your rocks off?”

​Lip leaned forward, punching your bare chest, though it wasn't as hard as you knew he could. “I'm fucking serious.”

You let out a sigh that felt too heavy for the hour, the sound a ragged puff of air and nicotine residue. You shifted, so that you now sat forward, elbows resting on your knees, the cigarette hanging from your fingers. The movement stretched the old couch springs, making it groan in protest.

​Lip wasn't the type to ask for help. You knew that, hell, you weren't any different in that regard. He was the one people came to when they needed a calculator to figure out a scam or a sober ride when they were too wasted to stand. For him to show up here, hat in hand and with that specific knot of tension in his shoulders, meant whatever it was had already spun beyond his control.

​The silence between you thickened, broken only by the flicker of the static on the television.

​"It's about Ian," he finally whispered.

​Your entire posture changed. The easy, defensive apathy you'd been wearing instantly evaporated. You perked up, your tired eyes instantly sharpening. If this was something about Ian, and Lip was coming to you for help, it was serious. It meant it was something they couldn't figure out themselves, something that required a skill set—or a reputation—that only you possessed.

​"What happened? Is he okay?" you asked, your voice dropping in genuine concern, the filter you usually kept up completely gone.

​Lip cocked an eyebrow, the familiar smirk, the one that meant he knew he’d found a crack in your armor, tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward, closing the space between you until the tip of his nose was barely brushing yours. His breath, smelling faintly of old coffee and cheap cigarettes, ghosted your lips.

​"Suddenly it's about Ian and you get serious?" he hummed, his eyes challenging yours. Before you could react, he casually grabbed the cigarette from your fingers as you moved to bring it to your lips. "Your priorities are fucking confusing."

​You managed a lazy, dismissive shrug, even though your pulse had picked up at the mention of Ian.

​"Oh, sorry," you hummed, the sarcasm dripping off every word. "I'll just go tell the brother of the guy I'm fucking and whose sister I'm friends with to just go fuck himself and solve his own issues." You held the shrug a moment longer, staring him down like it was a perfectly normal response. "He's family, Gallagher. You know the rules."

​Lip ignored your explanation. He brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a long, deep drag, then exhaled the smoke directly into your face. The cloud was warm and acrid, stinging your eyes.

​"Fuck this," he huffed, leaning back quickly. "This was a stupid idea."

​He moved to get up, pushing off the coffee table, but you were faster. Your hand shot out, grabbing his arm right above the elbow—a firm, non-negotiable grip. Your fingers dug into the sinew and muscle of his tired body, forcing him to halt. The sudden, raw physical contact was always an unspoken language between you two.

​You tugged. Hard.

​He dropped back onto the edge of the coffee table with a jarring thump. You maintained the grip, your knuckles turning white. You stared at him, your composure now completely lost, replaced by a cold, hard anger that you usually reserved for people who owed you money.

​"You show up here past one in the morning, smelling like a distillery, and you bring up Ian's name and you think you get to just leave?" Your voice was low, a dangerous rumble that cut through the TV static. "You finish what you started, Lip. Now talk.”

​You maintained the grip on his arm, your knuckles white, the silence after your demand heavy and charged. Lip finally stopped fighting the tension. He let out a low, defeated sound that was more growl than sigh. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were shadowed with genuine worry.

​"Jesus, alright," he muttered, dropping the cigarette on the stained rug. He didn't bother to put it out, letting it smolder there. "He came home three nights ago looking like he'd gotten the shit beat out of him. Not just a black eye, either. His ribs are bruised bad, his jacket was torn, and he was bleeding from a cut above his temple."

​He looked at you, the challenge gone, replaced by the naked anxiety of a brother who was out of his depth.

​"He wouldn't talk to me. Wouldn't talk to Fiona. Not even Mickey," Lip elaborated, the names coming out in frustrated bursts. "Mick tried, hard, and Ian just went totally shut down. Said he fell. He didn't fall." Lip shook his head slowly. "And this isn't the first time, either. Maybe the worst, but not the first."

​You slowly loosened your grip, but you didn't let go. You knew the Gallaghers had this magnetic pull when it came to getting into fights; it was a South Side heritage. But from what you remembered, Ian did his best to stay out of them, preferring a verbal takedown over a physical one, unless he was provoked or defending someone.

​You finally released his arm, leaning back against the couch again, settling the weight of the new information. You picked the smoldering cigarette off the floor and took a drag, extinguishing it on the already singed edge of the cheap wooden coffee table.

​"So, what do you want me to do?" you asked, your voice now flat, devoid of the earlier heat. It was the tone you used when you were moving from emotion to business.

​Lip shrugged, but the movement was tense and unnatural. "What you do best," he said, avoiding your gaze, now inspecting a crack in the floor. "Figure out who it is, and then make sure whoever it is doesn't bother Ian again.”

​You didn't need him to elaborate. The request was clear, direct, and illegal. It was also exactly what the Gallaghers, and specifically Lip, needed from you.

​Your reputation on the South Side wasn't based on your intellect or your surprisingly consistent job at the local garage. It was built on a foundation of recklessness and effective violence. It was a reputation that had been forged in a dozen different ways.

You didn't just win fights; you ended them. You had a terrifying, sudden ability to pivot from casual conversation to brutal, focused force. People knew that when you got involved, the line between fighting and sending someone to the ER blurred.

You'd been hauled in more times than you could count—for disorderly conduct, for breaking and entering, and more than once for being the last man standing after a brawl that shut down a local bar. The police knew your face, and the neighborhood knew you weren't afraid of the system.

You were quietly proficient in illegal ventures, primarily petty theft and retrieving "lost" items for a steep fee. You weren't a big-time gangster, but you were reliable, silent, and you always got the job done without leaving a trail.

The crucial element that gave your name weight was your utter disregard for your own well-being. You’d take a punch to deliver two better ones. You didn't intimidate people because you were big; you intimidated them because they genuinely believed you'd rather spend a week in the hospital than lose a confrontation. You lived on the edge, and the people you targeted knew you had nothing to lose.

​The Gallaghers knew that part of you better than anyone. They had seen you in the trenches, defending their turf, their property, or just their right to exist in peace. They trusted your violence because it was usually righteous—deployed in defense of the people you cared about.

​That was why Lip, the genius who saw through everyone else's bullshit, swallowed his pride and came to you. He needed a problem solved that math couldn't fix, that talking couldn't mend, and that didn't require anything from you except the willingness to be dangerous. He needed you to be the deterrent they couldn't be themselves.

​You met his gaze now, seeing the desperate calculation in his eyes.

​"So, you want me to find the guy who's been hitting your brother, and I make it so he forgets Ian Gallagher exists," you summarized, stating the job simply. "And then what, Lip? You just forget I did you a favor?”

Lip let out a sigh that was ragged with stress, running a hand down his face and through his already messy hair. He looked every bit his age and more, worn down by family responsibility and the constant, crushing pressure of South Side survival.

​“No,” he whispered, the sound barely louder than the TV static. He paused, struggling to voice the next part. “I, uh, I don’t have money right now, though. Not for this.” He swallowed hard, a flicker of shame passing over his expression. Asking for help was one thing; admitting he was broke was another.

​You leaned forward again, taking what was left of the cigarette back from him. You pinched the filter, examining the ember before tossing it into the half-empty beer bottle on the floor. It hissed softly as it died.

​"I don't want money, Lip," you sighed, the violence and aggression you’d been showing moments before completely dissolving. You were tired, and for the first time since he walked in, you let him see it.

​You held his gaze, which was still avoiding yours, tracing the pattern on the worn rug. "Maybe just treat me as someone other than a fuck buddy and problem solver."

​It wasn't a demand, it was a request—a tired, raw declaration of a need you both knew he couldn't easily meet. It hung in the stale, cigarette-scented air between you, more heavy and consequential than any dollar amount. You watched his mind spin through the possibilities of that promise: treating you like a person. Like a friend. Like more.

​Lip finally lifted his eyes and met yours. He looked surprised, then faintly relieved, like the actual cost was less than the monetary one he'd been bracing for. He nodded once, firm and decisive.

​"Yeah," he replied, his voice a little clearer now, the honesty giving him back some of his usual confidence. "Yeah, I can do that."

​The deal was sealed, not with a handshake, but with a gaze—a brief, fragile promise of something more than midnight sex and broken bones.

​You broke the tension by leaning back and grabbing the remote. You mashed the power button, silencing the TV static entirely. The sudden quiet of the apartment felt vast.

It was dark, a couple days had passed since your conversation with Lip.You sat outside the convenience store Ian worked at, your truck turned off and sitting far enough back in the dimly lit corner of the parking lot that you had a clear view of the doors without drawing attention. The engine ticked softly as it cooled. You leaned your head back against the worn vinyl seat, a cigarette hanging from your lips, its smoke curling lazily toward the dusty ceiling of the cab.

​Through the glass, you could see Ian behind the counter. He was checking out an older lady, his mouth curved into that easy, genuine Gallagher smile that was equal parts charming and reckless. It made the simmering anger in your gut tighten—that smile should never be connected to bruised ribs.

​The passenger door creaked open, breaking the silence of the cab, and Lip climbed in, huffing like he had sprinted the last three blocks. He slammed the door shut with unnecessary force.

​"The fuck are you doing here?" you asked, turning your head to face him, only to be met by a large, steaming cup of coffee shoved right into your personal space.

​You grabbed the cup before it spilled and set it carefully in the cup holder. It was immediately clear from the scent that it was the usual: caramel and vanilla, exactly how you liked it.

​"If Fiona finds out about any of this, I'm dead," you muttered under your breath, the thought of her sheer, terrifying disapproval making the back of your neck prickle. Fiona was the one person in their chaotic lives who you genuinely feared crossing, and Lip knew that.

​"Relax, she won't find out," he shrugged, settling back into the seat. He didn't look at you; instead, he was staring straight ahead at the brightly lit convenience store, his silhouette framed in the dim interior of the truck.

​"You didn't answer my question, Lip." You mumbled, taking a long drag of your cigarette and flicking the ash out the open window with a sharp tap of your finger.

​Lip finally turned to face you, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket. He shrugged again, a noncommittal twitch of his shoulders, watching as you instinctively took a swig of the coffee.

​"Figured you'd want company," he stated simply. "Long night. Waiting alone is boring as hell." He pulled his hands out and rubbed them together, a gesture that betrayed the cold he was feeling, despite the engine having been recently run.

​You held the coffee cup, letting the warmth soak into your hands, but your gaze was dissecting his face. Lip Gallagher didn't do "company" or "boring." He did calculus and scams and dodging bills. This was something else. He was here because he needed to be proximate to the situation, to his brother's danger, and maybe, to you.

​"Mm right," you hummed, letting the skepticism hang in the air. "Or you couldn't stand the idea of me getting my hands dirty without you being here."

​Lip didn't flinch at the implication of violence. Instead, he leaned back, the tension in his jaw easing a fraction. He finally admitted the underlying truth: "Ian's my brother."

​You took a thoughtful sip of your sweet coffee. "So, you figured you'd supervise?"

​"Something like that," he conceded, offering a dry smirk. He nodded toward the store. "Ian gets off in thirty minutes. If this guy is showing, it’ll be when he walks to the bus stop."

​The mood in the truck had shifted from tense interrogation to a shared, pragmatic focus. The job had officially become a team effort, even if Lip was only acting as a highly stressed, coffee-delivering lookout.

The truck cab settled into a thick silence, filled only by the distant hum of traffic and the quiet rush of your own breathing. Both of your attention was locked onto the store, watching Ian move like a caged animal behind the brightly lit glass. The last few minutes of his shift stretched out like hours.

​You felt Lip shift beside you. His gaze was no longer on the store; it was boring into you. You tried to ignore it, focusing on the dark street outside, but the intensity of his stare was a palpable weight. Finally, you had to break the focus.

​You turned your head to face him, taking another deep swig of the caramel-vanilla coffee, the heat a welcome burn in your throat.

​"What?" you whispered, keeping your voice low, not wanting to draw attention even in the empty parking lot.

​Lip didn't answer right away. He just held your eyes, his expression unreadable, a complicated mix of anxiety and something else—something that looked suspiciously like nervous anticipation. He fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket.

​He finally offered a careless shrug, the movement oddly stiff. "Just wondering," he mumbled, glancing quickly at the side mirror as if the thought had just occurred to him. "If this all goes down, and we take care of it, you know... do you want to go back to your place after?"

​The question hung in the air, blunt and unexpected, especially coming right before you were about to commit battery for his family. It was the "fuck buddy" script, but this time, it was being delivered under the context of the "deal."

​You cocked an eyebrow, letting a slow, cynical smirk spread across your face. You leaned in just enough to close the gap between you, the scent of your coffee and cigarette smoke mingling.

​"Well, Lip," you drawled, your voice a low, teasing rasp. "If the thought of me beating up some dude for your brother is your idea of a turn-on, you could just say so." You let the implication sit there, testing the waters, watching the color rise slightly on his neck.

​He scoffed, a quick, defensive sound. "It's not about that," he muttered, but his eyes were darting from your mouth to your eyes and back again. "It's about... stress relief. And keeping our end of the deal. If I’m supposed to treat you like more than just a problem-solver, maybe that starts with not letting you go home alone at two in the morning."

​You laughed softly—a genuine sound this time, surprising even yourself. "Nice try, Gallagher. You’re doing the exact thing you promised not to do: framing sex as a transaction." You paused, running the tip of your thumb over the rim of the hot coffee cup. "But yeah. Maybe."

​Before Lip could stammer out another justification or retraction, the door to the convenience store opened, and Ian stepped out, pulling his collar up against the cold. The time for talking was over.

​You didn't wait for Lip to respond. You pushed your door open slowly, the heavy metal grating the sudden silence. "Stay put, Lip. If you move, Fiona finds out, and it'll be your ass, not mine, that she kills." It was a low-stakes threat for a high-stakes moment, but Lip understood the finality in your tone.

​You slipped out of the truck and shut the door with a quiet thunk. You kept low, moving along the shadows cast by the dumpsters and the tall fence line. Ian was already a few blocks down the street, heading toward the main bus stop, his shoulders hunched against the late-night chill.

​You kept a deliberate distance at first, letting him walk toward the trap. The street was mostly abandoned—a row of closed businesses and darkened apartment buildings. The only light came from the sporadic, sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps.

​You had been walking for a few minutes when it happened.

​A figure stepped out from the deep recess of a darkened alleyway, blocking Ian’s path. The man was built thick and low to the ground. He called Ian's name, not as a greeting, but as if the sound of it itself was a slur—a deliberate, insulting drawl that dripped with malice. Ian immediately froze, his posture snapping from relaxed to rigid.

​You let out a low, satisfied huff, a quiet exhale of relief that the waiting was over. You immediately sped up, crossing the remaining distance with quick, predatory strides.

​You came up directly behind Ian. You didn't announce yourself with a word; you announced yourself with mass and shadow. You stopped, not quite towering over Ian's frame, but certainly taller and significantly broader than the man standing in front of him.

​You put your hand firmly on Ian's shoulder. Your fingers dug in just enough—a silent, non-negotiable signal that Ian was to stay put and stay quiet. Ian, recognizing the unspoken authority in the grip, didn't move a muscle.

​Leaning down just slightly, you positioned yourself so you could look past Ian’s head and take in the face of the man who had been doing the damage.

​The air went still. A cold smirk spread across your mouth.

​You knew the guy well: Marko. A low-level hood who ran drugs near the docks and whose favorite pastime was proving his toughness on people smaller or weaker than him. You'd gotten into a brutal bar fight with him a year or so ago over a misplaced pool cue and a spilled beer. He was always an issue.

​"I'll be damned," you murmured, your voice dangerously quiet, cutting through the tense silence. You didn't bother using his name, reducing him to a mistake. "You actually thought it was wise to fuck with a Gallagher, didn't you?"

​Marko’s expression, which had been set in sneering confidence, dissolved the moment he recognized you. His eyes went wide, flicking from your face to the heavy hand planted on Ian’s shoulder. He knew your reputation. He knew you didn't play by the rules of fair fighting, and he knew you carried grudges like currency. The air instantly smelled like fear and cheap cologne.

​Ian shifted slightly under your hand, finally breaking his silence. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, confusion mixing with alarm.

​You didn't answer him. Your eyes were locked on Marko, giving him the only two options he had.

​"He's under my protection now," you stated flatly. "You forget his name. You forget his face. You forget this neighborhood. You don't come near him, his family, or this store again. Understand?”

​Marko cleared his throat, a pathetic, wet sound that was an obvious attempt to reclaim the ground he’d lost. He was scared, but years of street habit dictated that he couldn't just turn tail in front of an audience.

​"I don't know what you're talkin' about," Marko stammered, his eyes darting quickly to Ian and back to your face. "Walk away, man. This ain't your business."

​You didn't move. You didn't even shift your weight. You took the opportunity to pull Ian fully behind you, positioning your body as a complete shield. You were waiting, daring Marko to make a move that would justify what came next.

​"It became my business when you put your hands on him," you stated, the calm delivery making the threat absolute. "Last chance. Walk."

​Marko’s face flushed an ugly red. He opted for foolish resistance. He wound back his arm—sloppy, telegraphed, and fueled by desperation—and aimed a haymaker directly at your head.

​You didn't dodge. You didn't even lean back.

​As his fist cut the air toward your ear, you took a short, sharp step forward, driving your own shoulder into his chest and simultaneously unleashing a quick, brutal punch that connected squarely with his jaw.

​The sound was a sharp, wet crack in the quiet night air. Marko stumbled back three steps, spitting out a curse and a spray of blood onto the dirty sidewalk.

​"Jesus Christ!" Ian hissed from behind your back, clearly shocked by the sudden, focused violence.

​Marko shook his head, momentarily stunned but not yet out. You were still holding back—that was a warning shot, designed to stun and send him running. But Marko, fueled by adrenaline and the sting of humiliation, rushed you.

​He tackled you, driving his head into your chest. The sudden momentum pushed you back against the brick wall of a closed laundromat. The impact knocked the wind out of you, and you grunted, your head hitting the rough brick. Marko, heavier than he looked, used the momentum to shove you hard, twisting to get behind you and wrap a thick forearm around your throat.

​For a few seconds, you were fully defensive. Marko was grunting and struggling, putting all his strength into the chokehold. You fought the instinct to panic, focusing instead on stabilizing your feet as he dragged you away from the wall. You could feel the pressure building, lights starting to spot at the edge of your vision.

​He actually got a couple of good hits in, you noted grimly to yourself. The initial surprise and your deliberate restraint had cost you.

​That was enough. The warning was over.

​Your muscles locked. You dropped all pretense of restraint, allowing the cold, necessary violence you were known for to take over.

​First, you stomped down hard, grinding your bootheel onto Marko's foot. He yelped, the pressure on your throat easing. You used the split second of pain to duck your head and ram it backward into his nose with vicious force.

​He screamed, a high, panicked sound, and staggered back, his hands flying to his now bleeding and likely broken nose.

​You didn't give him a chance to recover. This wasn't a fair fight; this was a conclusion. You launched forward, driving your shoulder into his midsection like a battering ram, knocking him clean off his feet. As he fell, you twisted, grabbed his jacket, and slammed him down onto the sidewalk.

​You didn't pause. You mounted him, one knee driving into his chest, pinning him as effectively as a car. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, lifting his head barely an inch off the ground, forcing him to look up into your face.

​Your voice was no longer quiet. It was a guttural snarl.

​"You touch him again, I will break every finger in your hand, then I will find where you sleep and I will break your legs," you promised, the words low, steady, and entirely convincing.

​You delivered one final, sickening blow: a sharp, hard strike to his ribs that you knew would leave him winded and bruised for a week.

​Marko didn't fight. He didn't even groan. He just wheezed, his eyes wide, watery, and focused on survival.

​You released him, standing up in one swift, fluid motion. You wiped a bead of sweat and blood—Marko’s, not yours—from your knuckles. You glanced back at Ian, who was staring at the scene with a mix of horror and grim recognition.

​You turned your attention back to the sputtering pile on the ground.

​"Get up. Leave."

​Marko scrambled to his feet, clutching his nose and his ribs, stumbling backward into the alley he'd emerged from, disappearing into the darkness without looking back.

You stood over the empty stretch of sidewalk where Marko had been, listening to the silence rush back in. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind a dull ache in your chest and knuckles. You turned to face Ian, raising your hand automatically to the back of your head. You noted the sting where your skull had connected with the unforgiving brick. Your fingers came away sticky with blood, but it wasn't anything bad; you’d had worse.

​Ian was still wide-eyed, his chest heaving slightly, staring at the spot where Marko had collapsed. He looked like he’d been yanked out of a quiet routine and dropped into a war zone.

​"You okay?" you asked Ian, your voice rougher now, walking over to him. You didn't wait for him to process the question. You placed your hand on his shoulder again, this time gently, to guide him away from the scene.

​He nodded once, quickly, blinking a few times as if recalibrating his vision. He looked up at your face, then down at the concrete sidewalk, avoiding the full weight of the terrifying favor you’d just done him.

​"Come on," you murmured. "I'll take you home."

​The walk back to the truck was silent. Ian trailed slightly behind you, keeping his distance, probably trying to reconcile the protective friend standing in front of him with the brutal figure he’d just seen. You could feel his confused energy, but you didn't press him for words.

​When the two of you rounded the corner, you saw your truck. Lip was standing near the hood, leaning back casually, but his eyes were sharp. He was sipping the rest of the caramel-vanilla coffee he’d brought you and smoking, no doubt, one of your own cigarettes. He’d seen the whole thing, or at least enough of the aftermath to understand the score.

​Ian broke the silence first, rushing past you. "What the hell, Lip? You set that up?"

​Lip didn't flinch. He just took a drag of the cigarette and offered a tiny, unapologetic shrug. "He needed to be handled, Ian. You weren't handling it."

​Ian looked like he was about to explode—a mix of gratitude, betrayal, and Gallagher rage—but you stepped in, placing yourself between the two brothers.

​"He's right, Ian. And it's done now," you stated firmly, ending the discussion. You turned to Lip, holding out your hand for the coffee. "Give me that. And start the truck."

​Lip handed over the lukewarm cup and unlocked the driver's side door without a word. He knew better than to argue about the order. He got into the passenger seat, his eyes finally settling on the blood smeared near your temple.

​"You're bleeding," he noted, his voice flat.

​"Minor collateral," you dismissed, taking a swig of the coffee before tossing the remainder onto the pavement. You started the engine, the truck rumbling to life. "Ian, back seat. We're going home."

​Ian slid into the back, still visibly wrestling with the encounter. You pulled out of the parking lot, the convenience store lights shrinking in the rear-view mirror.

​The tension in the front seat was thick, but it was a different kind of tension now—less about the threat, and more about the debt. Lip was quiet, watching you with an intensity that had nothing to do with Ian and everything to do with the deal you’d made.

​You reached over to the radio, turning the volume low, filling the silence with cheap rock music. You glanced at Lip, catching his eye in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

​"So," you murmured, your gaze flicking to the road ahead. "Home, then?"

​Lip shifted in his seat, his hand resting on the console, just inches from your knee. "Yeah," he confirmed, the single word loaded. "Yeah, home.”

You pulled the truck up to the curb a safe distance from the Gallagher house. The place was dark, the usual chaos of the day settled into a restless quiet, but the familiar broken steps and perpetually overflowing trash cans were visible even in the sparse light.

​You shifted the gear into park. “Go on, Ian.”

​Ian nodded, his face still pale under the faint streetlamp glow. He didn’t say much, but as he reached for the door handle, he finally spoke, his voice low and heavy. “Look, thanks. I… I owe you.”

​“Just try not to need a repeat performance,” you replied, your tone softened.

​He opened the door and climbed out, quickly jogging up the path. You watched him fumble with the latch on the rusted, squeaky gate, waiting until he disappeared inside the house and the front door shut with a solid thud. Only then did you let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

​You turned your head to face Lip, who was still staring intently at the front door, making sure his brother was truly safe. The adrenaline was completely gone, leaving him looking exhausted and vulnerable.

​"Thanks," he whispered, the single word carrying the weight of the entire family and the dirty favor you'd just done.

​"Yeah, anytime," you replied, the phrase meaningless in its familiarity but sincere in the moment. It was a promise to the whole dysfunctional crew.

​The silence returned, thick and loaded. Lip finally turned away from the house, his gaze meeting yours. He cleared his throat, the nervous habit returning now that the immediate crisis was over. He fidgeted with his hands, picking at a loose thread on his jacket sleeve.

​“So,” he started, his voice a little rough. He didn't use the teasing tone from earlier; this was serious, almost professional, and totally genuine. “You still want to go back to your place? Figure we should, uh, finish what we started.”

​You held his gaze, a slight, knowing smile touching your lips. He wasn't talking about the violence anymore. He was talking about the deal. He was talking about moving past "fuck buddy and problem solver."

​“Is that you asking because I beat a guy up for your brother,” you challenged lightly, “or is that you asking because you genuinely want to spend the rest of this screwed-up night with me, Gallagher?”

​He leaned forward, dropping the hesitation and letting the familiar intensity return to his eyes, but this time, it was aimed at you, not the problem.

​“I’m asking because I owe you a favor, and you made it clear that a favor from me involves treating you better than I usually do. And right now,” he paused, his voice dropping, “I genuinely want to be somewhere that isn’t here, with someone who isn’t asking me to think.”

​He had finally answered correctly.

​You nodded, a satisfied and deeply tired confirmation. You shifted the truck into drive, turning the wheel away from the South Side monument to chaos.

​“Then let’s go,” you murmured, pulling away from the curb. “And we can start by you telling me exactly how you like your coffee in the morning.”

OCT 2 — HALLOWEEN | Ryomen Sukuna × bottom!reader | BREEDING + STALKING

The shape moves in silence through the night, always just a shadow behind you. Every step you take, he’s there. When he catches you, there’s no mercy, only the slow, perfect filling that leaves you trembling and marked from the inside out.

OCT 4 — TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE | Toji Fushiguro × bottom!reader | PRIMAL / CHASE KINK

You run through dirt and leaves, your breath ragged and heart hammering, but he doesn’t let you escape. He drags you back with hands that grip like iron, tearing into you raw and unrelenting until there’s nothing left but gasps and sweat and your own helpless moans.

OCT 6 — HOUSE OF WAX | Geto Suguru × top!reader | WAX PLAY

He stands frozen, body slick with molten wax, shivering under your touch. You press down, push, ride him, and tease every inch until he’s dripping and pleading. His screams mix with the crackle of cooling wax, and you can’t help but grin — controlling him, breaking him, molding him exactly how you want.

OCT 9 — AMERICAN PSYCHO | Gojo Satoru × bottom!reader | DEGRADATION + MIRROR SEX

He grins at his reflection, polished and perfect, while your body becomes his canvas. He toys with you, watching every gasp and whimper with dark amusement, taking pleasure in bending you to his will.

OCT 11 — OCT 11 — SCREAM | Gojo + Geto × bottom!reader | THREESOME / DOUBLE PENETRATION

The phone rings, cutting through the silence, and the shadows in the room seem to shift. Two masked figures corner you, voices taunting and echoing through the corridor, relentless in their pursuit. When they finally strike, there’s no escape — both of them claiming you, splitting you open, leaving you gasping and trembling under their control.

OCT 13 — FRIDAY THE 13TH | Toji × bottom!reader | PRIMAL / CHASING

The camp offers no safety, only shadows and the echo of your own heartbeat. Each step behind you is steady, unrelenting, a predator closing in. When he finally catches you, he drags you to the ground, ripping into you without mercy, biting, thrusting, and marking you like you were made to be his prey.

OCT 16 — DRACULA | Choso Kamo × top!reader | VAMPIRE /WORSHIP

His throat glistens under the moonlight, fangs bared, lips slick with his own blood. You press him down, fucking him while he shivers, helpless and desperate. Every gasp and slick trickle of blood leaves him undone beneath your hands.

OCT 18 — CHILD’S PLAY | Sukuna × bottom!male reader

The doll sits innocently on your shelf, smiling harmlessly — until night falls. By the time you stir, he’s no longer tiny, crawling over you, taunting you with deliberate cruelty. He makes you submit while you’re half-asleep, showing you exactly how easily he can corrupt your body and mind, leaving you trembling and wet for more.

OCT 20 — THE SHINING | Gojo × bottom!reader | MADNESS / DUBCON | MADNESS / DUBCON

The door bursts open before you can react. His presence fills the room, terrifyingly calm, yet with a dangerous edge. He’s steady and merciless — taking what he wants, using your body and pushing you to your limits while laughter and horror mingle in the shadows around you.

OCT 23 — SAW | Nanami × bottom!reader | FACEFUCKING / CHOKING

Choices vanish one by one. You’re trapped, helpless, and all he cares about is claiming every inch of you. His hands are all over you, his cock unforgiving, until the only option left is your submission — choking, gagging, and losing yourself entirely to him.

OCT 25 — THE RING | Geto Suguru × bottom!reader | CORRUPTION KINK

Static flickers across the screen, and suddenly he’s there, unstoppable, crawling through the shadows. He takes what he wants with a predatory grin, fucking you like a curse that will haunt your body forever — slow and deliciously unrelenting.

OCT 31 — EVIL DEAD | Sukuna + Gojo + Geto + Choso + Toji + Nanami × switch!reader | ORGY / MAX DEPRAVITY

The cabin is dark, the forest alive with sinister whispers. Six hands, six bodies, one helpless plaything — you. They take turns, relentless, chaotic, each thrust and lick a claim, a bite, a demand. By the time dawn nears, you’re torn open, dripping, overstimulated, and utterly spent — a perfect finale to the most depraved Halloween imaginable.

YOU HIT the revolving door at a jog, breath fogging the glass as you shoulder through into the old Metropolis steakhouse your father loves—dark wood, brass lamps, and the low murmur of a hundred important conversations. The maître d' recognizes the family name and tips his head toward the back. You're late, and you can already hear your father's voice in your head: punctuality is respect.

They're at a corner booth beneath a framed Daily Planet front page. Lois spots you first and lifts a hand, relief and annoyance sharing the same look. Lucy grins over a half-empty champagne flute. Your father checks his watch with the slow, theatrical disapproval he's perfected over decades.

"Nice of you to join us," he says as you slide in, smoothing the front of your spring-break sweater like it's armor. "Punctuality—"

"—is respect," you finish, dropping a kiss on Lois's cheek and tapping Lucy's glass with a knuckle. "Which is why I respectfully fought downtown traffic."

Lois elbows your father under the table. "He's here, Dad. That's what matters."

And then you see him.

Black hair, neatly combed but with a stubborn wave that refuses to obey. Blue eyes behind simple, square frames. He's big—built like a Greek statue in a navy suit that fits like it was tailored yesterday and somehow still looks modest on him. There's a softness to the mouth, a steadiness to the jaw, and something careful in the way he sits—like he's learned to take up less space than his body wants to claim.

He stands as you approach, napkin folded in one hand, the other extended. "Clark Kent," he says, voice warm as the lamplight. Kansas with a polish—farm dirt washed off but never forgotten.

Your palm meets his, and something snaps—a tiny, private current that runs from your hand to your elbow, sparks along your shoulder, and settles somewhere beneath your ribs. His grip is firm without proving anything, but he feels... immovable. Like if you leaned, he would hold.

"Finally," Lois says, bright, almost proud. Her engagement ring winks when she rests her hand on his sleeve. "This is my fiancé, Clark."

"Fiancé," Lucy sings, waggling her brows. "Say it again, I like the sound."

"Fiancé," Lois repeats, laughing as if she can't help it, as if the word tugs a smile out of her every time.

You pull free of Clark's hand slower than you should, your heartbeat a touch out of rhythm. "Good to meet you," you tell him, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "I've heard... a lot."

"All lies, I hope," he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. He looks at you for a beat too long, not intrusive, just attentive, as if he's cataloging you the way reporters do—facts first, judgement later.

Dinner starts with the clink of glasses. Your father orders for the table without asking—old habit—and resumes his natural habitat: interrogations disguised as conversation. "Metropolis U treating you well?" he asks, carving the question like a command.

"It is," you say. "Midterms survived, somehow."

"Don't 'somehow' through midterms," he replies. "The only boy in this family ought to—"

"—be better?" you finish again, because it's easier to defuse a mine you've stepped on a hundred times. "Working on it."

Clark's eyes flick from your father to you and back, measuring the air pressure. "Midterms are brutal," he says gently, like he's tossing you a rope. "I almost flunked out of a journalism ethics seminar because I couldn't stop rewriting my final. Perfection's a habit you have to break on deadline."

Lois beams. "See? He's human. Mostly."

"Questionable," Lucy murmurs into her glass, and you smother a smile.

The waiter arrives with bread and butter and blessed interruption. Under the table, you flex the hand that shook his, trying to dispel the phantom charge. Across from you, Clark sits like a man who knows exactly how strong he is and refuses to prove it—quiet, patient, listening. When he laughs, it's genuine; when he speaks, he turns his shoulders to whoever he's addressing, as if that person is, for that moment, the center of the room.

"So, Metropolis U," he says, tilting toward you once the plates are down. "What's your focus?"

"Criminal psychology," you say, trying not to notice the way his eyes sharpen—interested, not interrogating. "And a minor in mythology, because I like stories where monsters aren't always what they seem."

"Those are the best ones," he says, and you could swear the light catches a hint of something in his expression—recognition, maybe. "Besides, most heroes don't know they are until someone asks them to be."

Your father clears his throat, hauling the conversation back to his end of the table. "Clark, Lois says you're a reporter. That a real job now, or just tweets and selfies?"

Clark smiles, unbothered. "I still use a notepad, sir."

"Good answer," your father says, and for him, that's almost affection.

Lois nudges Clark's knee with hers, and he glances down at her hand, at the ring, and then up at you. It should be nothing. It isn't. There's a frequency you both seem to hear, a low, private hum under the restaurant noise. You take a breath and look away first, focusing on your water glass.

Lucy catches you doing it and arches one perfectly judgmental brow. Later, she'll tease you. Right now she just smirks like she's stolen the last page of a book you haven't finished.

The food arrives. Your father tells a story from a posting years ago. Lois corrects the details in ways only she can. Lucy breaks the tension with a joke that makes two tables glance over. You contribute when pulled, deflect when pressed, and try not to steal glances at the man across from you.

You fail.

Halfway through your steak, Clark asks, "You get any time to yourself over break?"

"A little," you say. "Lois said tonight wasn't optional."

"She's persuasive," he agrees, the smile doing dangerous things to the corners of his eyes.

"Stop flirting with my fiancé," Lois says lightly, squeezing his arm.

"I'm not—" you begin.

"He's not—" Clark says at the same time, and Lucy outright cackles.

Your father sighs, long-suffering, but he's watching you again, measuring you against the invisible mark he set the day you were born. You straighten without meaning to. Clark notices. Of course he does.

By dessert, your pulse has learned the rhythm of that hum and accepted it: this is complicated. Not because he's charming (he is) or handsome (he really, really is), but because something in you recognizes something in him—an anchor you didn't know you needed.

After coffee, coats go on. Outside, Metropolis is crisp and busy and too bright. Lois laces her fingers with Clark's and rises on her toes to kiss his cheek. "You're coming to Sunday dinner," she tells you, which is not a question.

"Wouldn't miss it," you say, even though part of you very much would.

Clark offers his hand again when you say goodnight, and you take it because refusing would be louder. The spark is softer this time, less lightning, more a promise of weather. His thumb presses once, barely there, like a punctuation mark.

"Good to meet you," he says again.

"You too," you reply, and the words feel thin compared to everything unsaid between them.

Lois tugs him toward the curb, Lucy loops her arm through yours, and your father is already checking his calendar aloud. You stand at the edge of the city's noise with the taste of steak and secrets in your mouth and know, with the certainty of a headline, that tonight is not an ending. It's the lede. And you've just met the complication you'll be writing around for a long, long time.

YOU WEREN'T going to do this to yourself. Not again. Not for a man who belonged to your sister, and definitely not for a man who—by every available data point—was straight.

So you made a plan.

The morning after the dinner, you woke early and treated the feeling like an exam you refused to fail. Coffee. Shower. Shoes. Out the door before your brain could argue. Metropolis in spring smelled like wet concrete and newspaper ink, the kind of clean that only comes after a night of rain. You ran the river path until your lungs burned and your legs went static, until the hum under your ribs quieted to something manageable.

Back home, you set up on the tiny kitchen table with a highlighter army and your Criminal Psych notes. You built a fortress out of case studies and flash cards. When the impulse to replay Clark's smile crept in, you filed it like evidence and moved on.

You even wrote it down, because putting ink on it made it smaller:

CASE FILE: KENT, CLARK.

Conflict: Unwanted attraction to sister's fiancé.

Hypotheses: 1) Proximity + novelty + dim lighting = brain soup. 2) You're tired. 3) He's objectively attractive and kind; you're not a robot.

Action Plan:

• Limit exposure (especially the kind with soft lamplight).

• Keep hands busy at Sunday dinner (bring dessert, volunteer for dishes).

• Boundaries: No lingering eye contact, no "you're so interesting" follow-up questions, no kitchen tête-à-têtes.

• Remember: Lois comes first. Always.

You pinned the page to the fridge with a crooked magnet shaped like the Daily Planet globe and pretended that made you bulletproof.

Lucy FaceTimed just before noon, because of course she did. She angled the camera up under her chin to be as annoying as possible. "Morning, tragic hero."

"Afternoon," you corrected, clicking a pen like it was a detonator. "And I'm not tragic."

"You're late for brunch gossip," she said, then narrowed her eyes. "You went running. Gross. So, did you sleep at all or did you lie awake composing sonnets to Clark's jawline?"

"Lucy."

"Relax, I'm not the morality police. That's Dad." She softened. "You okay, though?"

You shrugged. Honesty won by a nose. "I'm... managing it."

"Good. Manage it far away from his mouth," she said, then added, quieter, "You know I've got you, right? If Sunday dinner is too much, I can fake food poisoning. Big dramatic exit. Maybe faint into the clam dip."

"Absolutely not," you said, surprised by the immediate warmth her offer sparked anyway. "I'll be fine."

She blew you a kiss and hung up with a threat to text you outfit options you would ignore.

You hit the university library next, where myth was safer than men. You pulled a stack of books on heroes who didn't want to be heroes and monsters who weren't monsters at all. You took notes that had nothing to do with blue eyes or steady hands. You let your brain gnaw on something older than your problems.

Lois texted around three: Cake tasting was a triumph. Clark says hi. Sunday 6 p.m.—don't you dare be late.

You stared at the words Clark says hi longer than necessary, then responded with a thumbs-up to the group chat and muted the conversation before your phone could become a live wire.

In the late afternoon, you detoured to a bakery two neighborhoods over—the kind with glass cases like jewelry boxes and a line of people willing to pay rent for a lemon tart. You sampled nothing, because you didn't trust your judgement, and ordered a box of miniature desserts that looked like they'd been crafted with tweezers. If you were going to keep your hands busy, you might as well arm yourself with sugar.

Back at your place, you ironed a shirt you didn't hate and practiced your boundaries like they were flash cards. No lingering, no listening too hard when he talks, no cataloging the way his laugh fits into a room. You were not going to be the person who complicated your sister's joy. You'd been that person once in a different story, and it had taken months to scrape the guilt off.

As the sun slid down behind the skyline, Metropolis turned gold at the edges. You packed your notes, slid the dessert box into a tote like contraband, and stood in the doorway for a heartbeat. You found your reflection in the hall mirror—eyes clearer than this morning, jaw set like a decision.

"Lois first," you told yourself. "Always."

Then you locked up and headed out, grateful for the few remaining hours between you and Sunday dinner, grateful for the city noise that drowned out the last of the hum, and grateful—most of all—that you had a plan.

YOU SHOW up early—on purpose—and the house greets you with that particular Sunday hush: blinds half-open, afternoon light in long stripes across the dining room, the distant tick of the grandfather clock. The kitchen smells like onions sweating in butter and the kind of optimism you only get before company arrives.

Your father has left a list the way generals leave battle plans, underlined twice: roast at 180°, potatoes parboiled, green beans blanch-and-shock, salad last. Beside it, a sticky note you'll pretend isn't an olive branch: Good. Early is respect.

You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and put your plan into motion. Desserts—your tiny jewel-box pastries—go straight into the fridge so you can "busy hands, busy mind" later. You queue up the most innocuous playlist you own, tie on an apron, and set to work. Knife, board, rhythm. Chop, sweep, sizzle. The pan answers with a friendly hiss. You taste the pan sauce, decide it needs brightness, grate in lemon zest. You are absolutely not thinking about blue eyes or broad shoulders or—

The back door opens. Voices. Lois's laugh, bright and familiar. Another voice—low, warm—slips under it like harmony.

You keep chopping, because you didn't hear anything, you're very busy, and if you just keep moving—

"Need a hand?"

You look up and he's there, framed in the doorway in a soft gray button-down with the sleeves rolled past his forearms, tie loosened to a suggestion. Clark. He's already shrugged out of his jacket, already reading the room, already making himself smaller in a way that somehow makes him feel even larger.

Rule #1: No lingering eye contact.

"Sure," you say to the cutting board. "You can—uh—drain the potatoes? Colander's in the lower cabinet."

He moves with careful confidence, like this isn't a foreign kitchen at all. The cabinet opens, colander up, steam blooms when he pours. He doesn't flinch at the heat. Of course he doesn't.

Rule #2: Keep hands busy.

"You want them roughed up for roasting?" he asks, shaking the pot just enough to give the edges texture.

"Yeah," you say, impressed against your will. "Nice. How do you—"

"Kansas," he says, smiling without looking up. "I've peeled more potatoes than I've written articles."

"That's... a lot of potatoes."

"Whole fields' worth." He sets the pot gently beside you and reaches for the pepper mill at the exact same moment you do. Knuckles meet, both of you freeze, and the pepper mill clatters once before you snag it.

"Sorry," you say too quickly, stepping back.

"My fault," he says, stepping back the same direction, which results in both of you stepping forward again at once. You both half-laugh, abort, and reset like two polite robots trying not to collide.

Rule #3: No kitchen tête-à-têtes. This is a hallway, not a tête-à-tête. You're fine.

Lois breezes in, hair up, lipstick perfect, a bottle of red in hand. She kisses Clark's cheek in passing, steals a green bean from the ice bath with the sleight of hand of a woman who's been stealing kitchen snacks since childhood, and drops a kiss on your forehead too. "Look at my favorite overachiever being on time," she sings, then to Clark, "See? Miracles."

"Miracles," he agrees, eyes kind. "What can I do next?"

"Salad," you say, because it's safe and far away. "Spin it dry. Dressing's there." You point to a jar you prepped to avoid improvisation near him.

He nods, washes his hands, and gets to work at the opposite counter. He spins the salad like a man who respects centrifugal force, then reaches for the jar. "Homemade?"

"Lemon, Dijon, honey," you say before you can stop yourself. "And—okay, two anchovies, but don't tell Lucy."

"My lips are sealed," he says, deadpan solemn, and you accidentally meet his eyes for a second. They're bluer in this light, and softer, and focused entirely on you.

Rule #1, you remind yourself, and pivot to the stove like it just called your name.

You build a rhythm. He plates. You seasons. He tastes, defers. You hand him a tasting spoon; he takes it like it's protocol, brushes your fingers once, and then makes a point not to again. When you haul the roasting pan to the oven, he's there without asking, taking the heavier end so you don't have to. Heat rolls out when you open the door—rosemary, garlic, meat—and the whole house smells like Sunday.

"That smells incredible," he says.

"Don't jinx it," you say, which makes him grin.

Lois floats by again, tucks herself under his arm for a heartbeat like it's her natural orbit, and checks your timer. "Dad just texted: 'On my way. Traffic is not respect.' He's mellowing in his old age."

"Miracle two," Clark murmurs, and Lois elbows him with affection.

While she's gone, Clark rinses the salad spinner and sets it to drip in the rack. He glances at your list on the counter, takes it in the way a journalist reads a source—quiet, thorough, respectful of the margins. "Want me to set the table?"

"Drawer by your knee for linens, top cabinet left for plates," you say, grateful to be assigned tasks that put him in another room, even if it's only ten feet away.

He moves through the dining room with that same careful economy, laying out plates, aligning forks with the kind of precision your father will pretend not to notice and appreciate anyway. You follow with glasses, and the two of you pass in the doorway like ships, polite, efficient, absolutely normal.

"Timer?" he asks, nodding toward the stove when you return to the kitchen.

"Six minutes," you say. "Then rest for ten."

"Got it." He leans a hip against the counter, not quite facing you, making sure the angle is open, nonthreatening—giving you space while still... here. "Any new class updates?"

You stir the pan sauce like it holds all the answers. "Criminal psych is a bloodbath."

He huffs a laugh. "Sounds right."

"Journalism ethics treat you better this time?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

"Treated me fine once I learned to let go of perfect." He pauses, searching your face—not in a way that pins you, in a way that invites you to set the distance. "You don't have to make small talk with me, by the way. I can be the silent cabbage-chopper."

"I don't do small talk," you say, and it comes out softer than you intended. "I'm... not avoiding you."

One brow ticks up behind his frames. "Noted."

You cough, completely normal. "Okay, yes, maybe a little. But I'm not—"

"—going to make this weird," he finishes gently. "Me neither."

You nod, grateful, and something in your shoulders loosens.

Front door: opening. Your father's footsteps—measured, authoritative. "Smells like a kitchen that knows the value of a clock," he declares, appearing in the doorway. He clocks Clark laying the last napkin and you at the stove, and for once his approval is simple. "Good job."

"Miracle number three," Lois stage-whispers from the hall, making Lucy snort as she arrives behind him with a gust of perfume and a bottle of sparkling water.

The room fills—voices, coats, the bustle of family—and the small, suspended charged moment dissolves into the harmless static of a house at dinnertime. You pull the roast to rest; Clark takes the carving knife without assumption and waits for your nod. You give it. He carves with steady hands and zero theater. You plate the greens; he passes them like a relay baton. It's a machine, and you're two gears, meshed cleanly.

Rule #4 (you just made it up): Teamwork is not intimacy.

You believe it. Mostly.

As you slide the miniature desserts into the far corner of the fridge, you steal one last look at the table you've both set—the symmetry, the effort, the care. Lois presses a grateful kiss to your cheek as she whirls past. Clark catches your eye across the room and gives you the smallest, most ordinary nod.

You then carried the platter in to your family and take your seat, the clatter and comfort of Sunday dinner rising around you like a tide.

DINNER HUMS along—good stories, easy laughter, the wine Lois brought doing its job on everyone but your father, who swirls his glass, grimaces like a disappointed judge, and taps the stem with two fingers.

“Basement,” he declares. “Top shelf, back wall. The rye. Not the one your uncle ruined with cinnamon sticks.”

Lois wags a corkscrew. “Clark, go help him before Dad sends a search party.”

“I’ve got it,” you say, already pushing back your chair.

“I’ll still help,” Clark answers, easy—already half standing, already reading your father’s face for the brand name behind the request.

You tell yourself it’s logistics, not longing, as the two of you cut through the hall and down the creaking steps to the basement. The air changes—cooler, quieter, smelling of wood polish, old paper, and the faint sweetness of cork. Your father’s bar sits under a string of warm bulbs, amber bottles lined like a stained-glass choir.

“Rye,” you announce, scanning labels. “No cinnamon crimes.”

Clark laughs under his breath and steps to the other side of the shelves, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, a domestic kind of handsome that makes your rules flutter like loose Post-its.

He finds a bottle of bourbon and sets it aside. You pass over a rye you know your father hates. Your hands move efficiently, your throat tight.

Clark breaks the quiet first, not unkind. “Why are you avoiding me?”

You grip a bottle a little too hard. There’s no point in lying; you’ve been practicing honesty with yourself all day. “Because this is… complicated. And because I love my sister.”

“I love her too,” he says, steady, like that truth belongs in the room with all the others. “And I’m not trying to make anything harder.”

“But you notice it,” you say, eyes on the labels. “The… whatever-it-is, between us.”

There’s a brief pause, soft as a breath. “I do.”

Silence, except for the tick of the basement pipes. You slide another bottle out, set it down, line it up with the others like a defense line. “We should keep it polite. Plates and napkins. Carving and salad.”

His mouth tilts. “I’m very good at polite.”

“And yet,” you say, glancing up before you can stop yourself.

“And yet,” he echoes, eyes meeting yours—blue, open, maddeningly gentle. He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t touch you. He just looks at you like you’re a question he’s been trying not to answer.

“Found it,” you say too loudly, plucking the correct rye from the top shelf. The victory clangs hollow. You hold the bottle between you like a truce flag. He takes it—fingers brushing yours for a half-second, a harmless spark that doesn’t feel harmless at all.

“This is a terrible idea,” you say.

“The worst,” he agrees, voice low and honest.

You kiss him anyway.

It starts like a mistake and lands like gravity. He tastes like the wine you both pretended not to need, like mint and something warm, and you think—just once—before you pull away. You do pull away. “We can’t.”

“No,” he says, breath unsteady. “We can’t.”

You kiss him again.

It’s not careful this time. He sets the bottle down like it’s suddenly made of crystal, hands bracing the counter on either side of your hips without touching you. You hook your fingers in his shirt and he steps in, heat and breadth and restraint coiled tight. When you break for air, you hear your own laugh, wrecked and disbelieving.

“We shouldn’t,” you whisper.

“We shouldn’t,” he returns—and then his hands slide to your waist, asking, not taking, and you nod before you realize you’ve nodded. He lifts you onto the bar, the world tilting a fraction; your knees part to make room for him like a reflex you didn’t know you had. He fits there like he was always meant to, his forehead resting against yours for a beat that feels like mercy.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

You open your mouth to say it and something truer comes out. “I don’t want to.”

His answer is a sound more than a word, and then his mouth is on yours again—slow, then not, your hands in his hair, his thumbs pressing lightly at your hips, everything edged with the bright wire of wrong and the impossible relief of right. The string lights hum. Dust motes turn in the warm glow like snow that forgot how to fall.

“Hey!” Lois’s voice, distant but unmistakable, sails down the stairwell. “You two eloped with the whiskey or what?”

You both freeze, foreheads still touching, chests rising in the same rhythm. The call slices through the spell, but it doesn’t extinguish it; it just lays the heat bare.

CLARK, you think, say it out loud without meaning to, “We—”

“We’re going,” he says, already stepping back, hands leaving you with exquisite care. He swallows, collects the rye with a steadiness you envy, and offers you his palm to help you down. You take it. The contact is brief, grounding, electric.

You straighten your shirt. He smooths his tie. You both breathe like you just outran something and haven’t decided if you won.

Lois calls again, laugh tucked into your name this time. “Hurry up! Dad’s giving a lecture on Prohibition!”

“Coming!” you shout, voice almost normal.

Clark looks at you one last time—no promises, no plans, just the truth of what just passed between you. The fire doesn’t fade; it banks. You can feel it, glowing under your ribs, patient and dangerous.

“Lois first,” you whisper, because you need to hear it out loud.

He nods once. “Always.”

Then you climb the stairs side by side, carrying a bottle and the kindling of a problem you can’t drink away.

You don't plan the way your mouth remembers him.

It just happens—in the lull between toasts and the clink of cutlery—your brain flashes back to the basement: the warm hum of the string lights, the rye bottle sweating on the counter, Clark's breath hitching against your lips, the careful way his hands found your waist like you were something he didn't want to bruise. You swallow hard and spear a green bean. It tastes like nothing.

Across the table, Clark is doing an Oscar-worthy impression of a man listening to your father's anecdote about Prohibition raids. He nods in the right places, smiles at the punchline, but his thumb worries the seam of his napkin, a silent tell you can't unsee. When his gaze flickers up—just once—it catches on yours like a coat on a nail, and both of you look away so fast Lucy nearly laughs into her wine.

Guilt rolls in first—cold, clean, undeniable. It sits in your chest next to something hotter, lazier, impossible to tamp down now that you know the shape of his mouth. Desire comes with its entourage: curiosity, ache, that warm, heavy hunger that makes dinner drag like a lecture you didn't sign up for. You fixate on the clock over the hutch and measure time in crimes: three minutes since the last eye contact; five more until you can stand without making a scene; maybe twenty until you can get out into the air and walk this off.

Lois saves the table from your father's second pour by clapping once and announcing, "Emergency. The bakery messed up our order and I refuse to end this glorious dinner on store-bought cookies. Lucy, come with me. The little place on Third still has the lemon chiffon if we hurry."

Lucy is already halfway out of her chair, dramatic as ever. "I've trained for this."

You're on your feet too before you've decided to be—keys in hand, jacket over your arm, the promise of cold night air like a lifeline. "I'll drive," you offer, too eager.

Lois points a manicured finger at you without missing a beat. "Absolutely not. You"—she tosses her wallet to Lucy and kisses Clark's cheek in a practiced glide—"are staying here and keeping my fiancé company so Dad doesn't put him through the 'So You Want To Marry My Daughter' gauntlet while I'm gone."

Your mouth opens. A thousand reasonable objections sprint for the exit and crash into each other. "I can keep Dad busy," you try. "He loves when I—"

"—agree with him?" Lucy supplies sweetly, already shrugging into her coat. "Tempting, but no. Clark needs a buffer. Be a dear. We'll be twenty minutes."

You glance at your father, who is polishing his glass and clearing his throat like a firing squad. You picture Clark trapped in that cross-examination—résumé, finances, intentions—while you skulk off to chase sugar. The image feels like shoving him back into a burning building and closing the door.

"Fine," you tell Lois, because you do love her and because, apparently, you hate yourself. "We'll... hang out."

Lois squeezes your shoulder, quick and grateful. "Knew I could count on you." To Clark, she adds, "Back soon. Don't let Dad draft you into the Prohibition Bureau."

"Scout's honor," Clark says, smile easy but eyes—when they flick to you and back—anything but.

The door snaps shut behind the sisters, and the house exhales. Your father rises with his glass and his sermon and, mercifully, announces, "I'll be in the study. Ten minutes," as if the room is his to subpoena. He disappears down the hall, leaving the comfortable clutter of dinner debris and the two of you marooned in the soft aftermath of a meal you barely tasted.

Silence blooms. Not awkward, exactly. Charged. The kind of quiet that remembers things.

You gather plates because hands need jobs. Clark stacks them without being asked, sleeves still rolled, tie a little looser than before. The kitchen light is warmer than the dining room's, and it draws the edge off both of you, turns you into people instead of problems.

"I wasn't avoiding you," you say, which is technically true in this exact moment and wildly untrue for the last thirty minutes. "I was avoiding my father's third toast."

Clark huffs, grateful for the joke. "It was a strong one. Might've knocked me out."

"You did just survive a basement," you say before you can stop yourself, and there it is—no euphemism, no strategic silence. The word hangs, bare and bright.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not cornered, not pleading—just honest, the way he was when he asked if you were avoiding him and you said yes. "I've been thinking about it," he admits, voice low so it doesn't rattle the glassware. "About... that. About you."

Heat climbs your neck. "Me too."

Another breath. Another second marked on the clock. The fridge hums. Somewhere down the hall, your father shuffles papers in the study, a metronome for good behavior.

"This is a terrible idea," you say, because one of you should say it and you're not sure you can stop if he does.

"The worst," he agrees softly, with that small, rueful smile that started everything. "But I couldn't stop replaying it. And I don't know what to do with that except tell the truth."

You set the plates down like they're suddenly too precious to risk. "The truth is I can't stop replaying it either. And I hate that. And I don't."

His laugh is a quiet, helpless thing. "Exactly."

The distance between you is not much—three floor tiles, the length of a secret. You don't close it. He doesn't either. Instead you both lean into the same safe fiction: chores. He reaches for the faucet; you hand him the sponge. Your knuckles brush. The contact is nothing. It is also everything.

From the foyer, a gust of night air sneaks in under the door as a car passes outside. You catch the scent of Lois's perfume lingering on Clark's collar and—under it—something clean and cool and him. Your pulse goes out of step. You step back. He doesn't follow. It feels like both of you are holding a line with both hands.

"Lois did asked me to keep you company," you say, half to remind yourself which story you're in.

"She trusts you," he says, and there's no accusation in it, only the weight of what that trust means.

"I trust me," you answer. It's not entirely true, not tonight, but you want it to be. "And I'm not going to torture you by leaving you alone with my father."

Clark's mouth tilts. "That is a kindness I won't forget."

"Don't thank me yet," you say, flicking water at his wrist, tinny and ridiculous, and he glances at the droplet like it's a lifeline. "He'll call you into the study any minute."

"I can handle it," he says, and you know he can—interviews and press scrums and city disasters—he's built for weight. But the way he says it makes you want to take some of it anyway.

YOU STEER Clark away from the dining room on the pretense of a tour, letting the low thrum of your father's monologue fade behind you. The house is quieter down the hall—family photos in mismatched frames, the runner soft underfoot, that clean lemon polish smell your father insists on. You point things out because it gives your mouth something to do besides confess: the nick on the banister from when Lucy tried to surf it on a pillowcase; the narrow coat closet that still sticks in the winter; the tiny half bath where Lois once cut her own bangs and swore you to secrecy.

Clark listens like a reporter—attentive, smiling at the right beats, asking small questions that feel bigger than they are. You keep a respectful measure of space between you, professional, like you're the docent of a small museum and he's the only visitor.

"And this," you say, nudging a door with your shoulder, "is where I hid from everyone for four years."

Your old bedroom opens on a sigh of air, cooler than the hall. The posters are gone, the shelves half-full of textbooks you never reclaimed, but the shape of the room is the same: bed under the window, desk scarred by a hundred late nights, a lamp with a shade that throws warm ellipses on the wall. It smells faintly of clean cotton and old paper—the ghost of a life you outgrew but never quite escaped.

Clark stays at the threshold a heartbeat, then steps in, slow, careful, as if the floor might remember the truth better than either of you. He turns once, taking it in, and when his eyes come back to you they're softer, like the light in here dulled the edges.

"You had a good view," he says, nodding at the window. "City without the noise."

"Best place to think," you say, and immediately regret the invitation of the word.

The house creaks. Distantly, a cabinet door closes, a reminder that civilization is only two rooms away. You should walk him back. You should point at the desk and make some harmless joke about bad poetry and worse haircut choices. You should—

He kisses you.

Not the wrecked, electrified tumble of the basement. This is slower, deliberate. He leaves you room to refuse, and you use it for a second—hands braced to his chest, breath caught, the rulebook flapping open in your head. Then something unclenches. You tip forward into him like you've stepped into the exact shape of your want.

His mouth is warm and patient, the kind that coaxes rather than takes. The kiss unfurls—one, two, three beats—and the room tilts toward it. Your fingers catch the line of his jaw; his palm finds the back of your neck, steady heat and a promise he's not allowed to make.

"We shouldn't," you manage against his lips.

"I know," he whispers, and kisses you again.

It goes from careful to hungry like a tide change. You stumble backward a step and the backs of your knees meet the mattress. He breaks only long enough to search your face—asking—before you nod, a small, helpless consent, and sit. He follows, and in the awkward choreography of elbows and breath you end up where gravity wants you: straddling his lap, knees sinking into the familiar give of your old comforter, his hands braced at your hips like he's afraid of both holding on and letting go.

The lamp throws its quiet gold across his cheekbones. Up this close, the frames of his glasses are too much barrier; he slides them off and sets them blindly on the nightstand without looking away from you. You feel the impulse to memorize the moment the way you used to memorize exam answers—focus, clarity, a desire to keep.

You kiss him deeper, and the restraint in him frays. He exhales a sound you feel in your bones and tips his head, finding the line of your jaw with his mouth. You tilt instinctively, granting access before your conscience catches up. His lips find that place just below your ear and then lower, to the hinge of your jaw, the column of your throat. Each touch is slow, reverent, a mapping he'll pretend he never drew.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders. He is heat and steadiness beneath you, every breath a steadying hand on your spine. When his mouth settles at the base of your neck, your whole body answers—back arching, a soft sound pulled out of a part of you that doesn't care about rules. He hums against your skin, the vibration spilling through you like a secret.

You shift, trying to get closer to a man you're already wrapped around, and that's when you feel him—hard, undeniable, pressed against the inside of your thigh through the polite barrier of fabric. The knowledge lands like a match in dry grass. Your hands tighten where they're splayed across his chest; his fingers flex at your hips, not pulling you closer, not pushing you away, just anchoring, as if he knows either choice would undo the little control you both have left.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs into your skin, voice rougher now, the question honest and heavy.

You hover in the space between sense and heat, the house and its noises reminding you that your life is ten steps away and this is a fault line running straight under it. You draw a breath that shakes. You taste guilt and want and something terrifyingly like relief.

"I can't," you whisper, because for once you can't make your mouth lie for you.

His arms tighten—not possessive, just present—and he returns to your mouth like a man choosing a storm. You meet him there, every rule you wrote this afternoon scattering like paper in a fan. The bed creaks its small objection and you both laugh quietly against each other's lips, breathless, reckless, aware and uncaring.

Down the hall, a door clicks. The house reminds you you're not alone. The reminder doesn't cool the fire so much as bank it, focusing it into something hotter and more concentrated. You rest your forehead to his, both of you catching the same breath, suspended.

"This is impossible," you say, but your hands don't leave him.

"I know," he says, and his thumbs sweep once over your hips, apology and confession, before he lifts his head to kiss you again, slow enough to pretend this is a choice you've thought through, deep enough to admit you haven't.

Your father’s voice cut down the hall like a gavel. “You two—kitchen.”

You and Clark stepped out of your old room composed to the point of parody—hair smoothed, shirts straight, your pulse doing its best impression of calm. Your dad stood by the dining table with his keys in one hand and his phone in the other, reading off a text.

“Your sisters caught a flat on Riverside. I’m going to meet them, swap the tire, and convoy them back. One man job, not three.” He pinned you both with a look when you opened your mouths. “I said one.”

“We can—” you and Clark started in the same breath.

“No.” He jerked his chin toward the sink. “Dishes. And make to-go trays for Lois and Lucy. Dessert too. I’ll text when we’re on the way.”

The front door swung wide; cool night air slid across the floor. A moment later the engine turned over, gravel rattled under the tires, and the house swallowed the sound as your father backed down the drive. The porch light clicked off, and quiet rushed in.

You and Clark stood in the kitchen doorway a beat longer than necessary, the stillness between you loud as a drum roll. Somewhere at the edge of your hearing, a neighbor’s dog barked. The clock over the stove ticked.

“How far is Riverside from here?” Clark asked, voice low, not trusting the room.

“Ten minutes there, five to swap if he’s feeling heroic.” Your eyes flicked to the clock. “Fifteen.”

He looked at you like a man who’d been holding a breath since the basement and finally found air. “Fifteen.”

You crossed the kitchen at the same time, meeting at the lip of the counter. The first kiss wasn’t cautious. It was the kind you fall into—like stepping off a curb you thought was there and finding only air. His hand came up to your jaw, steady, reverent; yours hooked in his loosened tie and drew him down. The faucet squeaked as you bumped it; a thin ribbon of water ran, a plausible soundtrack for two people who were supposed to be doing dishes.

You broke just long enough to hit your phone’s timer and slide it facedown on the counter. “Five-minute warning,” you breathed.

He smiled against your mouth, wrecked and grateful. “Smart.”

The kitchen lights were softer than usual, a warm hush that painted the edges of everything in honey. You felt him smile melt into a sound when your fingers slipped the top button of his shirt; he answered by sliding his palm over your lower back, drawing you in until your hips met the line of his. Heat rolled through you with dizzying clarity. The counter shifted under your hands; he lifted you up easily, like he’d been built for this specific lift, this specific kitchen, this precise gravity.

You settled on the counter, knees parting to bracket his hips without conscious choice. He fit there as if the space had been waiting for him. His mouth found the slope of your throat, mapping slower than your pulse could stand, pressing kisses that felt like the simple, impossible luxury of being chosen. You tipped your head back and let the ceiling blur. The low, helpless sound that left you made his fingers tighten at your waist.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, a rough echo of your old restraint, though neither of you moved away.

You answered with your hands—one at the base of his neck, the other sliding under cotton to warm skin, dragging a shiver out of him that you felt everywhere. “I don’t want to.”

He exhaled like confession and came back to your mouth. The world narrowed to heat and breath and the rhythm of the clock. His thumbs swept slow circles through your shirt; you answered with the same motion over his pulse, memorizing the beat. When you shifted, you felt him—undeniable, insistent—through the polite barrier of fabric, and the knowledge landed like a struck match. He groaned into the kiss; you swallowed the sound and gave him one of your own.

Dishes clinked faintly as your heel nudged a stack; the faucet’s trickle covered the noise. You laughed, breathless, and he did too, forehead dropping to yours in a moment of mercy before hunger pulled you both under again. Buttons gave way under impatient fingers; the neat knot of his tie loosened to a question mark. His hands skimmed your sides like he was learning a language he already knew.

You had meant to be good. Kissing had been the line you’d sworn to redraw. But fifteen minutes is not a lot of time, and the ache that had been coiled under your ribs all evening unfurled with a mind of its own. You didn’t stop at kissing. You couldn’t.

You leaned into him, your knees hooked on either side of his hips from your perch on the counter, pulling him closer until there was no space left to steal. His kiss was deeper now, a slow burn that tasted of wine and restraint fraying apart.

Your hands roamed up his chest, feeling the solid plane of muscle under his shirt, the steady pound of his heart against your palm. He shivered when your fingers found the base of his neck, thumbs tracing the tendons there. The sound he made—a low, muffled groan into your mouth—only spurred you on.

One of your hands drifted lower, skimming over his belt, the flat of his stomach tightening beneath your touch. You felt the faint tremor in him when you let your fingers slip down, undoing the button of his slacks in one slow, deliberate motion. The zipper came next, the faint rasp impossibly loud in the hush of the kitchen.

He broke the kiss just enough to glance at you, his breath rough and uneven, as if to ask if you knew exactly what you were doing. The way your hand slid past the waistband was answer enough. You traced the hard outline of him through the heat of the fabric, slow at first, just letting your palm explore the shape, the weight, the sheer size of him.

Clark’s jaw tightened; his hands gripped the counter on either side of your thighs as though grounding himself. You could feel him pulse under your hand, his body betraying exactly how much he wanted this despite every rule you’d both recited in your heads.

You teased him deliberately, letting your fingertips trace along his dick before curling your hand around him properly, the friction making his breath hitch sharply. The moment you began to stroke, measured and lazy, his head dropped forward until his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His lips brushed the side of your neck, not kissing, just breathing you in, as though he needed the scent of you to stay anchored.

“God…” he murmured, barely audible, the word carried on a breath that trembled against your skin.

You smiled faintly, emboldened, letting your hand explore him more fully, your thumb brushing over the ridge at his tip through the thin barrier of fabric. The way his hips flexed forward into your touch told you exactly how close he already was to losing whatever control he still had.

You both knew—down to the exact minute—that there wasn't enough time for everything you wanted.

Fifteen minutes wasn't nearly enough for the kind of hunger simmering between you since the basement. But knowing that didn't make you stop. It only made every touch sharper, every kiss more urgent, like two people cramming a lifetime of want into whatever time you could steal.

Clark's mouth was still warm on yours when his hands found your waist and turned you, guiding you toward the counter. The edge met your hips as his body pressed in behind you, his chest firm against your back, his breath hot against the curve of your neck. You braced yourself with both palms flat on the cool countertop, the polished wood biting into your skin just enough to make you aware of how exposed you were becoming.

One of his hands slid forward, splaying across your stomach, holding you against him while the other found the waistband of your pants. The contact was both deliberate and unhurried—his fingers curling just inside the band, tugging at the button, testing your restraint. Your breathing hitched when the metal popped open, the faint sound swallowed by the low hum he gave in your ear.

The zipper came next, its slow descent impossibly loud in the stillness of the kitchen. His knuckles brushed the top of your hips, sending heat straight down your spine. You could feel him, hard and ready against you, even through the layers still between you, the solid press of him leaving no doubt about exactly how badly he wanted this.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against your ear, though his fingers were already working at the fabric, easing it lower over your hips. The question sounded more like a test than a request.

You didn't answer—not with words. Instead, you shifted just enough to give him room to keep going. The movement earned you a soft, unsteady laugh against your shoulder, as if he knew you were both standing at the edge of something dangerous and you'd just stepped closer.

He hooked his thumbs under your waistband and tugged, just enough for cool air to kiss the curve of you—skin bared in the soft spill of the kitchen light. The quiet hum of the refrigerator seemed suddenly loud; the clock ticked like a metronome for your breathing. Behind you, Clark's breath grew rougher, the careful man from dinner slipping out of his own restraint with every second you let pass.

You heard the soft rasp of a zipper and felt the shift of his body as he freed himself—no theater, just urgency. One hand settled at your hip, the other hovered for a heartbeat in indecision before he gave in to something uncharacteristically reckless. He wet his palm—quick, instinctive—and slicked himself with a single, deliberate stroke, a move so improvised it surprised even him. He wasn't the type to be careless, but whatever lived between you had rewritten his rules in the span of a breath.

Clark then positioned himself carefully, one steady hand at your hip, the other guiding himself with deliberate control. The first press of him made your breath catch—not from surprise, but from the sheer stretch of it, the slow push that had your fingers gripping the counter until your knuckles whitened.

A low moan broke free from your throat before you could hold it back, the sound muffled against the hum of the kitchen around you. Clark froze for a beat at the noise, his own breathing uneven, then eased forward again in measured increments. There was no rush in the way he moved—just enough to sink deeper, to let you feel every inch without overwhelming you.

You tilted your head, eyes shut, taking in the deliberate pace, the way his body felt like it was fitting into a space carved just for him. He held still once he was fully seated inside you, giving you time to adjust, his fingers tracing idle circles against your hip like he was checking in without words.

Somewhere in the back of your mind—blurry from the heat—you couldn't help the silent, fleeting thought: Lois must never complain. Because with the way he filled you now, the firm weight and length of him—easily nine, maybe ten inches—you understood just how much control he had to keep from driving in harder.

When your breath steadied and you rolled your hips back in subtle invitation, his low, throaty sound of approval washed warm against your neck. Then, with care and that same maddening precision, he began to move.

The clock over the stove ticked like a dare, and both of you answered it.

What began as careful, measured movement shifted—first to a steadier cadence, then to something urgent and unguarded. Clark's hands tightened at your hips, guiding you, finding a rhythm that matched the drag of your breath and the stuttering beat of your pulse. The edge of the counter bit pleasantly into your palms; each soft knock of your thigh against the cabinet reminded you how little time you had and how recklessly you meant to spend it.

He started controlled—every motion deliberate, every breath checked—then you felt the change when restraint slipped. A low sound rolled out of his chest, close to your ear, and he pressed in harder, deeper, the tempo climbing from patient to needy. Your name broke from him like a secret, half-whispered against your shoulder; you answered with a quiet gasp that made him shudder and chase it again.

Heat built fast—coil tightening, breath shortening, the two of you moving as if the room had narrowed to just this line of contact, just this rhythm. He adjusted the angle with a careful shift of his hips and the world snapped into sharper focus; you rocked back to meet him, wordless encouragement in the way your body yielded and asked for more. His mouth found your neck, teeth barely grazing, a kiss that landed more like a promise, and the next drive of his body turned the promise into a plea.

"Don't stop," you breathed, and felt him give in to the request like surrender.

The faucet's thin ribbon of water masked the soft, frantic sounds you couldn't quite swallow.

Time, traitorous and finite, kept marching. But for those rushing, breathless moments, it felt like you'd stepped outside of it together—nothing left but heat, the drum of your joined movement, and the rough-edged worship in the way he moved against you, as if he meant to memorize you before the world came back.

Clark then crowded in closer, one arm banded around your waist to keep you tight to him as the other slid up, fingers curling under your jaw to tilt your face. You met him halfway, lips catching his in a heat-drunk kiss that stole what little breath you'd been rationing. He didn't slow—hips driving in a steady, hungry rhythm—so the kiss broke and reformed in shards: teeth grazing, mouths parting, the soft, helpless sounds you made swallowed against his tongue.

He kept talking between kisses, each thrust punctuating a word, praise roughened into a growl. "That's it... look at me... good—God, you feel—so perfect." The cadence of it went straight through you. You answered with a ragged, "Don't stop," and his laugh came low and wrecked against your mouth, followed by a deeper roll of his hips that had your fingers clawing at the countertop for purchase.

He chased your lips like a man starved, then trailed to your cheek, the hinge of your jaw, back to your mouth—every return a reward for the way you yielded to him. "You take me so well," he murmured, voice frayed silk, "been thinking about this—about you—since the second I tasted you." You gasped; he caught it with another kiss and fed you more: "So sweet... mine for these minutes... say my name." When you did, it unraveled him; his pace hit a deeper, truer rhythm, the kind that said he'd found exactly how to undo you and had no intention of stopping.

Your replies slipped into the heat with his—please and yes and more—threaded with shameless little praises of your own that made his breath hitch: how strong he felt, how deep he was, how good he was making you feel. He answered every admission with a new kind of worship: a thumb circling your hipbone, a kiss pressed hard to the corner of your mouth, a whispered, "That's my good boy," that sent your knees threatening to give.

The kitchen was thick with heat, the air carrying that charged, heady mix of sweat, breath, and something deeper—need sharpened to a fine point. Each movement sent the unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin ricocheting off the walls, sharp and rhythmic, a pulse you could feel as much as hear.

The counter under your palms was cool in contrast to the fever of your skin, every push from Clark driving you forward just enough to make the wood creak beneath your grip. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the space, quickening with the urgency in him, in you, a raw soundtrack that drowned out the soft hiss of the faucet and the quiet tick of the clock.

Your breath came in uneven bursts, mingling with his—low groans from him, helpless gasps from you—layering over that relentless rhythm. The slap of skin was hypnotic, a metronome for the way you moved together, chasing something you both knew time would cut short but neither could stop reaching for.

Clark's pace stayed hungry, almost primal now, the sound of each thrust a physical reminder of how completely you'd both abandoned restraint. Every sharp connection of your bodies echoed in the small room, filling it with a sound that was all heat, all want, all the proof of just how lost you both were in the pleasure flooding every nerve.

You could feel the tension coiling in Clark—his hips driving forward with that sharpened precision that came only when the end was near. His fingers dug into your hips like he needed the anchor just as much as you did.

You were right there with him, your body tightening, clenching around him with each movement, dragging a low, guttural sound from his chest. The kitchen seemed smaller, quieter, like the rest of the world had faded out to just this rhythm, this heat, this chase toward release.

Then, his voice broke through the haze, deep and strained, each word riding the edge of a groan.

"You want me—" a thrust punctuated it, "—to finish inside? Keep things from... getting messy?"

The question was almost a plea, thick with lust and the barest thread of control he had left. His pace stuttered for half a beat, like he was holding himself back for your answer, his body ready to give in but waiting for your word. You could feel every bit of his need in the way he trembled against you, the urgency in his voice matching the fever in your own pulse.

You managed to nod, breathless, even as another deep thrust made your knees threaten to give. "Yeah," you rasped, your voice almost lost under the sharp slap of skin and the ragged sound of your breathing. You knew exactly what he meant—things could get messy fast if you didn't control it—but you also trusted that he'd thought it through.

Clark's hands slid lower on your hips, his grip firm, almost possessive now that he had your answer. You could feel the strain in him, the tension rippling through his body as he held himself right on the edge. Every push into you was hotter, deeper, more deliberate, like he was carving himself into your memory before time ripped you apart again.

You still had to think about yourself—about keeping your own release in check, making sure it didn't spill everywhere and give away what the two of you had just done in this kitchen. That thought flickered across your mind, but it was drowned out by the intensity of him behind you, by the heat of him driving into you like this was the only moment either of you had.

Clark's voice came low and uneven in your ear, his chest pressed to your back as he rocked into you. "Don't worry," he murmured, the words tight, like it took effort to get them out. "I've got a way to handle that too... but first—" His hips snapped forward, making you gasp, "—I need to finish inside you."

The promise in his tone sent a shiver straight down your spine. You could feel him chasing that final peak, every movement a little more desperate, a little less controlled, as if the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling was the thought of you letting him go exactly how he wanted.

Clark's rhythm faltered, his breath breaking into a low, guttural sound that rumbled against your back. His grip on your hips tightened as he buried himself deep one final time, holding you there as the heat of his release spilled into you. The sensation pulled a sharp moan from your lips, the sudden fullness making your muscles tense and flutter around him.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved—just the sound of your uneven breathing filling the kitchen, your hearts pounding like they were trying to sync. You felt him press his forehead briefly to your shoulder, his chest rising and falling against your back as he steadied himself.

Then, without pulling fully away, his hand slid forward, fingers wrapping around your dick with a confidence that left no room for hesitation. The first stroke was slow, deliberate, his palm warm and slick enough to make your hips jerk forward into his touch.

"You've been holding back," he murmured, his voice low and rough, still catching on the aftershocks of his own climax. His lips found the side of your neck, brushing soft, almost teasing kisses there before trailing up toward your jaw. The contrast between the intimacy of his mouth and the firm, purposeful rhythm of his hand had you trembling.

Each tug was perfectly timed, his thumb dragging over your most sensitive spot until the tension in your core began to coil dangerously tight. Clark kept kissing you—at first on your jaw, then finally turning your head just enough for his mouth to meet yours. The kiss was deep and messy, filled with heat and possession, his tongue sweeping against yours in perfect sync with the motions of his hand.

The combination was too much. You broke the kiss with a ragged moan, your release hitting hard, spilling into his grip as your body shuddered through it. He kept stroking you through the pulses, swallowing your sounds with more slow, lingering kisses until you had nothing left but the feel of his mouth and the faint hum of pleasure still dancing in your muscles.

When it was over, his hand loosened but didn't let go right away, as if savoring the moment before the reality of the ticking clock returned. He pressed one last kiss to your lips, breathing you in like he didn't want to forget the taste.

Clark finally let go of you, his hand still slick and warm from what he'd just worked out of you. You were still catching your breath, leaning into the counter for support, when you saw him glance down at the mess coating his fingers and palm.

Instead of reaching for a towel, he brought his hand up slowly, deliberately, his eyes locking on yours like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. His tongue swept out, dragging over the heel of his palm first, gathering the taste of you with a low hum that sounded almost approving. Then he took his time with his fingers, lips closing around each one in turn, sucking them clean in slow, unhurried pulls.

The sight punched the air right out of you. His mouth glistened faintly in the kitchen light, every movement calculated but unpretentious, like this wasn't some show—like he genuinely wanted every drop. By the time he reached his thumb, your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

He finished with one last slow lick along the side of his finger, eyes never leaving yours, and then smirked just enough to let you know he'd caught every ounce of your reaction. Jesus, you thought, your whole body buzzing. Clark Kent—buttoned-up, composed, maddeningly self-controlled Clark—had somehow just become the hottest man you'd ever seen, and you weren't sure how you were going to survive the rest of the night knowing it.

For a long, suspended beat, neither of you moved. You stayed folded over the counter with Clark warm against your back, both of you breathing hard, hearts trying to find the same rhythm again. The kitchen light felt softer somehow, turning the sheen on your skin to gold; the only sounds were the thin hiss of the faucet you'd left barely open and the faint tick of the stove clock counting you back toward reality.

Your phone buzzed against the wood—once, insistent. Five-minute warning.

Clark pressed his forehead to your shoulder and exhaled, a low, reluctant sound that vibrated through you. Then he eased out of you with careful patience, one hand steadying your hip as if to apologize for the loss. You felt the sudden cool of air and the ghost of where he'd been, then the practical rustle of clothes: his zipper's quick rasp, the soft snap of a button, the slide of fabric as he tucked himself away and smoothed his shirt. You tugged your own boxers and pants back into place, fingers a little clumsy, belt tongue finding the buckle on the second try.

You turned at the same time. For a breath, you just looked—his hair a little mussed, tie loosened into a lazy knot, his mouth flushed; your reflection of that same ruin in his eyes. The pull between you sparked all over again. He cupped your jaw with a thumb that still trembled faintly, and you leaned in. The kiss you shared was slower than any you'd managed all night—no rush, just gratitude and heat, a seal on something neither of you knew how to name.

The timer in your head clicked over another minute. You both stepped back like you'd rehearsed it. Armor on.

"Okay," you said, voice huskier than you meant. "Trays."

"Trays," he echoed, already rolling his sleeves back to his forearms like a promise to be useful.

You killed the faucet and set the sink to fill with suds. Clark stacked plates into neat towers and ferried them over; you scrubbed, rinsed, and handed off to the rack with the efficiency of two people covering a secret with motion. He portioned leftovers into containers—roast, potatoes, green beans—labeling lids with a wax pencil he found in the drawer. You slid the jewel-box desserts into smaller clamshells, tucked napkins and forks alongside, and wiped down the counter where your hips had kissed the edge, the cloth making a clean, unremarkable path through the faint heat of memory.

By the time headlights feathered across the dining room wall and tires whispered back up the drive, the kitchen looked exactly as your father had left it in your charge—dishes stacked to dry, to-go bags lined by the back door, everything in its place.

The front door swung open on a gust of cool air and familiar voices. Your father stepped in first, coat half buttoned, the set of his shoulders loosening when his eyes swept the kitchen.

"Good," he said, approval plain as he took in the stacked drying rack, the gleaming counters, and the neat line of to-go boxes by the back door. "Efficient."

Lois breezed in behind him, cheeks pink from the night air, hand still looped through Lucy's elbow. "You're a lifesaver," she said, brushing a kiss against your cheek as she passed. To Clark, another kiss, a squeeze of his arm. "And thank you for keeping him company."

"Anytime," Clark answered, easy as a Sunday smile. His tie was straight again, sleeves rolled just so—every inch the composed fiancé. Only you could see the faint rose left at the edge of his mouth.

Lucy, triumphant, hoisted a white bakery box to shoulder height. "Stand back, mortals. The lemon chiffon has landed." She thunked it onto the table, flicked the twine loose, and lifted the lid with a magician's flourish. A halo of sugar rose when she peeled back the paper, lemon glaze shining under the pendant light.

Plates appeared. Knives flashed. The first slice sighed as it left the round. You served your father, then Lois; Clark slid your plate across without looking at you, the corner of his mouth quirking like he knew exactly what your hands felt like a few minutes ago and wasn't going to think about it. You weren't either. Not with cake this pretty.

For a while, it was simple: forks tapping porcelain, low commentary about crumb and balance and which bakery deserved a handwritten thank-you note. Your father declared the icing "the only proper way to end a meal." Lucy stole a bite from Lois's plate with the shameless precision of a jewel thief. Clark hummed his approval at the first taste, eyes closing for a blink longer than necessary, a sound you felt lower than was reasonable.

"So," Lois said, refilling your father's coffee and settling back with a cat-curious glint. "While we were rescuing dessert, did my brother tell any embarrassing stories about me to scare you off? Because if he brought up the seventh-grade bangs, I will sue."

Clark didn't miss a beat. He leaned back, draped an elbow on the chair, and put on his best earnest-reporter face. "Not a one. He gave me the grand tour, spoke highly of you, and"—he lifted his fork in salute—"made sure the kitchen was squared away like a pro."

"Suspiciously wholesome," Lucy muttered, squinting between the two of you like a detective who knows there's a clue she hasn't spotted yet.

"Some of us can manage wholesomeness," you said, studiously focused on cutting a perfect bite. The lemon glaze pooled at the edge of your slice; a strand of icing clung to your fork, then to your lip when you tasted it. You swept it away with the tip of your tongue on instinct.

You didn't look at him. You didn't have to. Clark saw—of course he did—and the reaction was immediate and subtle: a sharp inhale he hid behind a sip of water, the barest tilt of his head, and then, under the table, the gentle nudge of his shoe against your ankle. Behave.

Heat flickered up your neck. You shifted your foot back, the ghost of his touch lingering like a secret handshake. Across the table, he'd already gone back to nodding at something your father was saying about tire irons and proper torque, picture of composure.

Lois, satisfied—for now—launched into a rapid-fire recap of the bakery's closing-time drama. Lucy embellished shamelessly, claiming she performed "emergency pastry diplomacy." Your father declared that an art form the city should subsidize. Laughter spilled easy and warm; plates emptied; crumbs collected on thumbs.

When the last fork scraped the last ribbon of lemon from porcelain, you stood to pack the to-go boxes you'd prepared earlier. Clark rose at the same time, moving in sync with you without discussion: lids snapped on, napkins tucked, names scrawled across tops in quick, neat letters. Your fingers brushed once—brief, harmless, everything—and then fell away.

"Successful rescue," Lois pronounced, snapping the bakery box closed. She leaned into Clark's shoulder, content. Your father clapped a hand to your back, approval heavy and warm. Lucy winked like she knew all your tells and was keeping them for later leverage.

You smiled, mouth sweet with lemon, heart steadying into the ordinary music of family around a table—while under it, the soft memory of a nudge on your ankle thrummed like a private chord only the two of you could hear.

YOU VOLUNTEERED to walk Clark out, grabbing your coat from the hook as he balanced two neatly labeled clamshells—Lois and Clark—stacked in his arms. The night air had that clean, late-evening bite; your breath lifted white in the porch light as the door clicked shut behind you. Gravel whispered under your shoes. Out by the curb, Lois’s car sat beneath the streetlamp, flecked with a fine dusting of road salt that turned the paint a shade paler.

Behind you, the front hall was a tangle of familiar noise—your sisters scolding your father as only daughters can: “Text when you’re home.” “You promise you’ll make the cardiology appointment, right?” “Dad, it’s winter—wear the good coat.” He harrumphed and agreed in that way of his that meant he’d do most of it and pretend it was his idea.

Out on the walk, you angled closer so your shoulder could help with the weight of the door while Clark freed a hand to fish for keys. “Thanks,” he said quietly, that warm Kansas note in his voice turning the word into something softer.

“You did most of the heavy lifting,” you murmured, nodding at the containers. “I just provided moral support and, uh, cutlery.”

He smiled at that—small, tired, devastating. The porch light trimmed his profile in gold; the loosened knot of his tie made him look a little undone in a way only you would notice. “You kept me from the gauntlet,” he said. “I owe you.”

“You owe me exactly nothing,” you said, and the truth of it trembled in the space between you.

At the car, he opened the back door and set the boxes carefully on the seat like they were more fragile than pastry. When he straightened, the two of you fell into that gravity again—close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, far enough to call it coincidence if anyone looked out the window. The neighborhood was quiet: the soft electric buzz of the streetlight, a radio murmuring from somewhere down the block, a taxi rolling past with its heater whistling.

“Tonight was…” He searched for the word and didn’t find it. “A lot.”

You huffed a breath that ghosted between you. “Understatement of the year. And it’s only—” You checked your phone as a distraction. “—still the same day.”

Silence settled, not awkward, just full. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets so you wouldn’t do something stupid like touch his lapel just to see if it was as soft as it looked.

“We can’t do it again,” you said finally, because someone had to pick the line back up. Your voice was quiet but sure. “Whatever that was. We can’t.”

His agreement came immediately, like a reflex he’d already rehearsed. “We can’t.” A beat. He swallowed. “Lois first.”

“Always,” you said, and meant it. The words landed between you like a posted sign.

And still—neither of you moved. Your eyes held and held, the kind of looking that catalogues, not to memorize for later, but because you couldn’t not. All the things you weren’t saying threaded through those seconds: I felt you everywhere, I’m already missing a moment we’re still standing in, I don’t know how to be in the same room as you and pretend it didn’t happen.

You forced a crooked smile. “So… next time I keep you company, we actually… keep company.”

He answered with one of his own, exhausted and warm. “I’ll bring cards. Something very wholesome.”

“Gin rummy,” you said, deadpan.

“Dangerous,” he murmured, and it shouldn’t have made your pulse jump, but it did.

From the porch, Lucy’s laugh rang out, followed by Lois’s voice telling your dad she’d bring soup later in the week. You both flinched back into the world.

“Drive safe,” you said, stepping aside so he could close the door. It clicked with a mild, final sound that felt anything but.

His hand found your sleeve—just the cuff, just a graze—and then, before either of you could talk yourselves out of it, you leaned in at the same time. The kiss was fast and quiet and precise, the kind of thing you could deny if you had to, except you wouldn’t, not to yourselves. He tasted like lemon and coffee and the last five minutes you’d stolen in a kitchen that already looked innocent again.

You parted on a shared breath. His forehead hovered a fraction from yours, then he stepped back like it cost him something.

“Goodnight,” he said, eyes still on your mouth for one treacherous second before he dragged them up where they belonged.

“Goodnight,” you echoed, softer than you meant to.

He circled to the driver’s side just as the front door opened and your sisters spilled onto the porch, coats on, your father framed behind them with his arms crossed in satisfied inspection. Lois waved at you both like she’d choreographed the goodbye. Lucy clutched her cake with the reverence of a relic.

“Text us when you’re home,” Lucy called.

“We will,” Clark answered, voice steady, that easy fiancé smile on, the picture of a man ending a normal Sunday night.

He climbed in. You shut the back door and rapped your knuckles twice on the roof—habit from a hundred family departures. The engine turned over; warm air fogged the inside of the windshield for a second before the defroster battled it clear. He glanced at you once more through the glass. The look was quick, gone as soon as it came, but you felt it like a hand closing around a promise.

As the car pulled away, you stood in the streetlight glow with a bakery box under your arm and the taste of him brief and bright on your lips. You told yourself you’d just closed the door on a mistake.

But as the taillights stitched red down the block and your phone buzzed with the group chat lighting up—cake secured; dad scolded; mission accomplished—you knew better. Whatever lived between you hadn’t burned out. It had learned to live in the margins—glances, almost-touches, borrowed minutes—and it wasn’t done with either of you.