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It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air. 

The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD. 

Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’ 

Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’ 

And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is. 

Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty. 

Your heart flutters. 

You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half. 

Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like— 

The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand. 

It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one. 

You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other. 

Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed. 

He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life. 

(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.) 

Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead. 

Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you. 

The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail. 

So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends. 

It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl. 

Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment. 

It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline. 

He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over. 

You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously. 

It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say. 

You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you. 

Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’  

He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.  

A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable. 

You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis. 

But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works. 

He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs. 

And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here. 

When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen. 

He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do. 

That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does. 

Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time. 

You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response. 

A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point. 

Your phone buzzes, twice. 

Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27 

REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew 

You grimace at the second pop-up banner. 

You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates. 

In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend. 

Chores, laundry, dates. 

You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars. 

You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text. 

Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited. 

You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise. 

You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business. 

He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but... 

That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it? 

Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.  

Maybe you should take a page out of his book. 

TO: clark kent  u busy tonight?  we should bring back friday dinner for good lol  but at ur place, mines messy 

Delivered with a whoosh. 

You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face. 

Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale. 

Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button. 

He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles. 

All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city. 

A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit. 

You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again. 

He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble. 

You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now. 

TO: clark kent  my boyfriend said so btw 

Nice to let him know, right?  

(You hope he remembers the joke.) 

Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling. 

Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order. 

Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms. 

FROM: clark kent  Haha, ok.  I’m not flying tho  and I don't have melon pops. 

A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face. 

He remembers. 

Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis. 

Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood. 

And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already. 

…Oh. You freeze. 

It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face. 

Oh, no. 

—

Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville. 

Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment. 

Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside. 

Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to. 

The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr. 

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad. 

He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?” 

Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?” 

“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings. 

Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back. 

No sign of that asshole Nate. 

No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave. 

“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.” 

Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.” 

“Your Ma would disagree.” 

“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.” 

“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.  

“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.” 

You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways? 

Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does. 

But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and— 

Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say: 

“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—” 

You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!” 

“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?” 

You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.” 

He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?” 

You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.” 

The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter. 

Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son. 

You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh. 

“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?” 

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.” 

“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.” 

He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward. 

“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.” 

You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone. 

Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark. 

Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel.  Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day. 

Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head. 

And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving. 

You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek. 

The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass. 

(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.) 

Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.  

He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window. 

And then he taps the glass. 

Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection. 

Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force. 

“What—Clark!”  

You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter. 

“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?” 

You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck. 

“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand. 

The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.” 

Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.” 

A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.” 

He urges you to a nearby alley—strange. 

You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier. 

You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides. 

“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?” 

Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.” 

“Dude—” 

“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—” 

“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.” 

He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams. 

Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home. 

Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass. 

Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.” 

You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day. 

So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention. 

You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics). 

Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back. 

He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk. 

Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom. 

It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew. 

You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to. 

You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” 

Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners. 

The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing. 

“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.” 

“Helped me, you mean.” 

“Yeah…” 

You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off. 

“You’re mean.” 

“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently. 

Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back. 

That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else. 

“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring. 

You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes. 

It’s okay like this. 

Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot. 

“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.” 

“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.” 

He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?” 

“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.” 

The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you. 

You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking. 

Automatic, the most natural thing in the world. 

“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead. 

He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned. 

“That’s barely the introduction.” 

—

By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment. 

It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner. 

And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO. 

(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side. 

This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet. 

Wait...) 

The temperature doesn’t work, either. 

Well, it does. Kind of.  

But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away. 

His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t. 

Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all. 

You think back to how you got here. 

Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand. 

What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville. 

Ergo, you did what any best friend would do. 

You chose Clark, because it has always been that way. 

Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl. 

He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative. 

For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway. 

“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding. 

That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years. 

You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short. 

The ultimatum. 

How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.  

How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you. 

The first one you had to call.  

As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark). 

As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’ 

And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up. 

You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days. 

Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here. 

He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions. 

Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry. 

“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.” 

“Thanks, Clark.” 

And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented. 

You remembered this one. 

Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake. 

You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall. 

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that. 

Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line. 

And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face. 

You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body. 

The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment. 

Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw. 

Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in. 

Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine. 

It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet. 

(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.) 

Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface. 

Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window. 

Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill. 

The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves. 

You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague. 

You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark. 

Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze. 

But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear. 

Small miracles. 

You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home. 

The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides. 

You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working. 

There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it. 

You move on. 

The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches. 

Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves... 

Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles! 

And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape. 

You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day? 

A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist. 

Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape. 

You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled. 

Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size. 

(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.) 

An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved. 

Tom Sawyer. Of course. 

An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time. 

(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)  

Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream. 

"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light. 

"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross." 

"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.” 

He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.  

“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin. 

Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge. 

Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list. 

“Heat breath.” 

Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.” 

You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind. 

Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.  

A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet. 

The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears. 

"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six." 

"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings. 

Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun. 

He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils. 

In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine. 

You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?" 

"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!" 

You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two." 

"Fine, Smallville Half and Half." 

"But which Half comes first?" 

"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate." 

You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.  

“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth. 

He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups. 

You want to hear it forever. 

You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis. 

“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.” 

It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas. 

You squint at the screen. 

Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy? 

You can’t tell them apart like Clark can. 

There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf. 

Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything. 

The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing. 

He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place. 

Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.  

“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.” 

He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty. 

You clench your jaw and duck your head. 

“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.” 

You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?” 

He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking. 

“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.” 

“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks. 

“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.” 

Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.” 

“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek. 

You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.” 

“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.” 

You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win. 

And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.  

Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?” 

“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.” 

You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.” 

“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.” 

“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.” 

“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.” 

He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—” 

A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.” 

“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name. 

The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.  

You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding. 

Safe, in the way he’s always been. 

And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H. 

In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way. 

It never made any sense. 

Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters. 

The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either. 

…Would it? 

Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.” 

“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd. 

Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of. 

“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.” 

Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.” 

“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.” 

“Ew.” 

—

The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before. 

Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks. 

Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment. 

Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force. 

This is familiar. 

Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood. 

Familiar, but not the same. 

For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue. 

And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in. 

Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on. 

Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had. 

Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them. 

Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious. 

“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.” 

Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop. 

Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs. 

The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no. 

You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head. 

Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you? 

Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did. 

But that’s different.  

That’s pining and idealistic stuff.  

This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y. 

It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend. 

In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever. 

(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…) 

Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture. 

Or—you dread to think—Smallville. 

When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology. 

Oh. 

The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall. 

You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent. 

Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’ 

The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked. 

Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in. 

You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?” 

“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.” 

You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror. 

He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting. 

You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.” 

“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.” 

You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him. 

Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things. 

He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow. 

“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?” 

You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.” 

Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now. 

Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy. 

His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off. 

But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion. 

And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal. 

CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change. 

You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark. 

Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one. 

Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady. 

Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit. 

It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth. 

“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?” 

It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love. 

Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class. 

But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest. 

Or not. You could be delusional. 

You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.” 

“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.” 

You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included. 

Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?” 

“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?” 

You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in— 

“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.” 

“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.” 

Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.” 

He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?” 

You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.” 

A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.” 

Oh. 

You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine. 

Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick. 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.” 

Frowning, “What question?” 

“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says. 

Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?” 

Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...” 

He knows you too well. 

Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve. 

He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.” 

Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable. 

He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’ 

And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing. 

Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him. 

You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth. 

And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour: 

You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark. 

Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way. 

Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste. 

But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is. 

There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone. 

(How long has he been listening in on you?) 

You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice. 

“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out. 

“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.” 

“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease. 

But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.

Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.” 

You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.” 

His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?” 

Oh, he’s jealous. 

You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?” 

He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips. 

He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you. 

The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit. 

But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips. 

His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly. 

Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.” 

“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.” 

Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?” 

“Right.” 

“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.” 

You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh. 

“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.” 

You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?” 

The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.” 

“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.” 

Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.” 

You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room. 

He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger. 

Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh. 

But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too. 

“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.” 

Fuck. You can’t take it anymore. 

“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek. 

You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just— 

I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—” 

“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis. 

He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth. 

And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh. 

Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss. 

One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin. 

You’re going to feel this for days, you think. 

Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings. 

Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift. 

You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.  

Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind. 

He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push. 

You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest. 

He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up. 

“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.” 

“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.” 

You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission. 

His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit. 

“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.” 

“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.

Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity. 

You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.” 

Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs. 

Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame. 

“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air. 

You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.” 

“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird. 

Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.  

You want, want, want. 

Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream. 

It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline. 

The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough. 

Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.  

He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands. 

He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady. 

Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.  

“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?” 

You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?” 

“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.” 

A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking. 

“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.” 

“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.” 

“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.” 

His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak. 

He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you. 

Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond. 

Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up. 

You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks. 

He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit. 

Your chest tightens for a breath.  

Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction. 

Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt. 

You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out. 

He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that. 

“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest. 

His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you. 

And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips. 

Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart. 

His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity. 

And his heartbeat jumps. 

Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck. 

He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home. 

“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.” 

His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later. 

Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim. 

Your breath freezes in the same moment as his. 

“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response. 

His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it. 

The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom. 

Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties. 

Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest. 

You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation. 

Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight. 

And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you. 

Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates. 

Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots. 

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak. 

“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.” 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.” 

“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.” 

Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease. 

“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.” 

Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head. 

Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric. 

A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be. 

Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly. 

He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach. 

Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips. 

“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks. 

You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are. 

He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it. 

Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum. 

“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.” 

Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.” 

You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...” 

A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.” 

Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal. 

The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.  

You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh. 

“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?” 

Curse your stupid, big mouth. 

Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?” 

Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.” 

“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...” 

He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.” 

A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you. 

Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!” 

“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.” 

Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes. 

Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down. 

But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready. 

He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.” 

He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that. 

“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?” 

You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down. 

“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.” 

An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open. 

“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two. 

“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.” 

“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.  

You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end. 

The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm. 

He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach. 

“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?” 

Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist. 

“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.” 

It’s like a switch has flipped in you. 

You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—” 

He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you. 

“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?” 

You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up. 

It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement. 

Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too. 

And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot. 

It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you. 

It’s just Clark. 

He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair. 

Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest. 

Starbursts pop in your vision. 

You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand. 

Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.  

You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth. 

There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs. 

But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place. 

“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.” 

His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest. 

He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies. 

"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some. 

“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin. 

Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet. 

This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.  

Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead. 

You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it. 

You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder. 

Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and— 

Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck— 

Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple. 

He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life. 

He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs. 

“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.” 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?” 

He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra. 

“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.” 

You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth. 

You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.” 

He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum. 

“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.” 

“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him. 

He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows. 

“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.” 

You guess he’s your best friend for a reason. 

Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy. 

You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.” 

“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—” 

“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.” 

“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts. 

Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper. 

That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring. 

He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes. 

And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker: 

“Will you let me have you?” 

Not can I. Will you. 

You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops. 

“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.” 

Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it. 

He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is. 

Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.  

“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—” 

“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back. 

Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville. 

He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.

Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.” 

You don’t remember how you respond to that. 

Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath. 

He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow. 

Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.  

(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit. 

The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.) 

And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin. 

He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.” 

He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh— 

You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy. 

Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand. 

“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.” 

“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.” 

He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive. 

“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—” 

You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this. 

The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries. 

And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek. 

A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice. 

He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him. 

Oh. This is proving to be too much for you. 

And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding. 

Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin. 

Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment. 

You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue. 

He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm. 

Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest. 

It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along. 

—

You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on. 

Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand. 

The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass. 

And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed. 

Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course. 

The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor. 

He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well. 

His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light. 

Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend. 

“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.” 

“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple. 

“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks. 

He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar. 

You’ve already loved him for a lifetime. 

You wouldn’t mind one more. 

4th of July, 2023.

It was the 4th of July, a smattering of fireworks smearing the inky-purple sky a few miles down the road at the town’s celebrations in a barren field. Just over the canopies of the surrounding trees, you could make out a lit-out ferris wheel, the very same that you and Clark shared your first kiss at the top of exactly ten years ago. An innocent enough exchange, his hands folded nervously in his lap the entire time, a bit of teeth-knocking, and you were pretty sure that he briefly bit your lip in his boyish enthusiasm to finally be kissing you. Back then, it seemed like the biggest thing in the world, the most important thing that ever happened to you. Ten years later, on the very same holiday, it just made you grimace distastefully as you watched a few of the carriages on the jittering ride crest to the top. 

If there was a girl, sixteen, fragile-hearted, all swooning in that trembling seat, hands fluttering against the iron-bar as she waited for her best friend to swoop down and kiss her, you wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, screaming, Don’t do it, idiot! It’s not worth it! He’ll act like it didn’t happen the next day, and you’ll wish that you just jumped off the damn thing—

You took an indignant swig of the pale beer in your clenched fist and tried to stop thinking about pitching yourself from very tall heights. It probably wasn’t the most festive pastime, and the last thing you wanted to do was dampen the mood. That was probably why you were here, sitting outside on the wraparound porch of the Kent’s farmhouse on that quaint little bench that used to feel so big, but now your legs were curled awkwardly underneath you. Your cramped limbs were covered halfheartedly by the scratchy, crocheted blanket that Martha insisted you’d take with you after you muttered something about, ‘wanting to watch the fireworks,’ (everyone, thankfully, took that as you-language for needing a breather).

“Hey, you.” Everyone, it seemed, but Clark.

It’s not like you didn’t expect it. Friends and family alike were all bustling around in the kitsch bungalow, drinking beers, belly-laughing amicably, throwing companionable arms around shoulders, and genuinely enjoying the holiday. You weren’t in such good spirits. Clark must’ve thought you looked as sour-faced as you felt when he watched, unflinchingly, as you took the blanket from his mother with a soft thanks, Ma, and stalked outside to his porch. Realistically, it was only a matter of time before he ducked outside to find you.

And, surely, here he was. Lingering on the second step, smiling at you all bright and beautiful, impossibly soft in a plaid t-shirt that looked fathoms more comfortable than the expensive top you shimmied in for the occasion, shamefully regretting as soon as you stepped into the Kents’ home to see the rest of their guests in some variation of Betsy Ross’s flag.

“Hi,” you said breathily, snatching your gaze back to the far-off fireworks and that damned ferris wheel.

Clark hummed to himself, quickly realising the kind of mood you were in. You hated that he could always read you so effortlessly. You heard soft footfall against the patio, felt his warm hands on your ankles, lifting your legs up, and saw him, briefly, just out the corner of your eye, as he sunk down onto the bench next to you and let your calves smush against his thighs. Attentively, he fixed the askew blanket so they covered your socked feet, and swept his hand underneath it to toy absently with the daisy-charm anklet he got you when you were kids at the seaside.

“Not feeling the patriotism?” he mused wryly, thumb stroking over your anklebone like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A resentment worked in your throat and made it very hard to swallow. So, thickly, you responded, “Not much to feel patriotic about. This country’s shit.”

“I mean,” Clark laughed amiably, “you’re not wrong.”

You knew he was only half-lying. Clark saw the good in everything. That’s why he kept saving the world, and the people in it. He’d told you plenty of times before that the government’s sins weren’t his business, but the hearts and lives of the average citizen was.

“Sometimes I just want to leave,” you continued, feeling belligerent, almost wanting him to fight with you. “Pack all of my bags, get on a plane, and never come back.”

Clark smiled at you warmly. “Yeah? And where are you going, daisy?” 

Daisy, Clark called you. Hence the anklet. Hence the little finger-painting his parents’ still have up on their fridge of the wildflower (one of Clark’s finest, Jonathan would tease).

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here,” you replied irritably, picking a frayed thread off the blanket.

Clark didn’t seem too rattled by your hostility, and kept smoothing little caresses against the skin of your shin. “Okay. Say the word, and we’re gone. Heck, you don’t even need a plane.” 

He knew you hated when he took you flying with him. It was stomach-churning, and terrifying, and—well, in truth, it was fucking exhilarating, and beautiful, and honestly one of the most intimate things you would ever experience. But, those weren’t things you could just tell Clark. He made sure of that, time and time again.

Still, he called you Daisy, and none of his girlfriends could ever stomach your existence in his life for too long, and he kissed you on that ferris wheel, and his hands were on your ankle, and he was telling you, even if lightheartedly, that he’d whisk you away in his superhuman arms and fly you off to some land where you could breathe lighter. Clark didn’t realise that the reason why you struggled to breathe was him, but saying that would crush him, and make that horrible, wounded, tender look screw up his pretty features, and no matter how bitter you felt, you couldn’t do that to him.

“That’s nice, Clark,” was all you said, and swigged another mouthful of beer.

For the first time all evening, Clark frowned, and he did it in that awful, boyish way he did whenever his feelings were hurt but he was trying not to show it. That tiny crease between his eyebrows and soft poutiness of his mouth that wouldn’t really be noticed by anyone other than you—but, the whole effortless reading thing was a two-way-street. You knew Clark just as well as he knew you.

“Did I, erm…” His hands hesitated against your ankles, “are you…” Idiot. Beautiful, lovely, idiot. “Daisy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong,” he insisted, fingers tightening around you, warm, steady; you hated it. “Is it being back home? Do you miss the city? We can go home earlier than planned—I know we said that we’ll stay the week, but if you’re not—”

“God, Clark,” you interjected exasperatedly.

Clark flinched. His hands left you entirely. They fell into his lap like limp, dead birds, and he suddenly looked so forlorn, and unusually small.

It all delivered a pang of remorse to your stomach that might’ve been unbearable if it wasn’t for that stupid ferris wheel taunting you over the heads of all those trees.

“I’m fine,” you said tightly, “everything’s fine. I don’t need to go back to Metropolis. I don’t need you fussing over me, either. I really did just want to get a breather, s’all.”

Clark looked as though he was barely listening, staring listlessly and with the slightest tinge of rejection at where your legs were still draped awkwardly over his lap, but again, you knew him better. He was listening to every last scathing, contemptuous word. He was swallowing them whole and letting them sit at the pit of his stomach, to fester, and ache, and tally all of his deficiencies by vicious names.

“Right,” he said hoarsely, swallowing, “m’sorry, Daisy.”

You blinked at him. This was what you wanted, right? To make him as solemn as you? To get him to shut up, for once? So, why did it feel so deplorable? You blamed the sickening talent he had for manipulating your heart—those pretty, blue eyes of his, and that crestfallen expression; they were evil, really, and unkind. (Two words that didn’t describe Clark at all, you knew that, but you hated being back here—in the small-town that you honestly thought, at this point, you’d be returning to at holidays with a ring on your finger, Clark’s mouth on your cheekbone, but each time, you were met with pitying, confused looks from distant relatives and old schoolfriends, asking innocently if you and Clark were together).

“Don’t be sorry.” You flashed him the biggest, most shit-eating grin you could manage, and gently sunk the heel of your foot into his ribs. “Lighten up. I’m just tired, that’s all. Sorry if I upset you?” 

“You didn’t,” Clark lied softly, touching you again, quieter now.

Eyes narrowing, you tilted your head at him as he kept his own down and shy, gouging his features. “So,” you murmured, testing the waters, “that guy asked me on a second date.”

Clark hummed thoughtfully. “I thought you said he was boring.”

“He was,” you admitted hollowly. “But, he was cute, I guess. And, well, I’m not getting any younger,” you half-joked.

“So, you’re going to settle for a guy who finds taxes exciting?” Clark retorted. 

He was trying to be lighthearted and funny, but it kind of fell short because of the slight bite to his voice and the squinty frustration behind the eyes that didn’t quite meet yours.

“Hey, the market’s tough right now,” you teased.

“And the stock market, too, I’m guessing? Did he tell you about that, too? Tesla shares and his sharing account—”

“Clark,” you said sternly, slanting him a droll look.

Clark glanced down again, frowning. “Sorry, Daisy. Sue me for thinking you deserve a little better than some Wall Street guy.”

The sinews of your heart throbbed at the intensity of his vulnerable honesty. This was why you loved him. This was why you had to go on that second date with some ‘Wall Street goon.’ He was so tender, and lovable, and you adored him completely. He knew this. But, he wouldn’t let anything happen. That ferris wheel was a distant, aching memory, one that he swept under a rug of bashful charm, telling you the next day, Darn, I was such a bad kisser, right? Sorry, Daisy! Let’s go and get burgers… 

Obviously, there was nothing more you’d like to do than kiss him again. Than to unravel your legs from his lap and straddle it instead, bury your fingers in his unruly curls, steal the air from his lungs, tell him, I love you, you idiot, I fucking love you. But, he wouldn’t let you. For whatever reason, he’d put his hands on your thighs so kindly and softly, and tell you that it can’t happen. And he’d be so sweet about it, so sweet with you—because, he adored you right back, and he always would, you knew that, too. But, he wouldn’t really explain why it couldn’t happen, and your ego would be in ribbons and tatters in your shared lap as he cradled your face as if you were his dearest thing, murmur lovely words to you that would do nothing for the wounded pride butchered in your ribs. Then, he’d slip you so tentatively from his lap, and offer you a hand, saying something to you about returning to the party, complimenting the top you spent a silly amount of money on just for him, and spend the rest of the night at your side, acting as if nothing had happened. As if you didn’t love the very bones of him.

You couldn’t stomach it. You had tried before—in the dim light of your apartment back in Metopolis after a night out, slurring on too many rum and cokes, trying to make yourself as endearing and sexy as possible as you practically offered yourself on a shameful platter to him. He was so affectionate and patient with you that night, it made you love him even more, even as he delicately removed your hands from his face, and told you that you were too drunk. He still called you pretty as he lovingly removed your make-up. He still tucked you into the softness of your sheets and pecked the crown of your head. Hell, he even spent the night on your sofa, legs almost folded up to his chest, so he could take care of your miserable hangover in the morning.

You tried ten years ago, on that ferris wheel. 

You couldn’t keep trying. You couldn’t keep letting him mutilate your heart as if it mattered nothing to him.

“Maybe I fancy him,” you sighed then, swinging your legs off of his lap, settling your feet stubbornly in the grass beneath the bench. “Maybe I just want to get laid, so it doesn’t really matter if he’s boring or not.”

Clark stared at you, unhappy. “That’s not what you want.”

“Like you care about what I want,” you found yourself seething, so inadvertently furious and reckless.

That was the wrong thing to say. Clark’s face languaged itself into the most wretched thing you had ever seen, and you thought, for a terrible moment, that he might cry.

“Daisy, that’s…” Clark shook his head softly, “that’s not fair.”

“Not fair? Not—fuck you, Clark,” you snarled, getting up and snatching the blanket, leaving him cold and without you. 

He seemed to shiver against it—the wind, and your absence. Even with you standing, and Clark still sullen on the bench, he was almost as tall as you. He frowned at you, so distraught at whatever this was unraveling in the middle of you both, so confused and desperate to understand why it felt like he was losing you these days when, to him, nothing had really changed to make you so mean and cold.

“What did I do?” he asked dolefully, blinking up at you with wide, startled eyes that were still fawnlike despite their blueness. “I don’t—is this about Ben?” 

It was beyond you how Clark remembered the name of a guy you went on a date with when you had been wracking your mind over it for the last twenty minutes. It only stirred the wrath in your stomach even more.

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” you snapped.

Clark gestured helplessly with his empty hands. “Well, help me understand! That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? That’s who we are. Why are you being like this? All I said was that you deserve—”

“Maybe I will go back to the city early,” you muttered, turning your back to him, looking back at the colourful, exploding fireworks swelling in beautiful contusions of scintillating red and white and blue.

“Okay,” he mumbled, lost, standing too, “we can go in the morning. Ma and Pa will understand. We’ll tell them Perry needs us for—”

“I’ll go,” you interjected, “you can stay. There’s no need for you to cut your trip short.”

Clark looked like everything he held dear was falling apart at the seams and he couldn’t do anything but pathetically hold one end of the fraying thread. “If that’s what you want, then…” He shook his head solemnly, disconcerted. “Daisy, can you please just talk to me? I’ll drive you to the airport in the morning, and you can be alone for the week back in the city, but please, can we just—”

“Are you ever going to let me be your girlfriend, Clark?” 

It was such a ridiculous, petulant sentence to say—so raw, and childlike, and humiliating. But, you didn’t really know how else to phrase it. Because, Clark let you love him. He let you love him unconditionally, in fact. That wasn’t the issue. So, you couldn’t really stand there and plead that he let you into his heart, because you were scored all over it in cicatrices and tenderness, in a way that you knew nobody else would ever really be. You didn’t take that for granted. You appreciated that, maybe, that was all he could offer you. This purgatory state of greyish almost, not quite understanding where you stood on the delicate line between best friends and more. You might be able to stomach it better if he was more final and definite about it. If he told you, earnest and brutal, that no, you would never be Clark Kent’s girlfriend, maybe it might be easier for you to move on, and to digest the love you had for him a little better. Maybe, you could stop these bouts of meanness and cruelty that you never thought you’d ever inflict in him.

“Daisy, I…” Clark looked tormented. You might as well have sucker-punched him, with how agonised he seemed. “You know how I feel about you,” it’s the same script as last time, and the time before that, and it regurgitated like blood in his mouth, blood in your hands; incessant and ugly. “It’s always going to be you and me. Isn’t it?”

Isn’t it? 

“I don't know, Clark,” you replied honestly. A flinch later, and Clark was staring miserably at the floor, at the fluffy socks cladding your feet—the pair he offered you after you slipped off your pretty heels at the welcome mat earlier. “I thought it was going to be,” you continued, lifting your shoulders lamely, hands coming to cradle the goosebump-covered flesh of your arms, “but…I don’t understand what we’re doing here anymore.”

Clark was on his feet instantly, swaying a little at the suddenness of it, as if he wasn’t Superman, as if he wasn’t practically ichor and steel bones. “You’re my best friend. I thought that was enough.”

Guilt panged through your ribs. “Clark, it is. You are. It would be enough, if there weren't all of these…appendages, I don’t know? Like, it would be more than anything, it would be everything, if I knew there wasn’t anything else,” you beseeched. “But there is. I know there is. And so do you. So,” you added, bottom lip wobbling, “it should be me asking you if I’m enough, ‘cause I really don’t know what else is stopping us from—”

“We can’t keep doing this,” he whispered ruefully. “Every time, it’s like you’re breaking my heart, Daisy. I’ve told you, we can’t—”

“But, why?” Your voice raised now, lashing out with the crack of a ruthless whip, bringing the entire length of your friendship down on the rosary of his spine. It made Clark fold in on himself, impossibly small for someone of his stature. “Why, Clark? I think…I don’t know, I think it would be—” a tear rolled down your cheek, without permission, or dignity, but you made no move to wipe it away (you knew it killed Clark to see you cry, so you let it slip and carve a jagged line down your face). “I think we’d be okay.”

Clark was ravaged. His chest was throbbing, hands trembling, and an ugliness lay dormant on his tongue. 

“Daisy, please. Please, just—”

“Wouldn’t we be?”

“I can’t,” he murmured, throat bobbing sorely. “I can’t, Daisy, I’m sorry.”

You let your chin dip hollowly toward your sternum, holding yourself tightly. “Right,” you said faintly, “okay, Clark.”

As you went toward his house—a place ripe with childhood memories, shared, and precious, and intangible now—Clark felt himself unravel, exclaiming your name, your real name, not just Daisy. Not that borrowed fondness that felt so absent of belonging now. It scraped his throat raw at the unfamiliarity of it, leaving an aftertaste of bile and grief.

“Please,” he said desperately, “can we just—c’mon, Daisy, it’s us.”

You didn’t turn to face him. Honestly, you were too afraid of all self-preservation leaving you as soon as you saw that wrecked look on his pretty face. You must harden yourself to him. You’ve spent too long waiting and aching and cutting yourself up into darling little pieces for him.

“Goodnight, Clark.”

You swore to yourself, then—ten years after your first kiss—that you would cut off your own hand before you reached for Clark Kent again.

Now I know better, never let me... / Leave the house without a parachute...

A year earlier.

“—Ma, that was delicious,” you enthused, so bloated that you were sitting at the quaint dining table with the button of your jeans popped open. “Honestly, your best work.”

“Nawh, you’re a flatterer, Daisy,” Martha Kent said, flustered and ruddy-cheeked as she gently dabbed a tissue at her mouth. “It was just pie!” 

Clark, so broad and long-limbed at your side that his shoulder was brushing yours and you couldn’t quite tell where your legs began and his ended, was hasty to gently repudiate his mother’s modesty, “Ma, Daisy’s right. It was beautiful. Tell her Pa.”

“Huh?” Jonathan startled, having been focused on the crackling static of the box-television, playing some football game or other. He blinked, looking at his son, his crimson wife, and finally you, before nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Wonderful, darling. I mean, just—”

“Okay, that’s enough from all of you,” she reprimanded gently, moving to gather everyone’s cleaned plates. “Go off, the lot of ya, so I can wash up.”

“Oh,” you chimed in, smiling brightly, “we’ll wash up.” You touched Clark’s shoulder, “Won’t we?”

Clark blinked at you, softening at the hand on his shoulder, at the warmth in your eyes, and didn’t tear his eyes from you once as he quickly acquiesced, “Of course. Yeah. Ma, we’ll wash up.”

It didn’t take much convincing. Martha and Jonathan were soon shuffling into the parlour to nurse glasses of homemade lemonade, icicles tinkering against glasses, bellies hearty and full with the wonderful pie. You could distinctly hear them singing your praises at being so generous as Clark filled up the sink with soapy, hot water.

Not really thinking much about it, you plant your palms flush against the granite countertop of the kitchen island and lift yourself up onto it, not far away from where Clark was submerging the dishes into the sudsy water. It was as if your offer of a joined attempt at washing-up had completely evaded you, but you couldn’t help it. Clark looked so irresistibly domestic with his towering figure looming over the wash-basin, the window overhead peering out to the garden letting oozes of sunlight filter through the water-speckled glass. It was most likely the Kryptonian in him, but there really was something special about Clark doused in sunlight. Sometimes, you wondered if he would bleed it—ribbons of beautiful gold and trickling warmth. He was wearing a simple white tee, the material of it strained against the muscles of his back as he scrubbed away at the ceramic plate in his hands, not even grimacing against the scorching temperature of the water. 

“I’m starting to think you had ulterior motives offering to do the dishes,” he mused wryly, eyes flitting teasingly to you as he rinsed off some bubbles from the chinaware and settled it considerately onto the drying-rack. 

You feigned an offended gasp. “I would never? I take my duties as chief dishwasher ‘round here really seriously!”

“Yeah?” Clark taunted, a lopsided grin curling up the corner of his mouth. “Is that why you’re sat there, all pretty and not moving a finger?”

I wish you’d move a finger, you thought lamely, maybe three…?

“I’m watching the next generation of dishwashers bloom, all right? Have to make sure that I’m passing the torch onto someone worthy of—“

“I think you’re in the wrong profession,” muttered Clark drolly, “you’re a great journalist, but you’d kill it in theatre, Daisy.”

You swung out a leg to kick him in the kidney. “Bite me, Kent.”

“Sure, let me wash the dishes you said you’d do, then pick a place, and—“

“Oh, you’re letting me choose?”

“I’m a people pleaser, at heart.”

“Who bites people. Cannibal.”

“Cannibal implies we’re the same species,” corrected Clark. “And, technically, we’re not.”

You rolled your eyes at his facetiousness. “Can I just bite you?”

“If you ask to bite my arm again—“

“I think it would feel nice!”

Finally, he placed the last of the plates on the rack and started to drain the sink of the dirty water. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to dry his soapy hands in a nearby dishcloth before he turned around and settled his hands on your thighs. It’s moments like this—with touches like these, and similar airs of domesticity, and warmth—where you find yourself inadvertently cursing your best friend. Those thoughts only worsened when one of his thumbs stroked over where your jeans still hung loosely unbuttoned at the waist.

“I’m glad you came,” he mumbled affectionately. You were pretty sure he was looking at the slither of lace from your underwear peeking through the gap in your unbuttoned jeans, but found yourself without many words or protests as he hooked his fingers through the belt-loops, tugging you the slightest bit closer to the edge of the countertop as your knees touched the sides of him. “Ma and Pa have really missed you.”

You hummed sweetly, glancing unashamedly at his mouth. “Yeah, well, I missed them.”

The callused pad of his thumb stroked over one of your jutting hipbones, just where your tee had ridden up during dinner. “I missed you.”

“We literally see each other every day.”

“Yeah, but,” Clark smiled pensively, “it’s different here, when we’re back home. Don’t you think?”

Your throat went very dry. “You’ll have to explain that logic to me, Kent.”

“I don’t know…it’s just—it’s like we’re really us here. Not that we’re not us in Metropolis, but…” A troubled sigh escaped him, “It makes sense in my head, all right?”

“That’s okay,” you promised him, flattening a hand against his hummingbird chest. “You don’t—I think we’re pretty far past explaining ourselves, don’t you? We’re, you know, us. Here, and there. And I guess I know what you mean—about it being a little different, back here.”

His smile softened impossibly more, the most tender and loving thing you had ever seen, dimpled and precious, and God, you love this boy.

“You understand?”

“Yes, Clark. I understand.”

Later that night, just after you slipped out of the shower, almost imperceptibly quiet from your exhaustion as you dried yourself off, you overheard Clark in the middle of the closest thing to a heated debate he could ever have with his beloved parents. Martha was ranting like you hadn’t heard her since the Bush administration, almost splenetic as she referred to Clark by his full name, reprimanding him for something or other. Jonathan, occasionally, would chime in, weary and loving in a way only a father as softhearted as him could be.  

“—Ma, Pa, you don’t understand—“ you briefly caught Clark saying, sounding a little stretched thin and pained, “it’s us. Daisy, she doesn’t mind about none of that stuff. It’s always gonna be us—“

Stomach in knots, you tried not to listen anymore. You didn’t want to make a habit out of eavesdropping on conversations that clearly had no space for you, especially ones so intimate and distressing. But, the little bits you caught onto pressed against your skin and marrow like thousands of tiny, little knives. You tried to ignore the sting as you tiptoed the length of the hall from the bathroom to Clark’s bedroom, where you had spent the night countless of times before, but now it felt so challenging and foreign that slipping under his boyhood covers felt like trespassing. The voices stayed the same volume, oozing through the walls as if they had forgotten you were there altogether. Until, finally, one side of the discussion acquiesced, and the farmhouse went uneasily still.

As soon as the floorboards outside of Clark’s room started to creak underfoot, you rolled onto your side on his twin-size mattress and feigned sleep. It took one glance at you, him lingering briefly in the doorway, for Clark to know that you weren’t asleep. 

“Did you hear any of that?” he asked calmly, making his way into the room. 

Keeping your head tucked into his pillow, you heard him rummaging through old comforters and blankets to fashion himself a makeshift bed on the floor. It felt reminiscent of childhood sleepovers, rather than a pair of twenty-somethings who had spent the last afternoon in the ankle-deep grass of the farm, sunbathing and laughing and tangling your legs together as if being symbiotic was the only way to breathe. He should be trying to make room for himself next to you on his tiny mattress, an intertwined network of desperate limbs as he cradled your head to the warmth of his chest. His mouth should be peppering a litany of kisses to your face, but instead, he was flopping into his sorry excuse of a temporary bed, body lying parallel to yours.

“Bits,” you replied finally. 

Clark just made a contemplative sound, before saying, “Today was nice.”

When you pressed your eyes closed, you felt a tickling of tears welling in the waterline. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, “it was.”

“You’re my favourite girl, Daisy. Always will be.”

You knew that. It didn’t make any of this easier to swallow. 

It didn’t make you any less hungry. 

A single tear soaked through the terracotta of his pillow-case. “Night, Clark.”

Silence swelled in the room like a purpling bruise, then, shuffling, a soft murmur of your name, and you felt a hand on you. His hand, stroking the back of your head. You squeezed your eyes shut even tighter, evicting another tear. His other hand moved, next, thumb collecting the tear and smearing it into your hairline.

“Please don’t cry,” Clark asked of you softly, a wrenching plea.

“M’not,” you denied childishly.

He scoffed, not unkindly, and brought his thumb closer to the corner of your eye. “Look at me. Please?”

“Asleep.”

“Please?” 

How could you deny such a tender request? Your eyes fluttered, the lampshade on his nightstand eclipsed by his face, mere inches from yours. Clark smiled at you, all dimples and pearly teeth and years of love. His hands held you still, so gingerly and doting.

“There she is,” he said quietly.

“Clark,” you protested.

“Do you wanna sleep down here? With me?” Knelt and penitent, he looked almost holy like this in front of you. Clark then smiled at you all boyish and lame, saying, “I’d say we could share the bed, but…” 

But it was barely big enough for him alone, never mind the two of you. 

You should’ve said no. Should’ve protected the splitting in your chest. But, you had never really made a practice of saying, no, to Clark Kent, and you weren’t about to start now—not with his hands on you so dotingly, his eyes crinkled at the edges in sentimental affection, in the middle of his boyhood room. 

“Okay.”

Together, you removed the duvet and pillows from his bed, fashioning something charming and a little laughable on the floor out of this fragile peace he was desperately trying to maintain. Only when you were folded like a letter within the envelope of comforters did Clark flick off his lamp and cuddle up behind you, lolling his chin against your shoulder as if it was second nature to him.

“Do you forgive me?” he asked innocently.

“Nothing to forgive you for,” you sighed, eyes open against the darkness of night, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Say you forgive me anyway. Indulge me.”

You love him. You really, really love him.

“I forgive you, Clark.”

“Thanks, Daisy.”

I thought you were gonna catch me, / I never stopped falling for you.

20th November, 2023.

The movie was fine. Ben picked it—he always did. A palatable, predictable rom-com with pretty actors and pretty homes, the kind of thing that suspended just the right amount of belief to have you shuffling out of the cinema with a self-pitying ache in the basement of your belly. He dropped you off outside of Clark’s place afterward, pressing a chaste to your lips as he absently reminded you about brunch with his sister and her husband next weekend. 

“You’re late,” Clark teased from the living room as you let yourself in. He had that soft lilt to his voice that sounded terrifyingly more like welcome home, than, hi, my totally platonic best friend, how was your date with your boyfriend? He was sprawled on the couch in a threadbare pair of grey sweatpants, long legs kicked up onto the coffee table, a half-finished bag of popcorn next to his crossed ankles. 

“Sorry, Dad,” you taunted, shrugging off your coat and toeing off your shoes, “did I miss curfew?”

“I told that young man to have you home by eleven,” Clark played along wryly. 

An impossibly large grin carving into your sore cheeks, you padded over to him, curled into the usual spot on the plush sofa, knees crazing his thigh. To the common eye, it was the same as it had always been. Except it wasn’t—not to you, and not to Clark. His arm wasn’t slung easily along the back of the couch anymore, fingers tracing aimless patterns on the skin of your shoulder. His pinkie didn’t reach tangibly for yours on the cushions. And you, inwardly, hated how obvious the absence of touch felt.

“How was the movie?” he asked, eyes on the television, playing some aviation documentary or other.

“It was fine.” You played with a loose thread on the sleeve of your cardigan. “Ben enjoyed it.”

Clark hummed noncommittally and briefly spared you a polite smile, as if to say, oh, I’m glad.

It made your chest throb dully. “You would’ve hated it, though.”

“Good thing I wasn’t there, then,” he said absentmindedly.

It was a lot of this recently—feigned indifference, halfhearted comments, muted smiles that didn’t quite reach eyes; your well-mannered, deferential best friend. He was so respectful, it hurt. Admittedly, you were taking his chivalry rather to heart. For the last few months of dating Ben, you had been silently willing Clark to do something—he wasn’t the primal, territorial kind of guy, you knew that, but…didn’t it matter? Didn’t you matter? Weren’t the two of you more than this—diplomatic dinners where Clark pretended that he gave a damn about capital and assets and the property market for the sake of you? God, all you wanted was for him to tell you to leave him. It would take the slightest bit of jealousy from him, and you’d dump Ben in a heartbeat. Sure, that probably made you a wretched woman, but this was Clark.

You stared at him, desperate for him to fracture, to stop playing Switzerland about the guy you were spending your weekends with. But Clark only reached for the popcorn, offering you the bag with a gentlemanly smile.

“Do you like him?” you asked sharply, the words leaving you before you could stop them.

Clark’s hand went still halfway to his mouth, throat working as he chewed a single kernel. “Does it matter if I do?”

A pulse of agony ribboned through you. “Of course it matters.” 

Now, he granted you the privilege of his gaze—blue eyes too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let your resolve crack the slightest bit. “Then, no. I don’t like Ben.” A pregnant pause, Clark wetting his lips, gentling his voice, and he continued, “But you do, right?” 

“He’s…” Not you, “nice.”

“Nice,” Clark echoed, grinning, and returned his attention to the screen. His knuckles whitened around the bag of popcorn, so, small victories.

Selfishly, you wondered what kind of extremes you would have to go to in order to get the caveman, possessive reaction you truly wanted from him. Like, did you have to go into gruesome detail about your incredibly boring sex life with this guy?

“He asked me to come home with him for Thanksgiving.”

Jackpot.

Clark’s lungs emptied in a sharp, hitching exhale. His gaze snapped to you, too fast, too raw—he may as well have wrenched open his ribcage and exposed all the knots of himself to you. Thank fuck. 

“You always come home with me for the holidays?” he said quietly. 

This whole time, you never really considered that coaxing some kind of reaction from him would hurt you too, but that wounded, confused look on his face, like a rejected, kicked puppy, was a sucker-punch. Because, he was right—he often was. Every year, since the two of you moved away for college, you’d gone back with him to Smallvile—the Kent farm, Martha’s pumpkin pie and Jonathan’s well-meaning teasing, the two of you curled under that scratchy blanket by the fire, crackling with logs Clark had spent the better half of the afternoon swinging at with an axe as you swooned. You belonged there, with him, back home. Not in some stranger’s dining room in upstate Metropolis, making small talk with Ben’s fair-weather parents and boring-as-him sister. 

“I know.”

A muscle twitched in Clark’s taut jaw as he set the popcorn down, hands dangling pathetically between his knees as he took his legs off of the coffee table. “So, you said no. Right?” 

Nothing left your mouth. Nothing even formed on your tongue. 

“Daisy.” The endearment left him roughly. “Tell me you’re not going.” 

You shivered, wanting nothing more than to tell him no, I’m not. God, you wanted to so badly, with every yearning morsel of your being. You wanted him to demand it of you, to give you permission to shatter this fragile, unspoken arrangement. But, he only stared at you, silent and aching, handing you some kind of invisible knife carved of kryptonite.

“I don’t know,” you confessed.

“It won’t feel like Thanksgiving if you’re not there with me.”

Your self-preservation unravelled, and you moved without thinking. You touched his sternum, almost flinching at the pounding of his heart. “Then, say it, Clark,” you seethed, “tell me not to go. Tell me you want me there, with you.”

For an agonising moment, your best friend just stared at you, as if the entire, tangled history of the two of you was haemorrhaging in this harrowing space. Then, with the kind of excruciating gentleness and self-sacrificing bullshit that only Clark Kent could muster, he shook his head. 

“You know I can’t.”

The finality of it butchered the girl in you that you thought was buried years ago. Evidently, some part of it stuck around, nursing some kind of mad hope that maybe he’d be ready for you, one day. You stood, trembling, and staggered wordlessly towards the entrance hallway of his apartment.

“Daisy,” Clark called, panicked, standing too, “Daisy, wait—” 

You turned, undoing, strangled, and so very tired of this cycle of punishment. “You expect me to wait around with no real sign that you’re ever going to be ready. Do you realise how cruel that is?” 

He said your name again, your real name, and you were starting to resent the sound of it—this pattern you had fallen into, of him only breathing it when he looked like this; torn and apologetic, but never willing to do something about it.

“Lana Lang got married last month,” you told him steadily, trying not to cry. “Pete Ross and his wife just had their second baby. And I’m—I don’t know. Hoping you’ll ask me nicely to break up with my boyfriend? My life’s going on without me because I’m waiting for something that’s probably never going to happen.” You stared at him witheringly, at the devastation in his eyes but evident rigidity in his bones, his lack of movement or protest. The absence of any kind of reassurance. “Am I wrong?” 

Clark didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“Right,” you muttered sourly, snatching your jacket from its designated hook on his crooked coat-rack. “I’ll see you at work, Clark.”

It’s time you sever that hand completely.

You told me you waited for me, you said that you won... / Asked me on a plane from Rio, do I ever think of us?

12th of September, 2024.

Clark’s apartment was hollowed and harrowed all at once, silent except from the faint hum of his bare refrigerator and his own shallow breathing. He sat on the edge of his couch, the Superman suit draped over the arm of it like shredded snakeskin, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers as he nursed an ice-pack to the ugly swelling over his left eye. His ribs ached with each ragged breath, the bruises already flowering with petals of violet and blue across his chest and sides. He could still taste blood, metallic and sour and familiar, at the corner of his split lip. 

It wasn’t the worst of nights—he’d been pulling his punches, recently, letting blows hit closer to comfort than he would’ve a year ago. Still, the empty space next to him, around him, was enough to make the wounds ache that bit more profoundly as he pressed the ice harder to the contusion, just to relish in the sting.

He hadn’t seen you in days. Weeks, really. Not properly, not like before. You were still best friends—exchanging texts and funny videos, calling in the middle of adult responsibilities, and catching up at the coffee machine at the Daily Planet, as your lives weren’t grotesquely and obscenely woven together. Boundaries existed now that didn’t before, cruel ones that weren’t ever really negotiated, but they were necessary—they both knew it. It was nights like these where Clark found himself missing you the most, a hunger settling bitterly between his third and fractured rib. When he was bandaging his own pains, when laughter didn’t reach the parts of him you could, when he caught himself glancing at the door like he was willing you to walk in—you’d tell him you saw the fight on the news, that it terrified you, that you needed to know that he was okay.

Just that morning, Clark woke up from the cruellest of dreams. It was of you, of your mouth, of your skin. He was touching you, everywhere, and kissing you, and his sheets were drenched in sweat when the sunshine split through the curtains to give him a mean dose of reality. He tried jerking off in the shower when the ache got too painful, but last month, Clark ran out of the emergency supply of your shower gel that you kept here, and the lingering smell of you left his bathroom weeks ago. He washed off the shame and the desire, and went to work, and avoided your eyes even more stubbornly than usual. 

Then, his phone vibrated aggressively on the coffee table, flaring his ribs with a dangerous glimmer of hope.

Daisy.

His pulse rabbited against his scratched throat. He thumbed in the numbers of your birthday, unlocking his phone, and winced at the vicious pull in his abdomen as he leaned forward.

DAISY: Hey are you up

Clark blinked. Did she not see the news, or the tram torn from the tracks by the grubby hands of some extraterrestrial, or Clark being launched into a skyscraper as if he weighed little more than a paperweight? 

CLARK: Of course I’m up

CLARK: Sorry that sounded rude I didn’t mean it to be

CLARK: Yes I’m awake are you okay?

He hated himself. He fantasised briefly about self-flaggelation and almost felt glad for the agony in his body.

DAISY: Lol don’t worry Clark Knt could never be rude

DAISY: Erm so……he proposed!!!

Screw self-flaggelation. Give him a gun. 

Clark suddenly thought maybe the super-bots got it wrong, and he really did have a concussion, that maybe his brain was short-circuiting under the weight of exhaustion, internal bleeding, and the enormity of his yearning. 

So, he reread it—just to be sure. And he reread it again. Thrice. The words, horrifyingly, didn’t change. He proposed. You were engaged. His thumbs wavered, typing, deleting, typing again. What was there to say? 

CLARK: Wow

Kill him.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again—and it was at least some comfort to know that the two of you still had some things in common, after all of this. Clark denied himself the privilege of breathing as he waited for your next message, his ribs screaming against the strain.

DAISY: I haven’t said yes yet

The ice-pack slid uselessly to the rug, where it stayed, resembling some flayed animal. Clark’s hands quivered now around the phone that looked so pathetically small between his fingers. Whatever this pain was, it was brutish. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even Lex Luthor, doglike and sniffing at the hem of the Superman cape like something rabid and wronged. Not even Ben. 

CLARK: Okay

A breath.

CLARK: What did you say?

He couldn’t help but think he deserved it, though. Hadn’t she warned him this would happen?

DAISY: I told him I needed to think

DAISY: You’re the first person I told

Because, that’s Clark. Your best friend, the first person, a medley of shared memories and experiences and a childhood that belongs to the both of you, and not even this could separate it. A surgeon could take all the silver instruments in the world, and it still wouldn’t sever the two of you—there wasn’t a pair of scissors sharp enough to cut that invisible string, and Clark clung to that. He was the first person you told. It gutted him, it felt like an executioner coming for him, it felt like the gallows—but he was the first person. 

Not your parents, not his, not Lois. Clark. 

Clark wanted—golly, what did he want? He wanted everything. Clark was nothing but want and bruises and heroism. He would cut open a vein in his arm and bleed out you, if he could. The pulmonary artery of his yearning pulsed viciously against his worst fears and agonies, and he wanted, darn it. 

His thumb trembled again against the edge of everything he had ever known. 

Don’t marry him. Don’t say yes. I’m the first person. Don’t marry him, I’m begging you.

CLARK: I’m glad

CLARK: Glad you told me I mean

CLARK: And glad he proposed 

He’ll die alone and wanting.

DAISY: Glad?

CLARK: It’s what you wanted wasn’t it?

CLARK: To get married 

To get married to him. He knew that. Of course, he knew that. How many dreams had slipped through his fingers of you in white, a wedding back at the farm, wildflowers in your hair, and fireflies scintillating the night-sky as pressed his mouth onto yours when it was all said and done, and you were his wife? 

Wife. Wife. You were going to be Ben’s wife.

DAISY: You think I should say yes?

CLARK: I think you should have everything you’ve ever wanted

Well, not everything.

DAISY: Will you be there?

CLARK: Are you asking me to be your maid of honour?

DAISY: Clark

CLARK: I’ll always be there Daisy

You seemed to be typing for a long time, then. He could picture you, in the warmth of the fairylights in your bedroom, or the flickering of vanilla candles, typing out belligerence, needling snarls, cursing out his name, until you finally reached on something far more scathing and perfunctory.

DAISY: That’s not what I mean and you know it

DAISY: But okay

DAISY: I’ll talk to him in the morning

Clark hated himself. 

CLARK: I’m so happy for you Daisy.

You didn’t reply for the rest of the night.

And you were at my wedding, I was broken, you were drunk... / You could've told me not to do it, I would've run, I would've run.

20th of May, 2025

“—Here, son…C’mon…” 

Agony lanced right through him as Clark felt his father lift his legs onto the bed, Lois’s hand gingerly coaxing him to lie flat as Martha grasped frantically at his fingers. It felt like a thousand little, white-hot knives were pricking at his flesh, trying to reach bone. He was distinctly aware of his childhood room around him—the photograph of you crowned by a wreath of daisy-chains in the field angled just right on his nightstand, so close to his mother’s fussing elbow that it worried him, even through the stabbing pain, coursing through his poisoned, black-dyed veins.

“Hi, Ma,” he groaned, bellyaching in a childlike hurt as Martha cradled the nape of his neck lovingly. “Ma,” Clark croaked wretchedly, “they sent me here to rule over everyone…They sent me here to kill people…”

A single tear slipped out the corner of his ear, stinging and corrosive against his infected skin.

“Clark,” his mom protested, “that’s not…that ain’t…”

He shivered feverishly, feeling as though every drop of blood had been drained from him, as though his entire body was hollowed and raw. Black dots started to blur his vision, the morose faces of his beloved parents eventually melting into amorphous masses.

“Daisy,” panted Clark restlessly, craning his neck from side to side blindly, as if he might find her in this sea of black. “Daisy, Ma. I need—” 

“Oh, Clark,” Martha wept. 

It was a wretched and unthinkable thing for a mother to see her son like this.

Lois, stood in the doorway, fumbled uselessly with something to say or do to make any of this better. It was then when her eyes caught that brass photo-frame, that familiar face of you—her co-worker, but years younger, and fathoms brighter than the last time she saw you, ranting splenetically about wedding expenses and the uselessness of the guy you were seeing. You looked softer, there, lighter. A halo of daisies on your forehead as sunlight enveloped you in some kind of ethereal, golden warmth—or, that could’ve been the boy behind the camera. Lois always did think you looked happier when you were with Clark.

“I’m gonna…” Lois blinked, gesturing lousily, “I need to just—I’m going to make a call.” 

And she scarpered out of the room, prying her phone out of her jeans’ pocket. It was you she called. Because, who else?

You picked up on the third dial, voice rasped and exhausted. “Hey, Lois. Is this about Clark handing himself over, because I saw. And, honestly, I can’t even speak about it without spitting—”

“He’s asking for you,” she interjected quickly, talking over your rant. You went quiet, stunned. Lois blundered on, “Clark, he’s—he’s seriously hurt, and…and he asked for you. Well, he asked for Daisy, but I’ve worked with you both long enough to know what that means. He’s asking for you.”

Still, you said nothing. Lois’s teeth worried at the torn flesh of her bottom lip. She could hear, through the crackling, bad signal of the Kent farm, a disgruntled murmuring on the other end of the line. Lois could only presume that this was your fiancé, and that Ben, who she knew little about at all, wasn’t very happy about being rudely awoken by your ringtone. 

“Hello?” Lois uttered your name, desperate. “I’m really sorry to wake you up,” she said, unapologetically, “I know it’s late, and I know things aren’t the best between you and Clark right now—”

“Is he home?” you asked.

Lois’s breath hitched. “He’s in Smallville. We’re in Smallville.”

You made a musing hum, as if that’s what you had already meant by ‘home,’ and it startled Lois all over again to think about the tangible, terrible landscape of memory that you and Clark shared.

“I get that you’re going to have to book a flight, and that’s so much hassle,” she stressed, “but, I thought you’d want to know, so you could—”

“No, no,” you rushed out, and Lois could hear rustling, and the sound of a stubborn zip, and more disparagement from Ben, “I’m glad you called, Lois. Really. Thank you. You’re a good friend. I’ll, erm—I’ll be on the first flight out. Yeah?” 

“O-Oh!” Lois stammered, surprised. “Oh, you’re—okay! Yeah! Erm, well, I don’t know if I’ll still be here. There’s actually some stuff that I need to—you know what? Never mind that. He’ll be here. Big guy’s not going anywhere right now,” she added, grimacing. “He’s pretty beat. But…he’ll be real glad to see you when he wakes up, Daisy.” 

A soft exhale of breath travelled through the line, followed by the gentle closing of your apartment door. “Yeah,” you didn’t sound very convinced at all, but still inexplicably soft, “thanks again, Lois. Seriously. I’m so grateful to have you—that…that Clark has you.” 

Lois blinked, alarmed. You didn’t think that she and Clark were together, did you? “Oh. Clark and I, we’re not—”

“See you!” 

And the line went dead.

____________________

You were so sure that you’d never recover from this kind of devotion.

The love you had for Clark—it wasn’t the kind of thing you could pray away with a wounded pride, or have Ben kiss away until it was rendered. It immolated you, blotted you out, made you a shell of yourself. Receiving that call from Lois had your heart lodged in your throat, a splattering of viscera smearing the ivory of your ribs with innards and terror.

Now, you were back here. Back home. The air smelt of ozone, livestock silage, and something distinctly Clark—that cedar, sandalwood warmth, tinged with a faint lingering of his blood. You were half-slumped on a humble, wooden chair at his bedside, not quite near enough to reach out to touch him. And Clark, well, he may as well have been dead with how still he was lying, chest barely rising and falling against the weight of Kara’s loyal, tail-wagging dog perched under his chin. Sunlight imbued his tartan curtains; it wouldn’t be long until he woke up, and saw you. Anxiety clawed at the dry length of your throat, and you were very swiftly regretting the decision to decline Martha’s offer of a hot cocoa upon entering the farmhouse an hour or so ago.

There hadn’t been any debate or hesitation after Lois told you that Clark was hurt and asking for you. It didn’t matter that the two of you weren’t the same nowadays, that there was a cavernous ache in between you that not even overfamiliarity could nurture. It definitely didn’t matter that Ben wanted to go wine-tasting this afternoon—you couldn’t think of anything worse than swilling decanted wine around your mouth as your proxy sommelier of a fiancé oohed and aahed pretentiously over the different types of grape. This was Clark. And even the ring glittering on your finger, obscene and way too gaudy for your taste, didn’t beat that. You were starting to think nothing ever really would.

“Daisy…” 

It was whisper-soft, a parable on his tongue, and you genuinely were starting to worry that the reason why Clark was always so reluctant to let anything happen with you was because he had fashioned some kind of infallibility out of you, some religion.

The brittle legs of your chair scraped softly against his floorboards, a half-instinctive movement toward him that you would later blame on muscle memory, until you stopped yourself. Fell short. The space was better. 

“I’m here,” you said carefully.

Clark stirred, the sheets rustling leaf-like underneath him. Even so weak, he was gorgeous. Shamefully, you’d even argue he was more so. It killed your heart to seem so fragile, but his dishevelled curls, almost onyx, were haloing his pretty, devastated face in a way that reminded you of how closer to God he was than man. His eyes, periwinkle and frantic to find sunlight—or you (if there was much difference)—were swollen and glassy, fluttering as they found you. The worried crinkles softened out, all of him seemed to soften, in fact; melting into the mattress, easing as if his bones were turned to liquid. His lips trembled around the sweetest of smiles.

“You…” he groaned, struggling to move, to talk, to even breathe, “you came.”

A frog in your throat, all you mustered for him was a nod, staring at the wall, trying to ignore the photograph of you preserved on his nightstand. In your periphery, his hand was twitching feebly against the comforter, fingers curling like he was trying to reach for you, half-expecting your hand to be there already, waiting. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your hands stayed protectively in your lap.

Clark’s voice cracked, raw and bending under the weight of twenty years of this: “I thought you wouldn’t.”

That hurt.

“Don’t,” you said firmly, still tender, but not leaving room for him any longer. Your engagement ring pressed painfully into your skin, biting like tiny, diamond teeth. His hand tried to move again, to reach the impossible. “Clark, stop. Save your strength.”

He laughed—or attempted one, at least, thought it left him like a sob being pried from the depths of him. “Strength.” He closed his pretty eyes against the shame of it. “I’ve got none left, Daisy. Not without you. I mean—have you caught the news recently?” 

“And that’s my fault, is it?” you asked, almost scoffing. “I didn’t believe a word of it, Clark, if that’s what you’re talking about. Well. It could be true, about your birth parents. But not about you.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I lost. I failed.”

You tried to harden your resolve against the brokenness of his voice and the single tear on his cheekbone. You sunk your canines into your tongue against the weaker parts of you that begged to hold his hand or kiss his temple. To be kind when you must be resilient. It wasn’t your softness he needed now, anyway. Not in this state. He needed some brutish, old-fashioned honesty.

“You didn’t fail anybody, Clark,” you said steadily.

Clark’s bottom lip trembled. “I failed you.”

“How—” Your heart ached, “Clark, what do you—”

“I let you go.” It was if someone stole the words from him; snatched, so unforgivingly, so brutally. They fell between the two of you like viscera or entrails—some other gore. “I stood there, and I let you slip away, and I told myself it was right, it was fair, that I was protecting you—but, golly, Daisy—” Clark’s body shook with the enormity of his honesty, “every day, I think I’m dying without you.” 

The room held a breath, a twin pair of grape-lungs, purpling against the strain. Just the hum of grasshoppers outside of his window, and the faint pant of the slumbering dog on his sternum. It would’ve been peaceful, under any other circumstances. Now, it taunted you.

“Clark, don’t—” 

“Don’t what?” His eyes finally opened again. They were hazy with fever and want, but fixed on you so intensely with a devotion that he would surely never recover from, either. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For me to be honest with you.” 

Your eye twitched furiously. “It’s ten years too late, Clark!” 

“I know,” he admitted, guilt-wracked. “I know, and m’sorry, Daisy, but I can’t—you don’t understand—”

“I don’t understand?” you sneered in disbelief.

“Please,” Clark whimpered. “Don’t be angry with me.”

He had taken plenty of blows so far this week—he even stomached Kryptonite poisoning. Somehow, the malice in your eyes hurt the worst.

 “Fuck you, Clark,” you said then. Clark flinched pitifully. He hated swearing—it was a childlike, Midwestern thing of his. Charming, usually. It only angered you more. “You don’t get to say this now. You’ve got no right. I’m engaged. You told me to marry him. Remember? I gave you so many chances to…to do something, Clark! To say anything!”  

“Please. Stop. Daisy, just—”

“I’m getting married,” you said again scathingly. “It’s not fair to tell me this. You’re supposed to be my best friend. To want what’s best for me. And now you want me to marry him, knowing that you—” A sob strangled you, treacherously, and a filthy tear rolled hot down your cheek. You scrubbed it away as if it wronged you with the knots of your knuckles, the gold of your ring scratching the blotchy skin. “You’re selfish.”

Clark crumpled. “I know. I know I am. But, I do want what’s best for you, Daisy—”

“Stop.” 

“And you are my best friend. In the whole world. That’s why—”

“Stop it.”

“You deserve better than him. You deserve better than me, too. Golly, I know it. But, you can’t—”

“God, Clark—”

“Don’t marry him.” 

There it was.

You stared at him, ravaged. He stared back, undone.

“That’s…” your fists clenched in your lap, “...Clark, you’ve hurt me a lot over the years. Without ever meaning to. But, this—”

“Don’t marry him,” he said again, begging. “Don’t marry him, Daisy.”

Hastily, you got to your feet before the weakness in your knees could betray you, too. His eyes followed you helplessly, aching, and he tried to move, but Krypton’s paws pressed tighter into his chest, his body failing him.

“Daisy,” Clark pleaded hoarsely, “where are you…” His gaze tracked your heated movements towards his door, the frantic grasping of your bag, panicking, “don’t go. Please, don’t go.”

“I hope you get everything you want, Clark. And I hope I never hear a word of it.”

I thought you were gonna catch me... / I never stopped falling for you.

4th of July, 2025.

If handing out wedding invitations for a wedding you never imagined was excruciating, the apologetic letters explaining to relatives and high school friends that the ceremony wouldn’t be happening was a torture method. 

Honestly, it was preordained—a self-fulfilling prophecy that you and Clark had got yourselves marked by that day on the ferris wheel when you were sixteen, to tangle you up in this cycle of punishment and humiliation. You would always be hung up on him, he would always be alone, and that’s the price you had to pay for the people you had wronged on the destructive, toxic path you had tread in your inability to let go and his martyr complex. Maybe, you thought bitterly, you deserved this.

He may have been boring, and pretentious, and he probably didn’t even love you as he should’ve, but you genuinely hoped that Ben would find a woman who could enjoy the cantankerous things he also enjoyed.

You were in the middle of penning the sixteenth letter that evening—ink blotching some pathetic excuse about we just didn’t want the same things for an old friend of your mother’s, who would probably laugh dementedly over the whole ordeal—when you heard the faint tapping of knuckles against your living room window. And, of course, it couldn’t be anyone but Clark. His feet didn’t touch the floor, hovering just above the iron-grate of the fire escape, as if he was half-expecting to be turned away. In this fragile assumption, he had tucked his chin shallowly towards his chin, as if it pained him to face the inevitability of your rejection.

He was still wearing his work uniform, you realised, as your eyes raked over the godlike boy outside the glass. The night sky was smeared lilac behind him, and for the first time in a long time, not a single scratch marred him. Your body yearned for him in a way that your mind screamed for you to ignore.

You stayed knelt as you opened the latch, staying at some altar of longing and shame as he lingered just outside of the familiarity of your home that he hadn’t felt in so long—the flickering of candles, the needle-scratch of your record player over a Marvin Gaye vinyl, the leather sofa he helped you shoulder up the stairs the day you moved in. Clark waited, breathing it all in, but kept his eyes on you the whole time—you, on your knees; you, blinking up at him fawnlike and expectant; you, his. Still. Even now.

His feet settled on the windowsill as soft as snowdrift. “Hi, Daisy.”

“What do you want?” you asked gravelly.

“That’s…” Clark exhaled breathily, a boyish laugh warming through his chest, “that’s a loaded question.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, then glanced sparingly at the apology letters on your coffee table, and back to your best friend. “Well,” you said dryly, “I’ve got the time.” 

Grimacing, Clark looked at you in love and agony, and crouched to ease himself inside your life again. You thought he might remain standing, that he might appreciate the imbalance you inadvertently granted him through the feebleness of your knees, but you should’ve known better. Should’ve known Clark better, that if you were knelt in front of him like this—so unravelled and distraught and more his than you had been in years—then, he was going to match you. He sank to one knee first, and the sight made the sinews of your heart tug, and then the second. He still towered you, but it was never intimidating. His hands even stayed patiently in his lap, because this was Clark, and he loved you, and he respected you, and you’d always known.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, and, gosh, I’m an idiot for letting it. I’m a coward. I was too weak to tell you, too weak to let you go, and I don’t feel very super or manly at all.”

You blinked at him, processing the words you had been waiting for since you were a girl. You thought, after all this time, they might underwhelm you. It didn’t. It pressed against you like everything. Your spine ached like a rosary and, maybe, you made a religion out of each other, after all. 

“And?” you pressed, wetting your lips.

Clark’s hands twitched, waiting on his knees. He looked pretty, like this, you decided unabashedly.

“And,” he said, almost smiling, “and, I love you, Daisy. You’re my favourite girl. Always my—” he went quiet then, staring at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that made your lungs throb, “can I kiss you? Please,” he added sweetly.

“Can you…?” You felt yourself short-circuit. Did he really just ask that?

Clark smiled nervously. “Can I kiss you, Daisy? We can talk after. I just, well, I’m so glad to see that ring gone. And you’re so pretty. And I love you. I love you, I love you, I—”

You threw yourself at him. 

A part of you thought, blasphemously, that you always would. 

You threw yourself at Clark, and he caught you, and you genuinely reckoned that you would never stop falling for this boy—but, at least he would always catch you.

Your sternums touched, your hands grasped at the curls on the nape of his neck, and Clark kissed you as if he wanted it to bruise. It didn’t particularly hit you until now how much it must’ve killed him to see that ugly monstrosity of a ring on your finger—especially when he’d known exactly the kind of ring you wanted ever since you were fifteen and browsing the pawn shops in downtown Smallville. Not until now, at least, with Clark’s mouth hot and heavy against yours like he was trying so desperately to kiss any memory of any other man out of you.

You were sure his teeth grazed your bottom lip in the middle of it all, and it was a surprisingly nice sting that you hadn’t expected from him. Granted, the last time you kissed, it was both of your firsts—too much saliva, and teeth, and tongue—but now, there was just the right amount of everything, and you wanted to sew yourself to him like this. You wanted to kiss him forever, even against the merciless ache in your lungs. His hands, finally, had the bravery to move, and you prayed he’d never be a coward again, and always touch you like this—like you belonged to each other, like your limbs were one. His palms grasped at the meat of your hips, slipping under the flimsy cotton of your oversized sleep-shirt to touch bare skin, and he moaned shamelessly into your mouth—as if this was what he needed, this was what he was looking for: your skin.

“Clark,” you breathed, trembling. His mouth took the opportunity of yours being busy murmuring his name to trace an unmapped path along your jawbone, hands smoothing against the small of your back now. “Clark…”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” His teeth grazed a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shivered against him, gently pulling at the curls on his neck. You felt his lips smile against your bared throat, and you didn’t expect this from Clark—not one bit. “What is it, Daisy? Hmm…?” he pressed an open-mouthed, heated kiss to the crook of your shoulder, suckling an imperceptible lovebite to the strained tendons there, “Talk to me.” 

“I…I can’t focus when you’re…Clark…” One of his hands was at the fish-eye hooks of your bra, teasing, “Shit, you’re—”

“Language,” Clark reprimanded sweetly, letting go of the bra-strap as if he was punishing you for swearing. You pressed your knees closer together as something throbbed between your folded legs. 

You sighed shakily as his mouth returned to the corner of yours, pecking you so intimately that you almost cursed again. “Clark, I thought you said we would talk.”

“You can talk,” he retorted, kissing your lips again, short and sweet, “I’m listening, Daisy. I always listen to you. Don’t I?” He asked it so innocently, it was disarming—and so crude against the contrast of his fingers toying with the waistband of your gauzy sleep-shorts. Clark laughed then, not unkindly, looking at you all dimpled and wonderful through mirror-bright eyes. When his thumb stroked over your hipbone, something whimper-like rolled off your tongue, and his grin punctured an even deeper dimple into his ruddy cheek. “You know, sweetheart, I think it’s you who isn’t listening to me.”

“Now you’re just being mean,” you protested weakly, pulling his hair in halfhearted protest.

“I could never be mean to you,” denied Clark, both palms flush against your back again. 

And, before you could process it, he was lowering you onto the rug beneath you as his knees gently nudged yours apart to make room for yourself between your thighs. And, of course, you accommodated—lost in yourself, and your thoughts, hands tumbling from his neck to his strong arms, to his elbows, to his wrists that your fingers couldn’t even wrap half of themselves around. Clark leaned down over you, eyes so adoring as he admired you like this—committing the sight to memory, you on your back, knees kissing at his waist, throat bared to him, chest heaving salaciously. Then, juxtaposing the downright wanton thoughts intermingling in both of your minds, he chiselled away the narrow space between you to kiss you so tenderly that you almost felt bad for the wetness between your legs.

“I love you, Daisy.”

Your heart ached with it, hands clumsily fumbling until they were on his biceps again. You felt the muscles flex under your touch. His pupils were blown so wide, it made you feel feverish. It was as if twin black moons were staring back at you, fraying at the edges with the blue sutures of his irises.

“I love you too, Clark,” you murmured, nudging your nose lovingly against his. “Always loved you,” you said, saccharine. “Always gonna, if you let me.”

His fingers splayed out on your bare thighs, shorts hiked up impossibly. The sensation of his skin on yours was incomparable.

“Let you? Let you, baby?” Clark, baffled, had to kiss you again. So, he did. Over, and over, and—shit, was his hand on the waistband of your shorts again? “I’m never letting you go again. Never,” he swore against your mouth.

“Promise me?” you begged, feeling pathetic, and girlish, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t have this and never have him again. It would be a cruelty that you couldn’t stomach.

Clark was wrecked. He kept one hand just on the hem of your useless shorts and brought the other to your flustered face, cradling your jaw, smoothing his thumb over your cheekbone, before placing it reverently to your bottom lip. It took every little bit of your self-control not to let it slip into your mouth.

“I promise you, Daisy. I promise. Love you, baby,” he said, voice husky, rasped, meaningful to the marrow as his thumb ghosted over your lip. “I love you so much.”

The invisible string in your chest tightened ruthlessly, in the prettiest of ways. You nuzzled into his palm, mourning the weight of his thumb, but compensating it with a featherlight kiss to the inside of his hand.

“I love you.”

Clark only responded with a sound that could be described as half-sob, half-prayer. Whatever it was, you loved it, and you grabbed his face with both of your greedy hands, bringing him down into another kiss—just as hard, and desperate, and filthy as before. The hand he kept on your shorts finally tugged, tentative but determined, and the cotton slipped just enough for the cool air trickling through the still ajar window to lick at your bare skin.

You shuddered, pressing your forehead devoutly to his, clinging to his shoulders. It suddenly dawned on you how much clothes he was wearing, and how little you were. The blazer of his Daily Planet attire felt wrinkled and distressed under your frantic hands, whilst you were in a cheap pair of pyjamas.

“Clark…” 

“Sweetheart,” he soothed lovingly, an ache to his voice that crept through the softness, “I’ll stop if you tell me to. I swear. But, golly—Daisy, please don’t tell me to.” Clark’s curls brushed your cheek, unruly and dark and smelling strongly of green apples, as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. He breathed you in—you felt nothing short of sacred. “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed about this. Of you. And now I’ve got you, and you’re mine—you are mine, right—?”

You felt dizzy. “I’m yours, Clark.”

“—and I need to show you, baby,” he carried on, as if he never doubted it, as if this was always supposed to happen.

And how could you deny a boy so earnest and yours? 

“Show me then, Clark.” 

Clark stiffened, as if he hadn’t expected it, in spite of all his kisses and touches, and his maddest of hopes, and filthiest of dreams. He pulled back to look at you, blown eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. You beautiful, idiot boy.” You smiled at him, and hoped it was more dazzling than desperate, but you’d take anything. “Please, Clark. I want you to.”

He groaned brokenly, and then he was moving—kissing you as he went; your jaw, the flushed bit of your skin exposed by the askew nature of your tee, lifting the hem of it to kiss at your stomach, and you had never felt holier. His hands parted your thighs reverently, and when he glanced up at you from between them—eyes dark, cheeks rosy, mouth spit-slick and parted in some kind of stunned adoration—you thought that he might actually slaughter you. 

“Daisy,” Clark whispered, mouthing just above the waistband of your shots, his big hands bear-like and needy at your thighs. “You’re so pretty. The prettiest girl. My favourite girl, hm?”

You didn’t know if he was expecting a response to that, but you couldn’t manage one. He didn’t wait for one, either, not as he hooked his fingers into your shorts and slipped them off you as if they, or you, or both, were precious. You shivered at the contrast of sensations—the breezy draught from the window, the hot breath from Clark’s wanting mouth—against the gossamer lace of your panties. Suddenly self-conscious, you tried to close your legs, almost wrecking Clark.

“Hey…hey,” he said softly, hoarsely, his fingertips pressing into your thighs as he kept them open. “What’s that for, hm? C’mon, Daisy,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss at the ratty bow at the top of your underwear, almost making you spasm at the tenderness, “don’t hide from me.”

His hot mouth lingered over the lace covering your heat for a heartbeat, and then moved lower, pressing a worshipful kiss to your inner thigh as if it were scripture. He kept your legs steady and open, memorising everything your skin had to offer—the faint lines of your stretch-marks, the dimpling of cellulite, the living warmth. You loved him. He was mouthing at your thigh, wet and wanting, and you needed him more than anything.

You’d give up air, you thought ferally.

“Clark,” you pleaded, fingers tangling in his curls again.

“Mine,” Clark muttered, sucking a mark against your thigh, “all mine. Us, Daisy. Yeah? You’re mine.” It kind of left him like slurring nonsense. You would’ve thought he was drunk if you didn’t know that it was an impossibility for him. 

The desire in your stomach was grotesque, and you couldn’t control the abrupt, needy bucking of your hips, desperate for more. Clark didn’t seem to mind this, though. If anything, it spurred him on more. He briefly pecked the mark already blooming on your thigh and then let his eyes drag up to yours, pious and worked-up.

“Can I taste you?”

And fuck. Who were you to deny that? 

“Yes,” you begged, “please, Clark.” 

He’d do anything for you, always had, always would—so he granted your plea. First, with the most ridiculously tender kiss to the lace just above your pulsing clit. You practically mewled, almost kicking your legs out, wrenching at the roots of his hair. All he did was kiss it, and it was almost imperceptible in its faintness, but God, he felt everywhere. Next, he licked his tongue flat and salacious against the damp patch on your underwear, and you were sobbing his name. 

The material dampened further, from you, from him—the most sinful of benedictions, and you were falling in love with him all over again. 

“Clark, please,” you gasped wretchedly. “Don’t stop, please, don’t—”

His tongue traced the heat of you through soaked lace, pressing, licking, tasting, coaxing each arch of your spine and shaky slip of his name with a masterfulness that was making your head spin. The idea of him doing this to any other girl before you made your stomach knot, even through all the desire and ache. It made you feel greedy and ridiculous, but then he was hooking his fingers into the waistband of the panties, and you forgot about everything else but Clark.

“M’pretty girl,” he told you as he gently, ceremoniously, started to peel off your ruined underwear. He treated every next bit of exposed skin as a new blessing. Your hips thrashed again, but Clark caught you firmly, kissing right below your navel before sitting back onto his haunches. “M’Daisy.” 

All lovelorn and careful ministrations, he tugged the fabric down over your knees and let it dangle from one of your ankles. Incidentally, the very same limb your anklet was glittering on. Clark must’ve noticed this, too, because he was slowly lifting your leg and draping it over your shoulder, craning his neck to the side to kiss adoringly at the jewellery. He seemed to peck every last one of the daisy charms as if they were scintillating, silver extensions of you.

“I love you,” he said again. 

God, you’d never get sick of hearing that.

“Love you, too,” you punched out breathlessly, arms useless at your sides, “even if you’re totally blue-balling me right now.”

A laugh startled through him, fingers toying with that precious anklet. It haunted you that he was still in a two-piece suit and you were in nothing but a t-shirt.

“Blue-balling you?” Clark echoed, almost smug. “Well, I can’t do that to my girl, can I? What kind of cruel, horrible man would that make me…?”

“A really…” you swayed, trying to hit up, resting your weight back on your elbows, and watching through heavy-lidded, lascivious eyes as Clark hooked your other leg over his spare shoulder, and narrowed in ever closer to where you needed him, “...really evil one…”

“Evil, huh?” His breath tickled your heat, making your legs shift jerkily over his shoulders. “I saved this city not too long ago, ma’am, didn’t you hear?” Two of his fingers were now tracing the wetness just around your clit, and you bit hard on your lip to keep in a string of obscenities, afraid of him edging you for bad language, or something equally Clark. “I’m somewhat of a hotshot ‘round here, actually.”

You were panting now, losing your mind. “God, even like this, you never shut up.” It was still said fondly. 

“Never,” he admitted breathlessly, kissing your hip. “Not with you, Daisy.”

He removed his fingers then, and maintained the most intimate moment of eye-contact you think you would ever experience as he slipped them in his mouth. Your jaw swung open almost comically, blinking so fast it was as if you were trying to convince that this was actually happening, that Clark Kent was actually tasting you on his fingers. You even tried squeezing your eyes shut for as long as five seconds, and then cursed yourself for wasting even a breath of this—because, sure as day, he was still there, humming around the digits, throaty and appreciative, as if yellow sunlight was on his tongue.

Unbelievably turned on, you bucked up into him again, whimpering his name. You thought you might genuinely start bursting into hysterics if he didn’t do something, fast.

“You taste so good, sweetheart,” Clark praised sweetly, mouth dewy. “Look so pretty. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.” 

And then, his mouth was on you. Properly. And you let out the most pornographic, indecent moan that anyone—even yourself—had ever wrangled from you. Your elbows slumped, slipping against the rug, and you splayed back out on the floor, head thrown back.

Clark’s hands stayed on your thighs as his mouth devoured you like he was a starving man. It was feral, and primal, and obscenely dirty. Each stroke of his tongue, each teasing flick of your clit, made you sob, arching into him wantonly. His eyes looked torn on what to settle on—his handiwork between your thighs, the aching, fluttering of your entrance, or your eyes. You were pretty sure he was moaning into your heat, but you could barely hear anything over your own. 

“Oh, God, Clark—please, please…” You didn’t even know what you were begging for, fingers in his hair again. How did you ever think you would marry anyone but him? “Don’t stop, don’t stop, please—baby…” 

Clark groaned in agony at that, sucking harder at your clit. The vibration of it made you swear, and you swore his teeth grazed at your pearl the slightest bit in reproach. No other punishment, though. He was too lost in you.

“So pretty,” he murmured against you, still kissing, sucking, lapping, “taste so good. My favourite girl…”

“Clark, Clark, Clark.” It was a chant, now. You grinded closer to his face, feeling the slight crookedness of his nose bump against your clit as he moved down to lap his tongue even lower. “Baby, you’re—” The words got trapped in you when he, without any warning at all, sunk his index and middle finger into you, curling with some kind of extraordinary second-nature right at your sweet-spot. And, seriously, how were you ever with anyone before him? How foolish were you to not wait, when it was Clark all along? 

You careened upwards, panting, sobbing his name.

“You’re—oh…”

“That’s it, Daisy,” coaxed Clark lovingly, his mouth still on you, his fingers stimulating so effortlessly at a part of you that felt so deep, and so intense, and so good, it now belonged to him. It most likely made biologically no sense whatsoever, but the sensation felt so sublimely him that you would forever associate this kind of pleasure with Clark. He kept praising you and complimenting you and telling you how much he loved you—overwhelming you so much with sweet words and blinding ecstasy that you hadn’t even realised that he was rutting his clothed bulge against the rug underneath the two of you. “I got you, sweetheart. I got you.” 

Clark’s fingers massaged at that swelling pleasure inside of you, nursing it reverently, but his mouth kept tasting you, kissing your clit, sucking it to get a sob out of you, rewarding the needy sounds with ensuing, tender licks. It was too much. It was too good. It was too Clark. He was everywhere. The hand that wasn’t working to fit a third finger into you was now pressing his forearm into your middle, and you could only assume, through all your mindlessness, that he was getting slightly upset with all your thrashing and riled-up jerks.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Clark even sounded otherworldly. All ragged and passionate, your best friend, nestled between your thighs like he belonged there. He met your eyes again, so dark with lust, you almost forget they were ever blue at all. His mouth left your heat for the briefest of moments, slick with your arousal and his own saliva. “You’re almost there, aren’t you, sweetheart? Hm?”

“Clark,” you wept unintelligently. 

“Awh, yeah. You are. It’s okay, Daisy,” he praised, putting his mouth on you again, curling his fingers—that third one easing in with little difficulty at all. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go. I’ve got you. Always got you, angel.” 

And just like that, you’re falling for Clark Kent all over again, and he was catching you. Working you through the orgasm with the gentlest of kisses and the sweetest of nothings. A blinding, unrelenting worship of his fingers and lips, and you swear you hear him groan against you again, panting as if he just finished himself. But, he didn’t let you go. Not once. How could he? 

Your body trembled with the aftershocks of it all, and Clark’s lips lingered, kissing every quivering inch of goosebumped skin he could rich. His fingers left you so carefully as he nuzzled into the hollow of your hip.

“My Daisy,” he said again, guttural.

Wrecked, you clung to him, hands grasping for anything you could get purchase on. You didn’t have the strength for it, but Clark seemed to tell what you wanted—because, after all these years, he could still read you so effortlessly. He crawled up the length of your spent body, palms roaming as he went, pressing against your ribs, sliding up your sides under the sweat-drenched cotton of your sleep-shirt, holding you like you were the most fragile, sacred thing in the world.

It was like, to him, cradling sunlight, as he pressed his head to your chest, and your hand kept him there, threading in his lovely curls. You might not have been able to pull him up to you, but you definitely managed the adoring kiss you swept against his forehead. And, thank God, you did—because that expression he gave you afterwards, that lovesick, impossibly delicate look of his, made everything worth it. The strewn letters on the coffee table, and the ring you returned to Ben last month, and all the heartache. 

Clark, lolling his chin against the swell of your chest, kiss-swollen mouth glistening with you, the blue returning to his eyes, but not a morsel of adoration leaving. He was worth it.

“Please stay,” you asked of him fragilely.

“M’not going anywhere, Daisy,” he promised you. Delicately, Clark rolled the two of you so were on your sides, tangled up in each other. He was muttering something about the both of you needing a shower, but the feeling of his index finger tracing your spine was too distracting to care about responsible things like washing yourselves or getting him out of his ruined work clothes. “I love you,” he said again, assuming correctly that you were too out of it to listen to anything else.

You hummed contently, letting your body melt into his. “I love you, too. Always loved you."

You let your eyes wonder over behind the bar, watching the bartenders make quick work of the drinks - lithe fingers cutting fruits and toned arms shaking cocktails in a flurry. Maybe you should quit your job and become a bartender, then you wouldn't have to worry about doing upper body weights.

He was facing you now. If the bar hadn’t been so packed you would have sworn he was staring directly at you.

The sound of your name being called was like a sharp pin loudly popping your balloon of thoughts. A hand darted out to pull you forward.

“This is Jimmy.”

You tore your gaze from the bar to be met with a freckled face grinning at you. His eyes lit up in recognition at the sound of your name.

"Oh don't you know Clark?"

Your eyes followed his hand gesturing towards the other end of the bar.

Your brow furrowed.

You only knew one Clark. And that Clark was a weedy salt of the earth farm boy. He stuck out like a sore thumb. You’d have spotted him from a mile away in here.

“Huh?”

"Clark Kent. Aren’t you both Kansas country bumpkins?”

You turned back to look down the bar.

“He’s ordering us a round.” You followed Jimmy’s finger and froze as you realised who he was pointing at. There was no way. You’d remember if he had a face like that.

As if he’d somehow heard his name over the thrum of the bass, the man turned in your direction again. A familiar smile spread across his lips. A hand raised in awkward greeting.

As if it had been orchestrated, the lights flickered just as he tilted his head, momentarily illuminating his face in a pale pink hue. His features finally on full display.

You blinked.

The strong cut of his jaw, the chisel of his chin, the astute slope of his nose. Someone could have told you that he’d been modelled after a statue of Zeus and you wouldn’t question it.

"Jesus." You murmured.

"What was that?" Jimmy queried.

"Oh I just uh-" You forced yourself to look away. "I haven't seen Clark in years that's all."

You didn't hear Jimmy's response as you did a double take, then a triple take.

"Why don't you go help him bring the drinks over?" Your friend suggested. Even in the dark, you could see a familiar twinkle in her eye. She knew you too well.

"We'll go grab a table. Let you two catch up."

A tipsy chorus of agreement sounded out at the suggestion. Jimmy didn't seem to need any extra encouragement as he eagerly led your friends towards an empty booth before you even had a chance to argue.

"And if you don't take him home and play naked twister with him, I might have to." You smacked her playfully as she pulled away from your ear. Her loud laughter reverberated through you as she left you to go join the others.

Your dress was suddenly too tight, your heels too high as you started to make your way towards him, his eyes never leaving you as you did.

His features came more into focus. Once you were inches from him it was clear that it was definitely Clark. You remembered those eyes so vividly, the perfect shade of blue. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He'd just doubled in height and width.

Your name left his lips as you reached him. Not a voice crack in sight. The deep reverb of it sent a shiver up your spine.

You were suddenly very grateful that you had some liquid courage flowing through your veins as you spoke.

"Hey stranger."

"Hi yourself."

He shot you that smile that used to lift you out of the foulest of moods.

Careful not to spill your drink, you lent up and wrapped your arms around him. His muscles rippled under your fingertips as he embraced you back. He smelt like a mixture of smoke, bourbon and vanilla.

"So what brings you here-"

"How are you-"

You both laughed as you cut each other off.

"Sorry, you go." Clark apologised, shoving his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose as he gestured for you to continue.

"How are you? I've been reading your articles you know. You're killing it."

Clark smiled shyly. "Thanks, yeah work has been good. Busy. You know Metropolis, always something to write about."

"Yeah never a dull day." You sighed. Your commute to work was interrupted at least once a week with some metahuman wreaking havoc. But you couldn't bring yourself to leave, the chaos was almost addictive.

"What about you?"

"Oh I'm actually working in the marketing department at LutherCorp." An unreadable emotion flashed across Clark's face.

"Marketing huh?"

"It's alright." You shrugged. "Pays the bills."

"I always thought your dream was to be a fashion designer."

You couldn't believe he'd remembered that.

"It was but....I don't know." Another shrug. "Isn't that every girl's dream growing up? No one actually ends up doing it. It's practically impossible."

Clark frowned as you sipped your drink.

"It's not impossible. I remember your designs in school, they were great. You could definitely do it, you just have to believe in yourself."

You looked up at him. If it was anyone else you would have brushed them off, that they were just saying whatever they could to make you feel better.

But this was Clark. The same Clark who had emphatically supported you when you declared that you wanted to be a mermaid at age 7. He believed everyone on this planet could achieve incredible things. He could convince you that you could fly if he really wanted to.

"I have been thinking about going back to school. Metropolis University has a pretty good fashion program." You admitted. You couldn't believe you were telling him this. You hadn't even told your friends yet.

"You totally should. The fashion world would be lucky to have you.”

This time it was your turn to blush. “Thank you.”

"You keep in touch with anyone from school?"

"God no." You scoffed. "I only go back home to see my parents." You twirled your straw through your drink as you studied him.

"What about you?"

"Same." Clark nodded.

"Are your parents still up at the farm?"

His smile widened, "yeah they are. They still ask about you, you know."

Your heart warmed. "They were always so kind."

It only felt like yesterday that you were spending nearly every afternoon after school there, running around chasing the cows with Clark as his mum desperately tried to corral you inside for afternoon tea.

"Remember those scones your mum used to make? God they were good."

"She still makes them for me when I visit."

You groaned dramatically, "I'm jealous."

"I should try and visit them more." Clark sighed, dampening the mood slightly between you two.

"Yeah..." You trailed off, a wave of homesickness washing over you at the thought of your parents.

"They keep trying to get me to come back for the county fair."

Clark chuckled, "Me too."

"Mum rang me last week and told me that I simply had to come this year because they've added an apple bobbing stall."

"Well, how could you turn that down?"

You laughed into your drink at his response.

"True, as born and bred Kansas folk, apple bopping is literally in our DNA."

Clark's laughter dissipated as he studied you, a smile on his lips.

"You know." He began, taking a sip of his drink. He coughed as the liquid slid awkwardly down his throat. You watched him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot you a sheepish grin before placing his glass down.

"We could always go together." He said it so casually you nearly missed the way a blush had begun to emerge on his cheeks.

You grinned. "Two city slickers crashing the Smallville county fair would be fun."

"Yeah and you know...it would make our parents happy. And I'd have good company." His eyes locked with yours. "It'd be fun."

You cocked your head slightly as you studied him. "It would be."

Before either of you could say anything further, the bartender plonked two cocktails in front of you.

You looked down at the little pink umbrellas sticking out of them.

"Are these....pina coladas?"

"They're delicious." Clark protested.

You threw your hands up in defence. "I didn't say they weren't!"

Clark shot you a look as he pushed one over to you. "It was meant to be Jimmy's, but I don't think he needs another one."

"Well I'm certainly not going to turn down a free drink." You picked it up and held it up to his.

"To making it out of Smallville."

"And to running into friendly faces." Clark added.

You smiled. "Cheers to that." You agreed as your glasses clinked together harmoniously.

Your eyes never left his as you pressed the glass to your lips, the eye contact too long to be casual. The reminiscing had made you momentarily forget just how gorgeous he was.

His adams apple bopped as he swallowed. His perfectly shaped lips glistened with the remnants of the liquor in his glass. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he focused on not spilling his drink. You could stare at his face all day, you decided.

"Is there something on my face?"

Shit, you had actually been staring.

"No." You answered quickly.

"Are you sure?"

You frowned, "Yes. Why?"

"It's just- I don't know." He looked at you sheepishly. "You keep giving me this weird look. I thought maybe I had pineapple in my teeth or something."

The laugh slipped out before you could stop it at the sight of his puzzled, innocent face. You pressed your hand to your mouth to stifle your giggles. Your reaction made him look even more like a confused puppy.

"Sorry I'm not laughing at you it's just-" You cut yourself off as you tried to level out your voice. He looked at you expectantly. The assorted mixture of alcohols swirling around in your stomach helped you blurt out your next words.

"When did you get hot?"

Even the dark lighting couldn't conceal the violent crimson that bloomed across his face at your words. He couldn't be nervous at that, could he? Surely someone that looked like him didn't get shy. He'd have girls throwing themselves at him constantly.

"You- you think I'm... hot?"

A vision of young Clark flashed before you. Sweet, nervous, awkward, bumbling. He may look different, but he hadn't changed one bit.

It made you want to rip his clothes off even more.

"Are you kidding me? You look like Superman or something."

You took a sip of your drink, missing the way he flinched.

"S-superman? Why do you say that?"

You peered up at him over your cocktail glass. "Clark." You gestured to his body. "You look like you could lift my car up with your hand."

"Oh." His blush deepened.

"Seriously I cannot believe I didn't see the vision in school."

"Well, I was a pretty ugly kid."

"You were not!" You protested.

"Kids at school certainly thought so." He remarked.

Your mood faltered. Clark had gone through a rough time before puberty hit, especially with the other boys. Unfortunately, most country kids weren't raised to be accepting of people who were different. And in Smallville, being gentle, sensitive and selfless almost to a fault as a guy was practically unforgivable.

"Kids are jerks."

"You weren't." Clark countered. "You always stood up for me."

"You would have done the same." You brushed it off, trying to ignore the way your heart raced under his gaze.

"And you were never ugly you were just..." You trailed off as you studied him. "I don't know you were just Clark, kind and sweet Clark. But now you're..."

Clark's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“Well now you're kind and sweet and also really hot Clark.”

He laughed at your explanation, his nerves visibly dissipating as he studied you intently.

"And no one's going to look their best in school anyway." You gestured to yourself to illustrate your point.

Clark shook his head. "You don't count."

"Why not?"

"Because." He slung the rest of his drink down his throat. "You've never had an ugly phase."

You tried to hide the effect his words had on you. "I don't know about that. Remember my side ponytail phase in sixth grade?"

"I do. And your emo phase in year seven. And your Mighty Crabjoys phase in sophmore year."

"The Mighty Crabjoys were not a phase, thank you. They still rock."

Clark looked at you like you'd hung the moon in that moment.

"You're beautiful. You always have been." His words came out softly. Almost reverently, like he was saying a prayer.

You looked up at him, your lips slightly parted as you tried to rack your brain for a response. It was like you'd forgotten how to speak.

You couldn't believe out of all the bars in Metropolis, you'd ended up at the same one as him. That he was the one person who had made you feel more alive in the last twenty minutes than any guy had ever made you feel in your whole relationship. You were't religious by any means, but it almost felt like divine intervention.

"Oh sorry." The liquor swished dangerously close to the lip of our glass as someone accidentally bumped into you.

The moment between you two shattered, allowing you a brief respite to collect your senses off the floor.

"It's busy huh?" You observed lamely.

"Yeah it is." Clark cleared his throat, "you know, I know a pretty good pizza place down the road. It's usually not too busy, if you wanted to maybe go somewhere quieter to-"

"Yes." You answered, probably a little too eagerly. But you were too entranced to care. "I'd like that. Us hot country bumpkins have to stick together."

A knee-weakening smile split across Clark's face as he laughed. "We do."

He twisted around to look in Jimmy's direction. "I don't think our friends are going to miss us."

You followed his gaze. Jimmy was seated in the middle of the booth, your friends huddled up to him like nesting birds desperate for warmth. They were giggling and hanging on to his every word, like he was a messiah spouting gospel.

"What the..."

"It's best you don't ask." Clark sighed, "I gave up a long time ago."

You shook your head in disbelief, letting your eyes linger on the sight for a few moments before turning to look at him.

"Shall we?"

You glanced down to see his large palm extended out for you. An invitation that you were more than happy to take.

You nodded, letting your hand slide into his. It was warm, and ever so slightly clammy. It entwined perfectly with yours. In that moment, you knew.

Clark squeezed your hand and smiled down at you, like he knew it too.

This was what being properly touched felt like.