kat

When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust. 

Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you. 

The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.

They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness. 

Until Eddie.

The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.

And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started. 

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life. 

That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.

He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.

Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-

“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.” 

He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached. 

You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable. 

You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings. 

But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.

Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.

No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them. 

The second time, it stung even more.

Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass. 

But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.

You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.

You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.

Everyone but you.

When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.

He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly. 

That’s it. That’s all.

Fuck. 

“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you. 

He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.” 

If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.

When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair. 

You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained. 

You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.

“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.

No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t. 

It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied. 

You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.

You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.

You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling? 

The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble. 

Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap. 

After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.

Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up. 

You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched. 

“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?” 

Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.

Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?” 

The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.

Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!” 

“Do not!”

“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.” 

“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?” 

“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.” 

“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?” 

Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut. 

You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.

“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.” 

“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”

Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”

“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”

You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.

The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.

You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!

“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.” 

To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them. 

You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.

Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them. 

“I need your help.” 

Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen. 

“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“

“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.” 

Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“

You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.

“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”

“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?” 

This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.

“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”

Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in. 

“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.” 

“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“

“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”

There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom. 

“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“

“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.” 

There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?” 

You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers. 

You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?” 

“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”

“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.” 

The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him. 

And so you do.

Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group. 

All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.

By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.

“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him. 

You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.” 

A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.

The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie. 

The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.

The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had. 

During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you. 

You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.

“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks. 

“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?” 

You nod.

There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch. 

Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.

Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.

You pray to God her plan works.

“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”

He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically. 

You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.

Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.

He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats. 

Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.

“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked. 

You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-

You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.” 

And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss. 

Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.

You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue. 

“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”

And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly. 

Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.

“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?” 

He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-

“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.” 

It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.” 

For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning. 

“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues. 

“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.” 

“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.” 

“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.

He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.” 

On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.

“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable. 

Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!” 

Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.

If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection? 

“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed. 

The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.

You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his. 

You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity. 

Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan. 

“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you. 

Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.” 

Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile. 

If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.

“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction. 

Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud. 

But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad. 

You try not to think of it too hard. 

You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.

You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.

This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too. 

To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.

You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation. 

God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks. 

What if he doesn’t want that? 

The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.

“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.” 

She doesn’t even have to say your name.

Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“ 

“Oh, I know she would have.” 

Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.

“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.

“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”

Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”

“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?” 

Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?” 

It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.

It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.

“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”

“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.

Don’t blow this, Dingus.

“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”

“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“

“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”

He’s not convinced.

So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.” 

A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you. 

“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?” 

Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.” 

“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.

“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.” 

They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them. 

The house is a ghost town from above.

“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.” 

Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.

You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you. 

“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs. 

When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.

“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.

He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.” 

You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?” 

“You have no clue.”

A warning glare comes from Robin.

Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory. 

When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.

Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.

He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.

Whatever Robin had said was working.

“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you. 

Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight. 

It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin. 

When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.

When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.

You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?” 

Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.

You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.

Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?” 

“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.

Warmth. Tender. Softness.

Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.

“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.

Robin. 

She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.

“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.” 

“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.” 

A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head. 

“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.” 

“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.

A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside. 

And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn. 

“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.

He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.

“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him. 

That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days. 

Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.

You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled. 

“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?” 

Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down. 

Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room. 

They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.

“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.

You felt his breath on your ear.  A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact. 

“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.” 

“Very.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.” 

“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.

You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.

“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.

“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.” 

“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.” 

You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.” 

“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.” 

You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.

A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb. 

“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.

Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.

“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“

“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.

Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”

Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.

The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you. 

You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night. 

They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.

The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.

Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.

And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.

“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. 

You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes. 

“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.

You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” 

You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.

“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.” 

“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.

“It is some big secret?”

“Nope.”

“Hmph.” 

This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter. 

“What?” 

His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.” 

For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold. 

It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored. 

“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault. 

You produce his lighter like magic.

“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.” 

“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.” 

In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.

“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.

“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.

You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking. 

You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did-“

“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.

Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.

“Ask away, sweetheart.”

A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?” 

He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be. 

It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though. 

“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”

“You guess?” 

“I guess,” he repeats.

Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do. 

When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary. 

For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that. 

“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”

The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you. 

“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.” 

Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.

Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more. 

“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”

Another crack.

“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”

“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”

A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.

“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”

“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.” 

One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter. 

You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite. 

“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?” 

He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down. 

It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana. 

One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment. 

Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.

His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.

His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you. 

He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment. 

It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you. 

He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?” 

A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.

“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.” 

“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?” 

You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.

“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.” 

You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember. 

“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?” 

“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.” 

“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.” 

You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.” 

“Oh, have I?”

His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other. 

The bell above your bakery door chimed so sweetly that you didn’t look up at first. It was a weekday lull—post–morning rush, pre–office crowd—and the whole place smelled like butter and patience. The mixer hummed. The ovens whispered. A sheet pan of cinnamon rolls cooled on a rack like a chorus line, glossy with glaze that caught the light. You were alone, sleeves shoved to your elbows, a pale dusting of flour on your cheek that you’d forgotten about ten times already.

“Tell me you do witness protection,” a voice said, low and fast, like he’d just slid into a booth at a speakeasy.

You glanced up with a practiced smile for anyone who came in flustered. The smile faltered when you recognized him. Johnny Storm stood just inside the door in a baseball cap that fooled exactly no one, sunglasses dangling by one arm from the collar of a bomber jacket. He wasn’t out of breath so much as vibrating, the kind of kinetic too-bright energy you felt in your teeth.

“I usually just do pastries,” you said, even as your eyes flicked past him to the window. Two long-lens cameras hovered across the street by the bodega, their owners pretending to be fascinated by a rack of gum.

Johnny followed your look, winced, and offered a grin that had probably negotiated world peace more than once. “I swear I’m not here for drama. I’m here to not be drama. For once.”

“You?” Your eyebrows climbed.

“Shocking, right? Sue gave me a lecture this morning. Our PR team called it a ‘cooling-off period.’ Apparently, if I get photographed doing anything except reading to puppies for forty-eight hours, civilization collapses.” He took a step closer to the counter, lowered his voice. “So, if a journalist asks, I’m a model of restraint and baked goods.”

“So… hiding.” You made it a statement. He didn’t flinch.

“Strategically… off the grid.” He nodded toward the case. “With a cinnamon roll for cover, if you’re feeling merciful.”

You slid open the glass, lifted a still-warm roll to a plate, and set it on the counter. He didn’t reach for it yet; his attention landed on you, a yes-or-no he never said out loud. Your bakery. Your call.

“Take a seat,” you said after a beat, nodding toward the two stools near the register. “I don’t do witness protection. But I do have napkins.”

He smiled like you’d offered him a favor he could feel in his bones and sat. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair with no ceremony, blue eyes flicking over the room like he was memorizing where you kept everything. His shoulders unspooled one notch at a time.

“This is great,” he said around his first bite, eyebrows shooting up with genuine surprise that made you want to laugh. “I’m not just saying that because I need a safe house. That frosting—wow. I didn’t know sugar could do that.”

“Sugar can do anything if you treat it right,” you said, then regretted the softness in your tone. You pivoted. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please, whatever you recommend. Unless it’s decaf. I have a personality to maintain.”

You poured two cups before you’d decided to. You didn’t ask yourself why.

He didn’t pretend not to be recognized, didn’t sign the napkin some customers tried to give him like a contract. He just ate slowly, glanced toward the window less and less, and asked you questions that weren’t small talk. Did you always know you wanted to bake? What do you listen to when the bakery’s empty? What’s the worst order you ever got. He listened. That was the part you didn’t expect. Not from Johnny Storm, human highlight reel.

You were halfway through telling him about a three-tier cake that collapsed like a bad secret when the bell chimed again. “Don’t set anything on fire,” Ben Grimm grunted as he shouldered in, then spotted Johnny and stopped short. “Aw, for cryin’ out loud.”

“Nice to see you too, Benji,” Johnny sang without turning. “Don’t blow my cover. I’m living a quiet, simple life as a pastry monk.”

Ben gave you a look that said he was sorry on the world’s behalf and then nodded at the coffee urn. “The usual.” He slid a few bills across the counter, big fingers careful not to wrinkle them. “If he gets in your way, kid, you tell me.”

“He’s paying,” you said dryly. “So for now, he can stay.”

Johnny clutched his chest. “At last. Validation.”

Ben snorted, grabbed his coffee, and lumbered out, muttering something that sounded like, “He’s gonna break your mixer.”

“I’m not going to break your mixer,” Johnny promised immediately. “I might serenade it.”

“You’re not going near my mixer at all.”

“We’ll see.”

He came back the next day. And the one after that. And the one after that.

At first, you thought it was coincidence. But no man who looked like Johnny Storm came into a hole-in-the-wall bakery five mornings in a row by accident. By the second week, you had started saving a cinnamon roll for him behind the counter. By the third, you caught him lingering long after his plate was empty, elbows on the counter, teasing you about how your apron never stayed tied properly or asking which cake flavor was your personal favorite.

One afternoon, the bell jingled and in came Sue, balancing a reusable grocery bag on one hip and wrangling a squirmy Franklin. “Franklin refuses to sleep without his dinosaur pajamas,” she explained, lifting the bag a little. She clocked Johnny leaning against your counter and smirked. “Oh. I see we’re… cooling off.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Johnny said. “I’m rebrand—ing.” The hyphen was the panic.

“Hmm,” she said, the way only a sister could. She glanced at your case, brightened. “Are those lemon bars? Reed will propose to anyone for a decent lemon bar.”

“Tell him to hold off,” Johnny said. “We have a brand to protect.”

“If you want to protect the brand,” she murmured, eyes twinkling, “stop staring at her like that in public.”

You pretended to be deeply invested in evenly spacing brownie squares while your ears burned.

“Hi!” a small voice chirped from knee-height. Franklin peered around his mom’s legs, face smeared with something that looked like chocolate. “Uncle Johnny, can I have the sprinkle donut?”

“Buddy, that’s not a—well, no, actually, we do have one in the back that is technically a sprinkle donut,” Johnny said, and you weren’t sure what was funnier: his need to be correct about pastry taxonomy or the way he lit up for a five-year-old like the paparazzi didn’t exist.

You brought out a baked not-fried “donut,” really a cake ring with icing and every rainbow sprinkle you owned. Franklin’s eyes got huge. “This looks like a birthday,” he breathed.

“It’s everyone’s birthday somewhere,” Johnny said solemnly, and you had to turn away so you didn’t laugh into your own apron.

Franklin stuck his hand straight into the sprinkles before you could stop him, came away with a sticky constellation across his cheeks, and sighed like he’d discovered divinity. “Uncle Johnny talks about this place,” he informed you gravely. “He says it smells like happiness.”

“Does he.” You didn’t look at Johnny. You didn’t need to; you could feel him—how his smile went wry at one corner, how he pretended to inspect a tip jar that already had too many of his twenties in it.

“He also says,” Franklin continued, “that you—”

“Okay!” Sue scooped him up like a vengeful crane and kissed his sugary temple. “Time to go tell Dad we found lemon bars. Say ‘thank you.’ And ‘sorry for my uncle.’”

“Thank you,” Franklin said clearly. “Sorry for my—Uncle Johnny is good.”

Johnny pressed a hand to his chest. “Finally, someone says it.”

When the door closed, you realized you were smiling at nothing. When you glanced up, Johnny was watching you watch the door, and the look he gave you was unguarded enough that you had to look away.

He asked you out the following Tuesday. It wasn’t a production. He didn’t make fireworks spell your name over the East River, didn’t arrive on a flaming motorcycle, didn’t grandstand in a way that would have made you flinch. He finished restocking napkins, rinsed his hands, wiped them on a towel, and leaned his elbows on the counter.

“Go out with me,” he said, simple as a request to pass the salt. “Somewhere with real chairs and no timer beeping every twelve minutes.”

“You’re very confident,” you said, not because it needed saying but because he was waiting for you to say something.

“I’m very… sure.” He tilted his head like he was searching for a better word. “Of this one thing.”

You arranged your face into something neutral so your traitor heart didn’t volunteer you before your brain caught up. You could say no and nothing would break. You could say no and he’d keep coming in for coffee, would keep carrying flour, would keep being the one person who laughed at your terrible playlist ironically and then unironically, and you could watch him find someone else to set on fire.

“Friday,” you said, and the way relief washed through him would have embarrassed a less shameless man. He didn’t hide it. He grinned like you’d handed him a dare.

He took the cooling-off memo seriously. No paparazzi bait, no restaurant where the point was to be seen. He showed up at your apartment door in a suit the color of midnight and a tie that had been tied three times, if the askew knot told the truth. He held flowers like he’d rehearsed not making a joke about them. He didn’t make you feel like a bit. He made you feel like something he could ruin and would rather not.

The restaurant was just nice enough to make you sit a little straighter. He pulled your chair out and didn’t make eye contact with the hostess for longer than he needed to. The first ten minutes felt like you’d known each other six weeks—exactly the number you had—and also like you’d fallen into a pocket of air outside the world’s timing, where banter synced with breath.

“Is there anything you’re actually bad at?” you asked at one point, more curious than teasing.

“Geography,” he said immediately. “And waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“For anything good.” He sipped his water like that hadn’t been naked.

You decided to ask him things you could only ask away from the clang of sheet pans. If he ever wanted to stop. If he ever got tired. He asked you if there was anything about baking you hated but did anyway because the end justified the mess.

“Inventory,” you said. “And fondant.”

“You hate fondant?” He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s so shiny.”

“It tastes like sweet rubber.”

“Okay,” he said, “rude but fair.”

It was easy. It was dangerous, how easy. Maybe that’s why you tested the seam of it, the way you sometimes pressed your thumb into the bottom of a cake to see if it sprung back.

“What’s your type?” he asked, casual, somewhere between appetizers and pasta. He didn’t say it like a trap. He said it like a kid trailing a sound with his finger.

You considered. You could have said something diplomatic. You could have said “funny” or “kind” and meant him. Instead, you smiled—small, mean, a little curious about what happened next—and drew a line down the center of the tablecloth he’d set so carefully.

“Black curly hair,” you said. “Brown dreamy eyes. Bulky. Veiny arms.” You tilted your head. “You know. A little broody.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to. His mouth made a shape that wasn’t a smile, his eyes flicked to your mouth then back to your water glass, and he sat back like the chair had scooted a millimeter further away. The laugh he gave you was bright enough to be a weapon.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, scoffing, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. “I get the picture.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He found the corner of his napkin with his thumb and smoothed it as if the linen had personally offended him. “Broody’s a classic. Everyone loves a storm cloud. So—good for you.”

You watched him the way you watched the edge of caramel before it tipped into bitter. He wasn’t angry. Johnny rarely burned that way. He was… skewed. A little to the left of himself. He rolled his sleeves to his forearms like he’d just remembered he had them. He sat straighter, and when the server came to refill water, he straightened more, and when you reached for your wine, he handed it to you before you’d decided to ask.

He overcorrected. That was the thing he did. He overcorrected with style, but still.

He walked you home without saying anything sharp. He waited while you found your keys. He didn’t ask to come up; he didn’t try to erase what you’d said with his mouth. He said, “Thank you. For letting me pretend for a night that I’m extremely good at being a person,” and you said, “You’re better than you think,” and he stared at your door for a beat like you’d put something on the other side that he wanted.

He still showed up at the bakery the next morning at six. He did fifty push-ups on your forty-inch square of office floor while you did inventory on a clipboard because of course he did. He carried three sacks of flour into the back one-handed and didn’t look at you when he set them down like he hadn’t planned it at all. He wore a T-shirt with sleeves short enough to flash the rope of his forearms every time he reached for a dish towel. He flexed, for the first time, for real. Not because he was vain. Because he was trying to be a language he thought you spoke.

“Careful,” you said when he snapped the elastic hairnet at his hairline, which he insisted on wearing like a crown. “You’ll break something trying that hard.”

“Not possible,” he said, smiling like he’d swallowed a dare. He tossed the dish towel over his shoulder. “I’m excellent at everything.”

“You’re objectively bad at tempering chocolate.”

“That was one time.”

“It was yesterday.”

He grinned and burned the second batch, too. You pretended you didn’t notice him reset the thermometer to try again, jaw tight, determined to get this right for reasons he was not going to name.

It would have been cute if it hadn’t also tugged something in your chest in a way you didn’t like. You hadn’t meant to pin him to a chalk outline. You hadn’t meant for a sentence to lodge in a person that way. Your own words ricocheted off the copper bowls and back into your face: You know. The opposite of you.

You told yourself your type had always been a good joke. You told yourself you’d meant eyes that saw you when you were behind a counter and your hands wouldn’t stop moving. You told yourself you hadn’t meant to make him small.

When your oven broke during a massive order, you nearly burst into tears. You stared at it like sheer will might bring it back to life, then yanked out your phone. Ben had given you Reed’s number months ago for a bulk order, swearing, “He’s the only one who can talk you through measurements if I screw it up.”

You typed fast: Oven dead. Wedding order today. Please tell me you do miracles.

“On my way,” Reed replied almost instantly. Then: Also, please do not let Johnny fix anything.

You glanced toward the front. Johnny was gloving up to carry trays from the proofing cabinet, blissfully unaware. “Noted,” you muttered.

He noticed, of course, when the first tray of meringues went into an oven that didn’t heat. He noticed the way your face didn’t move and then moved too much all at once. He glanced at the thermostat, at your hands, at the clock. “What do we need?”

“Time,” you said, which was the same as saying Nothing realistic.

He pulled his phone out without asking. “Hey, Reed,” he said when the line picked up. “Are you already—great. We have a… situation.” He listened, hung up, and then leaned both palms on the stainless counter and met your eyes. “Okay, game plan. I’m going to call Ben for muscle. Reed’s bringing gizmos. Sue has… Sue has something in the car that will keep us invisible if we need it, but let’s pretend that’s Plan Z. You—tell me how many things can be salvaged and how many I need to call in favors for.”

“You don’t—”

“You’re not alone,” he said, so simply you didn’t know what to do with the sentence. Then he softened it with a smile. “Also, I really want to see Reed sweet-talk an oven.”

Ben arrived first with a rolling tool chest that should have been in a garage, not a bakery. He took one look at the oven, whistled low, and said, “She’s seen things.”

“She’s going to see Reed fix her,” Johnny said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was channeling patience from another dimension. “And then she’s going to bake like she’s trying to win prom queen.”

Reed arrived like a man who had made peace with the weird. He crouched in front of the oven, murmuring to it with the same reverence he reserved for quantum anomalies, then extracted a series of warped parts like a magician pulling scarves. Sue backed through the door balancing a box and a sleepy Franklin, who immediately lit up at the sight of you like you were Saturday.

“Is it an emergency?” Franklin asked solemnly as Sue settled him with crayons at a corner table.

“It’s a little one,” you said. “But your uncle is being very useful.”

“Useful,” Johnny repeated, glaring at you like you were the moon and he’d just learned you’d been orbiting him the whole time.

“Useful is high praise,” Sue said under her breath, and then while Reed coaxed life back into the pilot light with a screwdriver and a speech about longevity, she rolled up her sleeves and started cutting butter into flour like she’d done it a hundred times. “Tell me quantities,” she said, and when you did, she didn’t blink. She just said, “Johnny, stop staring and start whisking those egg whites like they offended your honor.”

“I love it when you talk to me like I’m a stand mixer,” he said, already whisking.

By eight, the oven had a heartbeat again. By nine, meringues piped in perfect spirals lined every flat surface you owned. You and Sue fell into a wordless rhythm people only get when they’ve watched each other be brilliant in other rooms for a very long time. Ben iced lemon bars with the meticulousness of a bomb technician. Reed improvised a stabilizing bracket for your oven door out of parts you didn’t know you had and wrote you a note with maintenance tips that read like love poetry to thermal consistency.

Johnny did everything. He carried sheet pans without scorching them. He ran interference with a delivery driver who arrived an hour early and immediately needed to pee. He answered the phone and soothed a bride, promised an on-time delivery with a calm he did not feel, then biked the first tray over himself because he could sew through traffic faster than your old van. When paparazzi began to gather because the Fantastic Four were very obviously inside a small business, he stepped outside with a box of sample cookies, charmed them into staying across the street, and then did something you didn’t learn until later: he told them that if any photo of you inside doing your job ran, he’d personally blacklist the outlet from every charity event he did this year. He said it like a promise he knew how to keep.

He came back with hair mashed flat from a helmet and cheeks flushed and dove back into the kitchen as if the floor were lava and everything depended on it. He burned the heel of his hand catching a falling tray because by the time he remembered he couldn’t be burned, he’d already moved. When you reached for the burn cream, he made a big production of how he was absolutely fine, look at me, fireproof, nothing to see, do not cry about it.

You cried about it later, for thirty seconds in the bathroom, silently, with your palms pressed to your eyes.

By noon, you were ahead. You were sweaty and sugar-sticky and weirdly giddy. Reed kissed Sue’s hair and left a note taped to the oven that said, in his precise hand, “Please, for the love of god, schedule quarterly checks. —R.” Ben pretended he wasn’t proud of his perfect lemon bar grid. Franklin fell asleep in the corner with a sprinkle stuck to his eyebrow and the dinosaur pajamas slumped over his lap like a captive flag.

Johnny stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching you pipe the last ring of meringue like it was a wedding vow, and you felt his gaze like sunshine between your shoulder blades.

“Hey,” he said when you set the piping bag down. He didn’t have a joke ready. That was how you knew he meant it. “You were… you were art.”

“So were you,” you said, which made him blink, taken apart by one sentence.

Ben made an exit with a grumbled, “I ain’t third-wheeling in a bakery,” which was nonsense because he had third-wheeled you for two hours already. Sue carried a sleeping Franklin out like contraband and blew a kiss over her shoulder that made Johnny groan. Reed, bless him, sent you an invoice for exactly zero dollars and a text that said, “Satisfied client?” with a photo of the oven’s happy flame like it was a baby’s first steps.

The bakery exhaled. The street noise lowered. You turned and found Johnny with his back to the counter, arms braced behind him, head tilted like he could hear a frequency you couldn’t. His hair was a mess. There was a streak of flour on his cheekbone he hadn’t noticed and you hadn’t told him about because you liked seeing him marked by your world.

“You should sit,” he said, nodding to a stool. “Before gravity remembers you.”

“You should stop trying to be someone else.” It slipped out as if your mouth had decided to stop letting you be a coward.

He went very still, only his eyes moving. “I’m not—”

“The sleeves,” you said, and flicked your fingers at his forearms. “The push-ups in my office. The… just the whole thing. I said something stupid. I wanted to see if I could make you flinch. And then you—”

“You wanted to see if I’d go away,” he said softly, like he’d known for days and hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. “Because if I did, it would be neat. There’d be a place for it on a shelf. ‘That was the time Johnny Storm flirted with me for a few weeks and then realized I’m not a sports car or a camera.’ You wouldn’t have to—”

“I didn’t want you to go away,” you said, which felt like such a risky thing to admit that you had to look at the floor. “I wanted to know what you’re like when you don’t win.”

He laughed once, hoarse. “Horrible. Petty. In denial.”

“Determined,” you corrected. You took a step closer. “Useful.”

He made a face like you’d said he’d been elected treasurer. “Stop. That word is going to haunt me.”

“Good.” You reached up and used your thumb to swipe the flour off his cheekbone. He went cross-eyed trying to watch your hand and then gave up and watched your mouth. You left your hand where it was because you were tired of pretending you didn’t want to. “Listen to me.”

He did. God, he did.

“I said something on that date that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because I was filleting a fear in public and calling it taste. I don’t know what my type is. I know what my person is.” You held his eyes, didn’t let him joke his way out of it, didn’t let him dodge. “You are not my type, Johnny. You’re my person.”

His expression—there wasn’t a word for it you’d used before. It was not triumph, exactly; there was too much relief in it, too much unguarded ache. It was something like a man who’d spotted land he’d almost convinced himself he’d imagined.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough like a fire that had burned down to coals.

“Positive,” you said, and that was the whole truth.

He didn’t lunge. He didn’t do anything dramatic. He stepped into your space like you were warm and he’d been cold for ten years and wrapped his hands loosely around your waist like he was asking you a question you already knew the answer to. When he kissed you, he did it as if he only had one kiss and he intended to spend it very wisely. You kissed him back like you were done pretending that your life hadn’t been bending toward this, very gradually, the way a plant will tilt toward a window without anyone telling it where the sun is.

He pulled back with his forehead resting against yours and laughed into your mouth, breathy and astonished. “You have no idea how badly I wanted that.”

“I have some idea,” you said.

“I’ll still do the push-ups,” he said quickly, and you laughed and shoved at his shoulder and his laugh unspooled into something that sounded like relief and the first day of vacation and a kid told he can go back and ride the roller coaster again.

He stayed. He stayed through the afternoon rush, as he always did, now shamelessly stealing a kiss when he ducked into the back with a tray because you’d both decided the bakery was Switzerland and also yours. He stayed through cleanup, where he proved magnificent at mopping if he could dance with the handle and narrate as if he were on a cooking show. He stayed when you locked the door and the lights glowed low and the mixer went quiet and you climbed up on the counter and ate the ugly lemon bars that didn’t make the cut, squeezing the wedge of time between closing and night like it owed you.

He didn’t ask for your type again. He didn’t try to be less himself. He didn’t stop rolling his sleeves because you liked his forearms; he just rolled them because he liked his sleeves rolled and you liked his forearms and everybody won.

Paparazzi came back. Of course they did. He didn’t hide from them unless there was a reason, and he never used you as one. When they lingered outside, he stepped onto the sidewalk and flashed a grin and answered three questions and gave them a picture that kept them happy enough to move on. He never let anyone take a photo from inside; that was the only rule he asked for and the only one you would have agreed to before he said it.

He took you out again, and again. Once to a rooftop garden with twinkle lights and a chef who wept over your tart crust. Once to a Knicks game where he behaved himself so hard you half expected him to explode. He got better at waiting. You didn’t ask him to be one thing or another. You let him be a man who loved cameras and also loved slipping into your bakery on a Tuesday morning because the song on the radio was one you’d told him about and he wanted to listen to it in the place where you liked it.

Ben kept coming, and pretended not to like you and then liked you because it was impossible not to. Sue brought Franklin by on purpose now, to bribe him into putting on pajamas but really because Franklin’s joy at a sprinkle donut was the exact medicine for days that felt like too much. Reed installed a thermometer that looked like it could be used to measure a star and wrote you a note on letterhead that said, “Remember: you can ask for help,” and you taped it to the inside of your cabinet where you could see it when you needed to.

One night in late summer, you closed early because you could. He came by at dusk with hair damp from a shower and a T-shirt that had obviously lost a fight with a dryer. You sat on the floor behind the counter with your backs against the cabinets and shared the last cinnamon roll, torn in your hands, eaten with the lazy greed of people who didn’t have to leave yet.

“You know,” he said, licking sugar from his thumb, “I can probably stop pretending to be good for PR now. They got busy yelling at someone else this week.”

“You were pretending?” you asked, scandalized.

He laughed. “Okay, fair. I was… shifting the ratio.” He tilted his head so he could see your profile in the warm light. “I’ll still do it when I need to. Be… photogenic in public. I like it. It’s fun. But this—” He gestured with his chin at the room. “It is not lost on me that I started sleeping through the night the week I started hiding in here.”

“Strategically off the grid,” you said.

“Exactly.”

You set your head on his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t jostle, didn’t make a joke to cut the quiet. He reached for your hand and threaded your fingers together, and you felt the way his palm mapped yours like he’d known it longer than he had.

If anyone asked you later, you would say that your type was a man who stayed when the oven quit and the meringues fell. A man whose jealousy was soft-edged because it came from wanting to be close, not from wanting to control. A man who believed that sugar could do anything if you treated it right, and applied that rule to people.

He would say that his type was you.

He’d grin when he said it, because he couldn’t help himself. He’d say it to a camera if someone asked, just once, in a way that made twelve PR managers faint and three more resign. He’d say it to Franklin at bedtime when he needed a story. He’d say it to Ben and roll his eyes when Ben pretended not to hear. He’d say it to Sue in a text accompanied by seventeen heart emojis until she threatened to block him. He’d say it to you in the doorway of your bakery in the morning when the sun hadn’t quite happened yet, like a prayer that sounded suspiciously like a joke.

And when you teased him about his sleeves or his push-ups or his silly attempts to be broody, he’d laugh and kiss your flour-dusted cheek and whisper, “Useful,” in your ear, like a promise that the best things didn’t have to be loud to light up a room.

Instead, you sat with a cooling plate of pizza and disappointment. In his defense, he had sent you a quick message about an hour ago, one like he usually does, laced with apology and too many emojis to decipher. He even added an American flag to the end of his message this time, which was odd, a new one for him. 

Until you scrolled on your phone, passing post after post about Superman currently fighting inter-dimensional beings in Washington D.C, the monuments making for a more compelling backdrop to the fight than the typical skyline you were used to. 

The American flag made sense now.

You gave up on the idea of a shared dinner about twenty minutes later, carefully replacing the slices of pizza and garlic knots in containers for a future meal—probably his lunch for tomorrow, if he even made it back in time to pack one. Instead of corking the rest of the wine, you carried it with you to the couch, sans glass, and made quick work to collapse into the pillows.

It was your first argument—if you could even call it that—what pillows to furnish your new apartment with. You had wanted something a bit more simple, something that wasn’t too flashy or forward, something to go with the seasons. Clark wanted… something different. He was a man—metahuman abilities or not—at the end of the day, and he wanted that stupid chicken pillow. Not a pillow with chickens printed on it, a pillow entirely shaped like a chicken. Claimed it ‘reminded him of Ma’. 

No chance in hell you were winning the fight after that.

The chicken sat over on the seat across from you, menacingly, a reminder of who you were missing. A swig of a bottle in your hand calmed your sorrows, just for a moment, before tuning in to the news that flashed across your television. Reporters were focusing on the attack on the Nation’s Capital, the monsters that were attacking it and Superman’s ability to reign them in. Some were applauding Superman for his hard work and dedication to the country, others chose to criticize the damage he had caused to a few of the monuments. 

“Rather there be some rubble from monuments celebrating slave owners than actual human lives,” you said into the bottle, taking another small sip. “But okay.” 

You got tired of the news, tired of watching your boyfriend from afar, worrying about his safety as if he wasn’t literally the most capable man on Earth to handle something like this. Flipping through streaming services, you settled on something mindless to watch, to get your head out of the clouds and back to reality. Watching hot people try to flirt with one another seemed like a good way to do it.

A buzz came from your lap. 

C.K 🤓 : Taking longer than expected. I’m sorry honey. ☹️  

You scowled at the phone, pursing your lips as you re-read the words. 

Another buzz. 

C.K 🤓:  Sleep well. Love you. ❤️

“Love you too,” you said softly to the universe, as if he could hear you across state lines. You wouldn’t put it past him. 

It was difficult, being Superman's partner. The late nights, the constant worrying, the anxiety that maybe you'd let his secret slip if the right person asked you at the wrong time. You knew this. You prepared for this. What made it easy was Clark. Sweet, sweet Clark Kent, farmboy from Kansas with the heart of gold. He made it easy, made you so willing to keep up with it all.

He was worth it.

You give up on the rest of your evening, trashy reality television and wine long forgotten. With heavy steps you tread to the bathroom to get ready for bed, peeling your clothes off unceremoniously. The hamper was nearly full, you’d have to do laundry tomorrow, adding the cherry on top of your shit cake of a day. A moment of appreciation for your underwear was given, your eyes raking over your reflection in the mirror—bright red lace, accentuating your features nicely, a favorite of Clark’s.

“Shame,” you hummed, peeling it off and throwing it on top of the hamper, knowing he’d see it. Good, you thought. Suffer, you added.

Opting for something cozy, you rummaged around the dirty clothes and pulled out one of Clark’s shirts, one he had recently worn on your latest date night around the city. A black t-shirt from a Daily Planet outing, a picnic of some kind, he loved it to bits—meaning he wore it frequently. A quick sniff test allowed you to pull it on, choosing it as your sleepwear of the evening. Adding a pair of your own shorts, a pair from college, you decided this was the best you could do.

Washing of your face allowed you to take a moment for yourself. Rubbing your nightly routine into your skin was usually relaxing, methodical, even. Taking care of yourself before bed was something you tried to find pride in, whenever you remembered to do it, anyway. Grounding you to the here and now, not spiraling with thoughts of Clark getting hurt, limping home to you, bloodied, battered and bruised, dying—

You spat your toothpaste out.

When did you start brushing your teeth?

As if anyone else was in your apartment, you tiptoed across the hall into your bedroom, quiet as a mouse, ready for the comfort and solace of your bed. It was a cozy thing, sheets made of flannel for the cooler winter months, Clark’s pillow a bit firmer than your own—something about neck pain, he mentioned once. You found it hard to believe a metahuman like himself could get neck pain from simply sleeping, but you allowed the man to have his delusions, as long as you kept every single one of your own pillows on your side. All three of them, two for your head, one for your legs, saved for whenever Clark couldn’t replace it.

Much like tonight.

Falling asleep was never a chore, you welcomed it with open arms most of the time, shutting your brain off and allowing it to come… that was the struggle. But, with your secret weapon stashed behind your pillows, now firmly tucked between your chest and neck, you found the solace of slumber.

—

The sun was shining through your window, the curtains had been pulled back, much to your sleepy dismay. Groaning, you rolled over, hoping you could just… will them to close on their own. Instead, you were met with the brick wall that was Clark Kent, laying peacefully beside you. He hadn’t bothered changing out of his suit, not fully, taking in every inch of sunlight he could. You knew at first glance the man wasn’t sleeping, his breathing was too irregular. You also knew he could tell you weren’t sleeping, either. 

“No… suit in the bed,” you managed to grumble, voice still thick with sleep. Your hand patted his arm lovingly, despite your words. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he responded, his eyes opening up to meet your own. Blue as the sky, deep as the ocean, you had told him once. He liked that. “I was so tired and—”

“—needed sun,” you finished, yawning. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’ll wash them,” he promised quickly, turning a bit on his side, his gaze never leaving your own. “Today, I promise.”

“You promise a lot of things, Superman,” your voice had no real bite, no edge, but it still stung in his ears.

“I’m sorry,” Clark sighed. “I deserve that, yeah.” He deflated into the mattress, as if his body was finally allowing him to relax, your presence almost a soothing balm on his soul. “I deserve that,” he repeated, a bit softer.

The hum of the fan in your bedroom drowns your ears, filling any empty space your silence left. “You don’t. Deserve that, I mean.”

Clark closed his eyes for a moment, his lips pursing half as long before he responds. “I do. I-I promised I’d be here, I left you alone with your meal you worked so hard on—which looked amazing—”

“Slow down, Kansas,” you said, pressing a hand to his chest. He took a deep breath. “I know what I signed up for.”

He sat straight up, as if your hand had suddenly burned him. “No, you signed up for—for some dorky reporter, a kid from some small town in the Midwest, not… Superman.”

You look at him fully, watching as this sturdy rock of a man was practically crumbling before you.

“You’ve seen Shrek, yeah?”

“I—what?” He looked down at you as you began to sit up, not nearly matching his height, but closer than before. His thick brows furrowed nearly into a single line. “How does that have anything to do with—”

“Much like ogres,” you said, cocking your head slightly, “you, Clark Kent, are like an onion.”

He blinked.

“…an onion?”

“You have layers,” you shrugged. “Sometimes they’re stinky, complicated, superhuman, but layers nonetheless.”

“I don’t think I quite love this analogy, sweetheart,” Clark finally chuckled.

“It’s too early for me to be poetic, sorry,” you said a bit sheepishly. “But you get what I’m trying to say, yeah?”

“You love me, stinky layers and all?”

“Something like that.” Your grin could light up the room, sunlight be damned. It was something he was certain of. “I love you, stinky boy, please stop trying to make decisions for me.”

“I love you too,” he said softly. “And… I’ll try.”

“And stop overthinking so much,” you poked his forehead. “I can see the steam pouring out of your ears.”

He laughed at that. “Noted.”

“We can talk more about your layers later, after some coffee. Sound good?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. We can talk all about my stinky layers later.”

You groan. “You know I don’t think you're actually stinky—though let’s be honest you didn’t even touch a shower before getting into our bed—”

“I’m washing the sheets!” He laughed again, watching your nose scrunch up comically. “I’m serious!”

“So am I!” Your laugh matched his own, feeling his fingers run up your sides. An attack, clearly. “Clark!”  

“Nope, Clark’s not here,” he said, expertly evading your dodges. “Superman’s got an agenda.”

“A-agenda?” You squeak between gasps.

“A tickle agenda,” he shrugged. “Tickle taxes need to be paid.”

If laughter was a true currency, as Clark had teased, the two of you would be rich beyond your years. Thankfully, after your fourth or fifth smack to his arms, he stilled his onslaught. “You missed pizza night,” you said breathlessly, eyes chasing his own. 

“I know.”

“You love pizza night.”

“I know,” he groaned. 

“It’s still in the fridge,” you hummed, thumb rubbing circles on his elbow. “I hardly ate any of it, so you can have all the pizza you want.”

“I only need a pizza your heart,” he grinned.

“Clark.”

“What? Too cheesy?” 

“Clark!” You throw your pillow over your face, as if it would hide you from his blinding grin, the one you knew you loathed, the one you knew you loved. 

“Come on, pretty,” Clark said, gently pulling the pillow off of you, a bit of your blanket following in his grip. “Let me see that smile.”

You tried your best to twist your smile into a pout, failing miserably. “M’not smiling.”

“Smirking, smiling,” he kissed your nose. “Same thing.” You allowed him to continue to press kisses to your face, each one taking great care to be gentle, not overwhelming in the slightest. His peppering slowed when his gaze found a flash of red and blue under your sheets.

Confused by the sudden break, your own eyes opened, following his sight quickly. If it wasn’t for his super-speed, you would have flung the culprit across the room and into the abyss, but no, your boyfriend was always faster, always one step ahead. “Oh you really don’t have to…”

In his iron grip was a stuffed rabbit, the one from your childhood, the one that survived every move, every heartbreak, every life change. That wasn’t the secret. Clark knew full well about BunBun, hell, he shared a bed with her occasionally. Who would try to separate a girl from her emotional support stuffy? Not Clark Kent, that’s for sure. What did surprise him, was her new attire. Long gone was the faded shirt with a baseball team’s logo—she was originally a gift from your father, a huge fan of the team—and in its place was a brand new, shiny, red and blue—

“BunBun has a Superman shirt?”

You wanted to die of embarrassment. Thrown off the top of your building, set aflame, drowned in the bay, whatever could kill you fastest. “Her old one was falling apart…” your conviction was shaky, your reasoning a bit unsound. You didn’t even believe you, how could you expect the man who could literally hear your heartbeat to do such a thing?

He pulled the rabbit into the light, fully out of the sheets and straight into the air. “Well I’ll be darned.”

“It was a stupid purchase, an impulse buy,” your grave was practically digging itself at this point. “It hardly cost me anything!”

His thumbs ran over the print on the front, his ’S’ logo clear and clean, hardly a shoddy piece of merchandise. “I didn’t even know they made stuff like this, I mean, the mugs and the shirts are a given, but this…?”

“Is silly right?” You finished his thought, trying to grab your rabbit from his death grip—obviously to no avail. “I mean, sooo silly! It’s hysterical, really. Clearly—Clark give her back!”

“No, no,” you could feel his chuckles shake the bed, his arm flying, trying to keep the rabbit out of your grabby hands. “It’s so… cute.”

“I swear on all that is holy if you don’t give BunBun back to me right now—”

“Did you…?” He pressed his nose to the blue fabric. “Oh honey…”

“Don’t.”

“You didn’t,” he nearly growled, the sound coming deep from his chest.

“Clark, please, just let me rot in this bed forever—” 

“You sprayed it with my cologne?” 

This must be what heaven feels like, you think. Considering you wish you were dead in this moment, you must be in heaven. Your eyes closed the second he spit out the truth, his arms grappling to you like a vice against his chest, all warm and full of affection. Your mumbles were lost to you, but everything to him.

“Hm? What was that?”

“You heard me, Kansas,” you said, a bit louder, peeking up from the mountains of his chest. “I miss you sometimes, okay?”

“Sweetheart, I know you do,” he rubbed your back lovingly, BunBun casually hanging in his other hand. “When I’m gone I miss you too, though, clearly you’re winning the ‘Missing My Partner Olympics’.”

He laughed at your attempt to smack his chest again.

“You can’t blame me,” you pointed at him, the distraction working just long enough to wriggle the rabbit out of his grasp. With BunBun in hand, your heart rate slowed, just a bit, your relief almost instant. “I occasionally miss my boyfriend, sue me.”

His grin softened at your declaration, though layered in that classic humor of yours he knew so well, it was honest—true. “It’s cute, you’re cute.”

“It’s embarrassing—”

“—adorable.”

“Deplorable—”

“—endearing.”

“It’s not even licensed!”

“Do I need to license my image?” He asked no one in particular, the voice lower than expected.

“I mean… they’re using it without your permission, Clark.”

He furrowed his brows.

“…should I be suing people? I mean, can I even sue people?”

This time, the laughter from the both of you shook your bed.

“Superman shouldn’t be suing people,” you decided.

“I’m not seeing any profit from this, sweetheart,” he added. “I mean, think of the things I could buy you with that kind of cash.”

“What? Like a ring?”

It was a tease, a joke.

“Yeah,” he said softly. "Like a ring.”

He wasn’t joking.

“S-Superman shouldn’t be suing people,” you repeated, your heartbeat drumming loudly in your ears. Surely your pulse was skyrocketing. 

“Yeah,” he hummed, looking down at the stuffed animal, taking care to admire his own insignia. “Probably for the best.”

And so, the conversation was dropped, the topic untouched.

“This is a sign though,” Clark added, turning to you now. “We have to make a trip to the mall.”

“Why’s that, handsome?”

“I need a stuffy that’s dressed like you, duh,” he said incredulously. “I feel left out.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly serious,” he booped your nose. “It’d be a matching set! BunBun could sit proudly next to Bearemy on the bed, you don’t have to stuff her between the headboard—” 

“Bearemy?”

“Yeah,” his voice cracked, shoulders touching his ears in a shrug. “That’s his name.”

“You don’t even have a bear yet, and you’ve already named him?”

Clark jumped out of bed, peeling off his suit. “Oh honey, if that’s shocking to you, do not go through my notes app on my phone—you’d be horrified at what’d you’d find.”

The small revelation warmed your soul.

Maybe you’d tell him about your super-secret list, too. One day.

“I don’t plan to snoop, Supes.”

“Thank goodness,” he sighed playfully, walking to the hallway. “Your trust is everything to me, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you watched him swoon against the doorway, nearly naked—save for his grey boxers. A moment of appreciation for your boyfriend’s appearance was never a wasted one. “Go shower, stinky.”

“Stinky, stinky onion man,” Clark sang softly, a bit off key and no real tune in mind, waltzing to the bathroom only a few steps away. Only until you heard the old pipes creak did you finally flop back onto your pillow, rabbit cuddled against your chest. 

“Officials believe that this device was planted to distract emergency services from the bank robbery in the Central Business District. While it is still unclear how much money was stolen, early estimates suggest losses upwards of seventy-thousand dollars. Bill Rossi is on location with the details. Over to you, Bill.”

The screen cuts to a man in his mid-forties, his mustache thick and his lips pressed thin. There’s a few awkward seconds where he stares into the camera before smiling. “Thank you, Linda. Eyewitnesses believe that this may have been the work of some metahumans, with some reporting seeing ‘a blue figure with a laser gun’ blowing a hole in the side of the building…”

Your focus wanes as the camera pans over to the bank, blue goo dripping down where a wall used to be. First responders rush across the screen, walking through the wreckage of it all.

You wonder again why you chose to live in Metropolis over Central City.

You’ve never been so excited to see the steps out of the metro. 

Your arm aches like crazy and you really just wish you could call Clark, but your phone fell out of your purse sometime when you were being rushed to safety. 

It’s hard not to believe that this isn’t another example of the universe punishing you. You wanted a Clark-free day, and it’s what you’re getting.

Instead, you’re forced to settle for his freaky doppelganger, because Superman is leaning against a streetlight a few feet away from your metro exit. 

The sentence sounds insane to even think about, but it’s a fact. He waves and grins at the few people who pass by, who beam smiles back at him. You get the urge to prod at his dimples, which are made even more pronounced by the upturn of his lips. 

You weren’t lying when you told Clark that you thought Superman was great. As you walk past him, a kid wraps herself around one of his legs, and he crouches down to talk to her. The girl’s dad trails behind her, looking just as starstruck as he speaks with the hero about the thunderstorm that hit Metropolis last night.

Superman seems so genuinely happy about getting the chance to talk to everyone, and you find it surreal that he’d saved you just a few hours ago. You can’t wait to tell Clark about your first meeting with his not-friend.

Superman’s gaze lands on you, and you feel your heart break free from your ribcage. 

He’s just as striking up close, the sweetness of his face offset by the intensity of his eyes. A frown flips his features, and he kindly excuses himself from the conversation he’s having before he… 

Huh. That’s funny.

Superman starts walking somewhat in your direction.

You turn your eyes forward and keep walking. His gaze is so intense, you almost feel bad for anyone who’s ever been on the receiving end of it.

The rich timbre of his voice drags your thoughts away from your walk. Distantly, you hear, “Excuse me, I need to speak with you.”

Your steps falter ever so slightly, but you continue walking. You resist the urge to be nosy and look to see who Superman is flagging down, instead looking in your purse to make sure Clark’s dumb paperweight is still inside. You hadn’t checked if it’d cracked in the commotion, and you feel a little sick at the thought. You’d almost died for this thing, after all.

“Ma’am?” Superman says again. This time, he’s right beside you.

For the first time since you’ve gotten discharged from the hospital, you stop moving. 

You hadn’t had much time to really look at Superman earlier. He’d flown you out of the museum and said something a little rushed and frantic — maybe a ‘get to safety!’ — before he was hurrying back inside to save more lives. 

As you stare up at him now, you have a little more time to really look at him. He sounds beyond upset, but he’s just as gorgeous as he is on TV — a fact that you’ll be sure to leave out when you recount this to Clark.

You turn around to see if someone is standing around you, and frown when you come up empty. The only person on this half of the street is you.

“Oh. Hello, Superman. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”

“I understand. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” he says, his hands falling to his hips. His eyebrows are knit together in what looks like… disappointment. You can’t help but feel like you’re in trouble.

“Okay,” you say, drawing out the last syllable. You can’t quite tell if the hospital was thorough enough in their concussion screening. “Do you mind if we do this while we walk? I really need to get back to my apartment.”

“Of course.” His voice is so agreeable you find yourself getting a little distracted. He redirects you by kindly gesturing ahead, and you find yourself leading Superman back to your home. 

“Would you like me to fly you there?” he offers. “I’m sure it’d be a lot faster.”

“No, thanks. It made me a little sick last time.” 

It’s not that big of a deal to you, but Superman’s frown seems to worsen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it could make people feel like that.”

“Don’t be. It was either that or getting crushed by a falling building, right?” 

Your joke seems to fuel Superman’s bad mood even more. You walk a little faster, letting him lengthen his strides.

“That’s actually what I wanted to speak with you about.”

“The museum?”

He nods, and when he turns to look down at you, the edge of his cape brushes your arm. The fabric is impossibly soft. 

“When I found you, it seemed like you were walking further into the building. Is that correct?”

You wrack your brain to the moments before you were taken out of the building. Had it really only been three hours ago? It feels like it’s been a week since then. 

“Well, kind of. I wasn’t trying to, like, run into the flames or anything, but I was picking up something I’d dropped. And it just happened to be further away from the door.”

The vein on his forehead seems to twitch. “Do you understand how dangerous that was?”

Your head throbs similarly. “Sorry, what?”

You aren’t sure you’re hearing him right. Is Superman… trying to lecture you? 

“I feel the need to ask you what you were thinking,” he says, completely serious. “You were putting your life at risk.”

“I was hardly in danger.” You only half believe that, but can’t find it in you to agree with him. He’s somewhat hijacked your walk home, after all. “It was only an extra few seconds that I was inside the building. And, did it really matter? You were there to save me, anyway.”

“And I’m glad I was.” Superman says, his eyebrows bunching together. “Who knows what could’ve happened if I wasn’t there? Those seconds could’ve been the difference between life and death.”

You frown, but don’t respond. He’s stopped trailing slightly behind you and is now walking alongside you, absorbed in his rant.

“What could’ve possibly been so important that you were willing to risk your life for it?”

Someone gives you an odd look as you pass by. You can only imagine how weird this looks: Superman arguing with a civilian in the middle of the street. It definitely isn't something you see everyday.

Or any day, actually. You've never heard about Superman lecturing someone on proper emergency response before.

“It was a paperweight.” The admittance kind of hurts. It sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud. “A Superman paperweight from the museum.”

He blinks, his eyes widening a fraction. He stutters out something, and you tilt your head, confused. 

“I need you to understand that what you did was incredibly stupid. You can not and should not be putting yourself in danger for— for a thirty dollar piece of glass!”

You’re impressed at how accurate his price guess was, but irritation still flares up in your chest, souring your mood. “No offense, but you can save the lecture for someone who needs it. I’m not an eight year old.”

He holds up a finger to correct you. “Clearly, you do need it—”

“You’re not my friend or my boss,” you say, just like an eight year old, “so I appreciate the concern, babe, but I think I’m fine.”

Superman’s steps falter. His eyes glance upward. Then, they shift somewhere to the left of you. Your eyes widen as the apples of his cheeks pinken with blush. 

The shiftiness, the glancing away and then around before back at you… you’ve seen it all before.

Superman has the exact same reaction to the nickname as Clark.

His doppelganger, the same man who looks just like the superhero when his glasses are off. But that couldn’t possibly mean…

No.

There’s no way.

Are you seriously considering the idea that Clark is Superman? Just because they get embarrassed the same way? 

You’re being ridiculous. Superman’s name is Kal-El, and he’s some guy from Krypton. You’ve read Clark’s articles about him, the ones he’s written after interviewing him. 

Interviews only Clark seems to be able to get.

You must be concussed. You're definitely just confused.

Superman continues to rattle off words at you, almost pouting with how frustrated he is. The words enter in one ear and out the other as you take him in. 

From a distance, he and Clark look similar enough. They’re around the same height and have the same hair color, and the strands free of gel even seem to curl the same way. They share perfect dimples, and even though Clark hides in those baggy suits of his, you’ve seen him in those nice t-shirts he has. There’s no hiding that frankly, he’s built. Just like the man speaking with you now.  

But Superman shows his face. All the time. He’s not like Batman or The Flash with their masks and hidden identities. Superman is a real man from Krypton, who probably goes home to his massive superhero lair under the city. Not your little apartment complex by the park.

But… there was the blushing. The way Superman knew exactly how much the paperweight was — the same paperweight Clark complained was too expensive. The way he knew just what metro stop you’d be getting off at, and his odd interest in your safety. 

Your head is reeling.

“—I don’t have to be your friend or your boss to be worried about you,” Superman says when you tune back in. You stare blankly at the outline of his back. Could this really be Clark? “It’s up to all of us to look out for each other. The job doesn’t just fall to the people we know.”

Superman walks alongside you a little too naturally, like he’s done it a million times before. He even interrupts his rambling to remind you to watch your step when you pass by the sidewalk with the broken slab of concrete. The way he leads the charge back to your apartment is like second nature.

“So, I’m sorry, if you didn’t want to hear this, but it was very important to me that I spoke with you about this,” Superman says, gesturing very seriously. 

At the end of the street, you let your steps slow, gaze fixed on the man as he continues to speak.

He’s frowning when he says, “I’m sure that you have plenty of people at home that care about you and worry about your wellbeing. So, when you act recklessly like this, you’re not only—”

Without a spoken direction from you, or with you gesturing in any way, Superman turns on his heel and leads you around the corner. Right in the direction of your shared apartment.

You grab the back of his flowing cape and tug.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t do much. He staggers back a step, but you think it’s more to do with the shock of you pulling him back, rather than any show of your strength. Superman whirls on you, startled. You step forward until your chests are nearly an inch apart, staring directly into his eyes.

“What—”

“Clark Kent,” you hiss under your breath. “You must be very proud of yourself.”

His features blow wide with shock. He blinks owlishly, surprise swimming in his blue eyes. “W-I’m not… What?”

“Oh, come on, farmboy.” You lean back to cross your arms, frowning. “I can’t believe all it took was one conversation with you in your costume to figure it all out. You couldn’t have at least pretended not to know where our apartment was?”

Superman — Clark — pulls you closer by your shoulders, holding your injured arm very gently. He throws a few glances around the empty street, like he’s checking to see if there really is no one around. It's only when he’s certain the area is clear that he coughs and lets you go.

“That’s a pretty big assumption,” ‘Superman’ says, his voice taking on an even more authoritative tone. “And one that’s untrue.”

“Superman.” Your voice softens as you say it. He stands up straighter, like he’s trying to make himself even larger than life. “You can hide under that cape all you want, but Clark Kent is going to bleed through no matter what.”

He opens his mouth, about to protest, but you continue.

“You still blush when I call you ‘babe,’” you say, watching his face light up with embarrassment. “And you still nudge me twice to switch spots so you can walk closer to the street.”

“I—That’s… you can’t…” His lips flatten into a line, frustrated, while he wrestles with what to say. When he grimaces, it looks all too familiar.

It does nothing but make you more sure. 

The man in front of you is your best friend. There’s no doubt about it.

A second later, the urge to argue leaves him. 

He drops his voice to a whisper, and you finally hear it for the first time today.

There’s no Superman-tone-of-voice when he speaks, no puffing out of his shoulders, or a dazzling smile meant to put scared people at ease.

He’s just your Clark when he asks, “Can we talk about this at home?” 

(For the second time in one day, Clark takes you flying. This time, he makes sure to go a lot slower.)

“Krypto,” you echo, slumping back against his couch cushions. “You named your dog Krypto.” 

Clark looks the picture of innocence in front of you, your knees knocking together where he sits in front of you on the ottoman. He’s since changed out of the Superman suit at your request — the sight of the symbol on his chest was making for a very distracting conversation. 

As you look at Clark now, in a pair of jeans and one of his old Hanes t-shirts, you have a hard time believing the words he’s saying. He looks like any old person you’d find on the streets of Metropolis while he explains the powers and the flying to you.

Maybe you should’ve made him leave the suit on.

“He’s not even mine. I was just… dogsitting.”

“No wonder you refused to tell me what his name was.”

Clark smothers down a smile. “A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“Hmm. Just a bit.”

You take another sip from the glass of water he gave you. He’d told you that you were only allowed to ask questions if you’d finished the cup, but you know he’d answer no matter what. 

“The whole thing with the yellow sun is pretty crazy,” you add thoughtfully. “If you photosynthesize, does that mean you’re kind of like a plant?”

“Well, I don’t photosynthesize, so, not really.”

You make a noise that’s between a scoff and a laugh. “You said, and I quote, ‘the Earth’s yellow sun is the source of my powers.’ That sounds a lot like photosynthesis to me.”

It’s kind of endearing how seriously he takes your half joke. He perks up at the chance to explain something. “Plants don’t have powers, the last time I checked, but I understand where you’re coming from. They’re converting light energy to chemical energy, but—”

Clark trails off when he looks over at you, and you don’t bother with hiding the smile on your face.

“...You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you? So you don’t have to hear the rest of my lecture about your safety?”

“There’s more?” You try not to sound shocked when you say it, but you do. “And it’s not my fault you’re so easily distracted, Superman. All I did was ask you if you’ve been faking being asleep all this time. You were the one who wanted to go into the specifics of if it’s really necessary for Kryptonians to eat food or take naps.”

He mumbles something like, “It was a really good question, actually,” before he replaces the empty glass you’re holding with his own hand. He tugs you up from the couch and you trail behind him dutifully. 

You swipe over his calloused palm and squeeze until he has to let go.

He moves to the fridge and you watch him intently from your new seat atop his counter. You really like Clark. You find yourself charmed by most things he does, whether he’s hunched over his laptop working or filling up your cup.

He presses his side against your left thigh when he hands it back to you. “Here you go.”

You feel warm. “Thanks, superstar.”

Clark’s eyes shine. “That’s going to be right up on the list of nicknames with farmboy, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you bet. I’m trying to decide which one I like better.”

“I’m partial to both, I think.”

“That’s good. I like Big Blue, too.”

“I’m sure Green Lantern will be stoked to hear that.”

You lean heavily on his shoulder, and he curls an arm around you, taking care not to disturb the bandages around your bicep. Usually, you’d find the silence in the room discomforting. But there’s something so natural about being in Clark’s apartment, letting him bring you glasses of water and teasing him about whether or not he’d classify as a plant. 

He squeezes your side and you let out a pleased sigh. 

“Hey,” he teases. “You wanna explain why you were at the museum and not halfway to Civic City earlier?”

Right. You’d almost forgotten that you’d lied to him about that. Your chest pangs with regret.

“I was buying you a gift.” You gesture back in the direction of his front door, where you left the piece of glass by his key dish. “Remember? The ridiculously expensive paperweight?”

“Yeah, I remember.” His voice is light, but you recognize this sidehug for what it really is. 

Clark is softening you up to get you to confess. And the worst part is — you think it’s going to work.

“What was the occasion, though?” he adds, very nonchalantly.

“No occasion,” you answer quickly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to lean too close to him. “It was just because.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s real sweet of you.”

“Well, you’re a sweet friend.” You press your lips together firmly to try and resist the urge to spill your guts to him. “You don’t believe I’d buy you a gift just because?”

Clark laughs. “I believe you. But I also know that’s not the case right now. I notice a lot more than you think.”

“Yeah? And what are your supersenses telling you, Superman?”

He seems amused. “Well, I can hear the sound of your heart beating a little faster.” He brushes your hair away from your face to look at you better. “You blink more often when you lie, and you try not to look at me as much. But you also don't like eye contact when you're embarrassed, so sometimes it's hard to tell. I usually can though."

His words have pulled the rug out from under you, and he can tell. 

You’ve never felt so… seen before. You notice all of Clark’s weird quirks because you really like him, and honestly have for a while. You never once expected that he’d been doing the same for you — taking note of your tells and habits.

The little smile on his face grows. “You’re not the only one who knows the other person so well.”

You can’t help it. You poke at one of his dimples, and his warm laughter curls up inside your chest. 

“Whatever, detective.”

“Are you going to tell me, then?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll pay for your coffee next week,” he bribes. 

“You do that anyway,” you point out. “I’ll tell you for free. As long as there’s no dinner pancakes for the next two weeks.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deathly.”

He crosses his arms in front of his chest while he mulls it over. The idea is very serious to him, apparently.

After a few seconds, he says, “Alright, fine. No pancakes. Now get talking, superstar.”

Your lips press together while you look at him, and his eyes remain on your face even when you glance away. 

The feeling of his gaze feels like little pinpricks on your skin. You wonder how much of that is Superman, and how much of that is Clark.

This entire situation is just so embarrassing. 

“I was avoiding you,” you admit, dropping your voice to a whisper. 

The words sound harsh, but he seems to take them head on. His head tilts. “Why?”

You whack his shoulder. “Did you forget the part where I joked about wanting to be in Superman’s harem? And then immediately told you that you were the spitting image of him?”

Clark’s lips turn up into a closed-mouth grin. 

“You freaked out, and then I freaked out, so I assumed—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, cutting off your rambling with a hand on your thigh, “I wasn’t freaked out by what you’d said. I was worried you’d put it together. About me being Superman. You’d never seen me without my glasses on before.”

You frown. “My first thought when I realized that you looked the same wasn’t that you were Superman. I was more annoyed that you looked cute with or without your glasses on.”

Clark flushes red. You preen.

“My glasses,” he says, like he’s just remembered something. He pats around his collar until he finds the frames, the temples tucked into the neckline of his shirt. “I forgot to tell you. They’re Hypno-Glasses. They kind of mess with your head. Trick you into thinking I look a lot different than I actually do.”

He slips them on, and your lips part. 

It’s just like it was last night. The difference on his face is there, you just can’t pinpoint where, or how.

You urge Clark closer until he’s standing between your legs, your gaze transfixed on his face. His eyes go a little crosseyed with how close you are, the remnants of his blush still lingering on his cheeks.

You hold onto the frames and push them up slightly, until they no longer obscure his features. 

It’s so weird. It feels like your eyes are straining, but when you blink, the tension is gone, and Clark’s face changes.

“Woah.” It’s all you can manage to say.

He looks a little shy under your attention, which is funny when you consider the fact that he moonlights as a public figure. “How different do I look?”

You hum, letting the glasses slip back down his nose bridge. Your touch lingers on his shoulders. “Not too different. It’s kind of like… like when Catherine upstairs got her haircut. Your face is the same, but it’s also managed to change everything.”

His eyes dance over your face, and you find yourself a little self-conscious. You wonder just how well he can read you with his enhanced senses. Your hands feel clammy. 

“Sorry, it’s hard to explain. You already know you still look cute, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you add.

He smiles to himself, his eyes cast downwards. “I’ll sleep a lot better tonight, thanks.”

“You’re always welcome, Clark.”

His line of sight trails down to something by your side, and he stiffens. “Your arm.”

You glance down and see what he’s so worried about. The cut on your bicep has bled through the bandages slightly, a small blot of red blooming there. 

When you look back up at Clark, he’s already digging through the cabinets over the sink.

“What’re you looking for?” you ask, raising your voice over the sound of various cleaning supplies being knocked over.

His head pops back out, a white box in his hands. “This.”

It’s a first aid kit, which he drops down next to you on the counter. A thin layer of dust flies up, and he waves it away with the back of his hand. Clark cracks open the container and begins to take stock of what’s inside, his face screwed up in thought.

“Hey, Superman,” you say, leaning over on the counter to look through it with him. It’s full of all the medical supplies you could ever possibly imagine. “What hospital did you rob for this?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, reaching for something towards the bottom. “I bought this myself, actually.”

“I thought the big yellow Sun helps you heal.”

“It does.” He answers you absentmindedly, squinting at a small packet of… something.

You pick up a yellow tube on the top of the pile. “Then who’s the Neosporin for?”

“You.”

Clark gives you about five seconds to let the words sink in before he says, “Ha! Here it is.”

It’s a roll of bandages. He gestures for you to stick out your arm, which you do without a word. You feel dizzy.

“Sorry—this is for me?” 

“Yep.” He’s winding another thin layer of the material around your arm again, looking very concentrated. He frowns, rewraps a section, then continues again when he’s satisfied. “Do you remember that time you almost cut your finger off chopping onions?”

“That’s an exaggeration. The cut was hardly that deep.”

He laughs. “Well, it made me realize that you’re… a lot more fragile than I am. So I got this in case you ever really did hurt yourself.”

Clark had gotten all of this for you. He’d bought all of these things that he’d never use himself, just in case you’d ever need it.

It feels like you left your heart in the sky while soaring a thousand feet over Metropolis. You fight down the lovesick look threatening to take over your face.

“The man said at the hospital that a little bleeding is normal,” he explains. “I’ll just have to add another layer of bandages and then apply pressure, and then the bleeding should stop. We’ll have to go back if it’s still bleeding after half an hour, though.”

“The man at the hospital,” you repeat. “You were at the hospital?”

Clark freezes where he’s applying firm pressure to your cut. “Superman may have passed by today.”

“While I was there?”

“Maybe. You might have been. It’s a big hospital.”

You think you’re on your way to falling really in love with Clark Kent.

You pass him a piece of medical tape, which he uses to seal the bandage neatly. He takes care to press it down flat, making sure there aren’t any creases. He’s awfully committed to the task, glancing over the wrap, testing your circulation and seeing if it’s too loose.

“I was really worried, you know,” he says, after checking the bandage for the fiftieth time. It’s obvious that it’s secure, but he seems to need something to do. “I didn’t recognize it was you until after I got you out of the museum. And I almost didn’t believe it.”

“Oh, Clark, I’m sorry for lying about where I was. I was embarrassed by what I’d said, but I also just needed…” 

Things you can’t admit to him.

“…I guess I wanted to be alone today.”

He seems to wilt.

“The paperweight was an apology gift,” you admit, a little ashamed. “I felt so bad not talking to you. I was going to go down to the park and eat lunch, but I was really just thinking of you the entire time.”

Clark’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes. “I know that I worry, and I’m not going to apologize for that. I worry because I care about you. But I am sorry if I… make you feel coddled. I don’t mean to, I just want you to be okay. So if you—you ever want space, or a day to yourself, I understand—”

“No, Clark, that’s not it at all,” you answer unthinkingly. 

“It’s not?” He looks beyond confused. “What is it then?”

You hadn’t thought this far into the conversation when you responded to him a second ago. 

How do you even begin to explain this to him? Sure, you avoided him because you were embarrassed, but you also avoided him because you were scared. Scared of your feelings, scared of wanting to be more than friends, scared of what that’d do to your friendship. 

But this is Clark. You refuse to let him think he’s done something wrong for even a second. You have to tell him the truth, even if it means humiliating yourself all over again.

“Well…” you begin, unsure. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands, unable to take the look on his face. He’s so earnest. “You’re my best friend, if you couldn’t tell already.”

“Uh oh,” he jokes, tapping your side. “This can’t be good.”

“I don’t want space from you. That's kind of my problem.”

“Why would that be a problem?” It’s such a genuine question that it makes your heart ache. “I love spending time with you, too.”

“It’s ‘cause I really like you, Clark. I like you so much I got scared and told you I was leaving the state. I like you so much I thought a day away from you would make my feelings more normal. I—I like you so much I spent thirty dollars on a stupid paperweight for you!”

He looks winded. You watch his eyes widen with each word, and your stomach churns anxiously.

“Honestly, now that I think about it, you could’ve gotten that paperweight for free, right?” you ramble on. He’s staring at you, his mouth parted in surprise. “I mean, you could've just flown in dressed as Superman and probably asked for one.”

“It’s not the same, though.” The soft lilt in Clark’s voice makes your head spin. You’re momentarily distracted by him caressing the skin of your thigh, but he makes sure you’re looking at him when he says, “It means more because it’s from you. Someone who I also like. A lot.”

Oh, you think to yourself.

“Oh,” you say out loud. 

Clark’s amused. “Do you really think I let just anyone drool on all my sleep shirts?”

“Wow.” You dig a finger into his chest, your face heating up. “Who knew Superman was such a dick?”

“I thought I’d have to watch a horror movie all by myself tonight,” he says, a teasing smile on his face. 

You thread a hand through his hair, and he leans into your touch. You’re shaking a little. “Maybe you’d actually be able to finish one without me there.”

He beams at you, practically shining. “But then who’d be there to grip onto my shirt and make me turn on all the lights?”

“Hmm. Dunno. She sounds very reasonable, though.”

”Very.”

“The night isn’t over yet, Clark,” you remind, hand sliding down his chest. “We can still watch that horror movie.”

His eyes light up, his gaze flickering over your face. “I actually had something in mind.”

“Clark, fuck—oh my god.”

He smiles, pressing a tender kiss to your jaw.

“Holy shit,” you gasp out. “You’re actually fucking crazy.”

His arms tighten around your sides, and you think you’re clutching onto him so tightly it’ll draw blood.

“When you said you had ‘something in mind,’ I didn’t think you meant something like this!”

Clark tilts his head. He looks down.

All the way down.

From the top of one of the tallest buildings in Metropolis. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if you walked right into a flying bird at this height. The concrete ledge he's lowered you down onto feels halfway to crumbling.

“Hey, you’re okay,” he says, aiming to soothe. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You give him the most incredulous look you can muster. “Clark, you know I trust you with my life. But what are we doing up here? Besides raising my blood pressure, that is.”

He laughs again, the slight breeze biting his cheeks. “If you’d unlatch yourself from my neck, you’d be able to see.”

“I’d also be able to fall one hundred stories to my death.”

Clark exerts no effort when he turns you in his grasp, despite your death grip on him. He spins you around in the direction of the city, and you hold your breath, afraid to breathe wrong so high up.

In front of you, is the most gorgeous sunset you’ve ever seen. The horizon is lit up in a smattering of gorgeous purples and pinks and oranges, and you gasp.

“Oh,” you say, relaxing in his hold. “I thought you were doing this to mess with me.”

Clark smiles into the crown of your head. “As if I’d ever do such a thing.”

You really like Clark. You can’t believe you ever thought you’d be able to wish away your feelings for him. 

“I’m returning that paperweight if you drop me, by the way.”

“Oh, honey, please, anything but that.”

You kiss Clark Kent in front of the Metropolis sun until your knees buckle and you nearly slip off the building ledge.

Thankfully, he makes sure to pick up where you left off when your feet are on solid ground again.

Ivyyy @supermans_wife OH MY GOD OH YMG FOD OH YMG FODKD roe @gothamsurvivor ↳ replying to @supermans_wife oomf are you okay Ivyyy @supermans_wife ↳ replying to @gothamsurvivor IM AT MY FRIENDS HOUSE AND JUST LOOKED OUTSIDE OF THE FUCKING WINDOW AND I SAW SUPERMAN MAKING OUT WITH SOME GIRL ON SOME ROOF WHAT THE HELLLLLL not carly @c4rlycane ↳ replying to @supermans_wife that was me sorry ❤️we’re asking you to please respect our privacy at this time JustinIT @justinit04 ↳ replying to @supermans_wife Holy shit are you serious lmfao Ivyyy @supermans_wife ↳ replying to @justinit04 I AM NOT KIDDING. attachment: [supermanhasagfthisisnotadrill.jpg] 🍒 @iluvtheflash ↳ replying to @supermans_wife His tongue is definitely down her throat… DELETE THIS NOW PLEASEEEE [CLOSED] SUPERMAN IS CUFFED 😭😭 @ sup3rman ↳ replying to @supermans_wife Excuse me ma'am, not to be disrespectful or rude but could you please take post down. That is my sister who was killed by a metra train. And it this post is very disrespectful. Idk who you are or if you even know her but I need you to take this down please. D4RKNESS @FILLTHEV0ID ↳ replying to @supermans_wife #Supershit getting a girl before me 🥀 star | 8 days until s2!! @ robintruther ↳ replying to @supermans_wife Thank you ivy I actually can not wait to list your account and this photo as my thirteenth reason

BONUS:

Clark pokes your side, voice rough with sleep. “What are you doing?”

You look up at him through the glasses you stole from him. They really do absolutely nothing — they’re just a magical pair of blue light glasses.

Clark’s pretty as a picture laying on your bed, the rising sun painting his back golden.  You press a kiss to his arm, the closest part of him you can reach.

You smile. “Nothing. Just catching up on some Superman hate posts.”

notes: clark the people's prince thank you for bringing back the concept of #RealMen. let me know if u had a blast i know i did!!!