writing fantasies

As much as he missed his wife and daughters during his chaotic workweek, he would be lying if he said he didn’t like having the house to himself after a debilitating 24-hour shift. 

Daichi could unwind and eat his breakfast without his puppy-eyed babies staring at him, pleading with him to share his meal even after they had already had their uninterrupted breakfast beforehand. It didn’t matter in what mental state he found himself in, he could never say no to his princesses.

After stowing away his coat and shoes, he walked past the living room to the kitchen —hand rubbing the exhaustion out of one of his eyes— only to do a double take when he noticed a nearly unmoving figure sitting at the dining table. 

Daichi stepped backwards to the doorway of the living room with a curious frown. 

“Oh.” He said surprised. “Hey, kid.”

It had already been nearly a week since you, the newest and temporary addition to his family, had moved into the guest room, but Daichi still had to get used to your presence. 

When you weren’t busy taking his daughters to and from school or their extracurricular activities, you were usually out of the house, doing god knows what. With Daichi’s unusual work and sleeping schedule, he had barely caught a glimpse of you since you had been living with his family. 

“Mr. Sawamura, um, hi—” You looked up from your laptop sitting in front of you, only noticing his presence then. Swiftly, you closed your device like you were looking at something you weren’t supposed to. “Just give me a moment and I’ll get out of your hair.”

A notebook, a few pens and other knickknacks were scattered across your side of the table. You quickly gathered the smaller objects and messily stuffed them into your pencil case before stacking everything on top of each other.

Daichi smiled amused and shook his head. “You don’t have to leave. Technically this is your house now, too.”

A sentiment Mr. and Mrs. Sawamura didn’t seem to share. His wife, Yumi never explicitly told you you couldn’t be in the same room as her, but in the first few days you often caught her, what you could only interpret as ‘what are you still doing here?’ glances when you weren’t attending to her children. You always excused yourself to your room, kept busy with the girls or found something outside of the house to do.

Daichi’s tone seemed sincere, but you still weren’t entirely convinced he actually meant it.

“I just don’t want to be in your way.”

“You’re fine.” He assured you. “I’m going up soon anyway.”

You gave him an unsure nod and Daichi went on about his day, moving on to the kitchen. 

It was hard to ignore his presence. Even with him in the next room, you felt like your every move was being monitored. You straightened your back and disassembled the tower on top of your laptop. This time you made sure not to take up so much room, taking out just one pen to take notes.

You resumed scrolling through the translated list of various activities around the city, bookmarking the most intriguing ones.

From the next room the soft clanks of pots and pans reached you, followed by the beeping of the microwave as Daichi prepared last evening’s left overs. After the end signal, it only took him another moment for him to appear in your peripheral vision as he approached the dining table.

“Do you mind?” He asked, reaching for the chair diagonally across from you.

You forced a smile. “Yeah— I mean no. Go ahead.”

Daichi pulled his phone from his back pocket and sat down. He got comfortable in his seat and whispered his gratitude before starting on his breakfast. 

There was a moment of an uncomfortable silence —probably just uncomfortable to you— filled with closed-mouthed chewing, the inaudible swiping on his screen, the clicking of your mouse and the seconds ticking away on the clock sitting against the wall. 

It was even more impossible to ignore him when he was sitting at the same table as you. Like a moth to a flame, his presence attracted your gaze to him and for the first time since you arrived you got a good look at him. 

Daichi was as handsome as Yumi was beautiful. As far as you knew, the couple was both in their late 30s or early 40s, but noticing his salt-and-pepper hair and the lines in his face, you wondered if there was somewhat of an age gap after all. 

You wanted to tear your eyes away before it became clear you were staring, but you couldn’t help but let them wander to his exposed arms. How didn’t you notice how buff he was before? Comparing him to the pictures hanging around the house from his volleyball days in high school and college, he had grown softer over the years, but his years as a firefighter definitely showed in shirt-hugged biceps. 

Mrs. Sawamura had great taste in men.

“Since when do we have tea?” 

Your gaze flickered up to his and luckily he hadn’t caught you ogling his arms. His attention was fixed on the transparent cup next to your laptop. Embarrassment still warmed your cheeks, your heart picking up at how close you were to making your host think you were a pervert.

It took a moment for you to gather your words. “Oh, it’s from back home. Raspberry leaf tea.”

“Ah, I was about to say.” Daichi smiled short of a laugh. “We’re more of a coffee household.” 

“I’m also more of a coffee person. This just helps relieve. . .” You stopped yourself from giving away way too much information, mentally face palming yourself for your nerves getting the best of you. “. . . certain symptoms.”

Horrible safe. 

“Is that why you’re staying in today?” Daichi asked.

“Hm?” You expected him to take a moment to think about how to change subjects, but to your surprise he never halted in his movements or response, like it was the most normal thing to discuss with a practical stranger.

“You’re usually already out and about by now.” He chuckled, almost embarrassed, assuming he phrased his question oddly. “I’m just being nosy, you don’t have to answer my question.” 

“Oh, no, you’re fine. I’m just—” not used to others taking an interest in what I do. “I’m not feeling great so I decided to stay in.” 

“If you’re not up to getting the girls later, I’ll go so you can rest up.” Daichi offered without hesitation, like exchanging his well-needed rest with yours was nothing, like they weren’t paying you to take this responsibility off their shoulders. 

You shook your head with a grateful smile. “I should be fine, but thank you sir.” 

“Alright.” He gathered his empty plate and utensils before he got up from the dining table and headed to the kitchen. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” 

As Daichi left you to be on your own once more, a spark of hope ignited in your chest that this new adventure wouldn’t feel so lonely after all.

you don’t interrupt. you never do. you just move toward him slowly, taking him in the way you always do—quietly, like something you’re still a little in awe of.

zuko has changed throughout the years. that is undeniable. he is taller now, broader, his body shaped by years of training and responsibility, his posture no longer defensive but grounded. his shoulders fill the space they occupy with an ease that used to be absent, like he no longer feels the need to make himself smaller or sharper just to survive. but the softness… it never leaves him. 

it lingers in the way his brows knit together when he reads, in the slight downturn of his mouth when something troubles him, in the way his eyes—still so expressive, still so painfully honest—move across the page like he is trying to understand more than just words. 

he used to frown like the world was something he had to fight. now he frowns like the world is something he has to care for.

his hair has begun to slip loose with the passing hours. strands fall over his shoulders, catching the firelight, dark and soft against the rigid lines of his armor. you watch as he runs a hand through it, a tired, unconscious motion, pushing it back only for it to fall again. it feels intimate, somehow—this quiet unraveling at the end of the day. like he sheds pieces of the fire lord here, in the solitude of these walls, until what’s left is just him.

you close the distance between you carefully, stepping into his warmth before you touch him. it’s always there—the heat of him, not burning, never overwhelming, but constant. like standing close to a hearth in winter, like something alive and steady and safe. 

your hands lift slowly, giving him time to notice if he hasn’t already, but he doesn’t turn. he always knows it’s you. he always does. your fingers curl over the back of his neck first, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch, before sliding forward over the metal of his armor, settling against his chest. even through the layers, you can feel him—solid, steady, real.

“can the fire lord have some time off for his fiancée?” you whisper, your voice soft enough to belong to the quiet of the room.

he doesn’t startle. he never startles with you. but there is a pause—a small, human hesitation where the fire lord slips and something softer surfaces. he blinks, turning his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder, and there it is—that faint flush creeping across his cheeks, that little flicker of something unguarded that he hasn’t quite learned to hide from you. 

“what are you doing here?” he asks, but his voice lacks any real reprimand. it’s quieter than it would be in court, lower, touched with something almost shy.

you shrug lightly, your gaze drifting—inevitably, instinctively—to his scar. it catches the firelight differently, textured and real, a mark that once carried so much pain and now sits on him like something reclaimed. you don’t stare at it the way others do. you trace it with your eyes the way someone might trace a constellation—softly, with understanding. 

“i missed you,” you say, and the words are simple, but they settle between you like something heavier, something honest.

for a moment, neither of you move. the world outside these walls—his duties, the court, the expectations—falls away, leaving just the two of you suspended in this quiet, shared space. and then he looks at you properly, turning just a little more, his head tilting in that familiar way. there’s something new in it now—not arrogance—but a quiet awareness. a growing understanding of himself, of you, of the space between you.

“you’re staring,” he says, and his voice dips just slightly, teasing in a way that feels tentative, like he’s still learning how to do it.

the pause that follows is deliberate. he lets it stretch just enough for warmth to bloom in your chest, for your breath to hitch, for that small, traitorous flutter to betray you. and then—just barely—his mouth curves. it’s not a full smile, not the wide, unguarded one he gives in rare moments, but something softer, more controlled. 

something that says, i know.

because he does. that’s the difference now. zuko has grown into himself in a way that lets him see the way you look at him, the way you respond to him. he doesn’t wield it like a weapon. he holds it carefully, almost uncertainly, but he lets it exist.

“don’t tease me,” you murmur, the words brushing against his skin as you lean in and press a kiss to his unscarred cheek.

he exhales a quiet, almost breathless chuckle, and it melts into you more than it escapes him. when you settle closer, your body aligning with his, you feel the strength of him more clearly. it’s not just the shape of him—the breadth of his chest, the firmness of his arms—but the way that strength exists. it is not harsh or rigid. it is controlled, deliberate, built over years of discipline and survival. every part of him feels earned, like something carved rather than given.

and yet, even like this—armored, composed, carrying the title of fire lord—he shifts slightly under your touch, one hand coming up to push his hair back again, a faint, almost embarrassed habit that softens him instantly. his voice, when he speaks again, loses that edge of formality entirely. it’s just him now.

dorky, gentle, still a little unsure of where to put his hands sometimes—but warm. always warm.

“i missed you too,” he says after a moment, and the words are quiet but steady, like something rooted deep in him.

he reaches for the scrolls then, not to return to them, but to gather them, stacking them neatly as if creating space—making room, not just on the table, but here, in this moment, for you. and your heart does something soft and helpless in your chest at the gesture, at the way he chooses, even if only for a little while.

you hide your smile against his cheek, pressing closer, breathing him in—smoke and heat and something distinctly him; for a moment, the world feels smaller, quieter, kinder.

(even fire, in the right hands, can learn to hold instead of burn.)

you shift without asking, without hesitation—like it’s the most natural thing in the world to close that last bit of distance between you. your hands slide over his shoulders as you move, gathering his attention fully now, and then you’re settling into his lap, the movement slow and deliberate, your weight sinking into him in a way that makes his breath catch just slightly. 

the scrolls are forgotten entirely now, pushed aside by your presence alone, and for a moment he just looks at you, like he’s trying to decide whether to scold you or something else entirely.

“aren’t you finally going to fuck me on the big, bad council table?” your voice dips, teasing, soft with mischief, the words brushing against him more than they land.

he exhales sharply, something between a sigh and a quiet huff, his head tilting back just a fraction as if gathering patience that’s already slipping through his fingers. “behave,” he mumbles, but it lacks any real bite. it never does with you. there’s a warmth creeping up his neck now, coloring his cheeks, and it betrays him instantly—the way he reacts to you, the way you unravel him without even trying.

you laugh softly, the sound light and pleased, and shift just a little more comfortably in his lap, your legs resting on either side of him. your robes spill around you both, fabric pooling and fluttering with every small movement like petals caught in a warm breeze, soft against the edges of something far more solid—him. you can feel the tension in him now, not rigid, not pulling away, but contained. like a flame held carefully in place.

his hands hover for a moment, unsure where to land—still that same boy in some ways, still learning you, even now—but eventually they settle at your waist, firm and grounding. his grip is steady, anchoring you there, as if he’s reminding both of you that he hasn’t lost control. that he won’t.

but his eyes give him away.

amber, always warm, always bright—but now they feel deeper, heavier somehow. like molten gold rather than flickering firelight. there’s something in them that lingers on you, that studies you with a quiet intensity, and it makes your chest tighten in that familiar, helpless way.

you lean in before he can say anything else, before he can gather himself too neatly again, and press your lips to his.

the kiss is slow at first. intentional. you don’t rush it—you never rush him. your lips move against his with a softness that invites rather than demands, and for a second he stills, caught off guard by the gentleness of it. but then he responds.

he always does.

his hand at your waist tightens just slightly, fingers pressing into the fabric of your robes, grounding himself in you as he leans into the kiss. there’s warmth in it, a steady heat that builds rather than burns, and it spreads through you easily, like something you’ve come to recognize as his. familiar. safe.

and still—there’s that contrast.

because this is the same man who sits in council, who makes decisions that shape nations, who carries a title that once crushed him—and yet here, with you, he softens. his lips move against yours with a kind of carefulness, like he’s still learning how to hold something precious without breaking it. like he’s still a little in awe that he’s allowed to have this at all.

you feel it in the way he exhales quietly against you, in the way his shoulders loosen beneath your hands, in the way he lets himself lean forward just a fraction more than before.

the kiss deepens like a slow ember catching on dry tinder, your tongues meeting in a warm, careful slide that tastes of smoke and salt and the quiet hours you have both been waiting through.

his mouth is hesitant at first, the way zuko always is when the world narrows to just the two of you, but then he gives in with that familiar intensity he can never quite hide, the same fire that once burned too hot and now knows how to hold steady.

you feel the soft wet sound of your mouths parting and coming back together, a hushed rhythm that fills the quiet council chamber like a secret only the braziers are allowed to witness. your robes shift against his armor with a whisper of silk on metal, and tiny moans slip from you both, unplanned, unguarded, the kind of sound that makes the air feel thicker.

you shift your hips with deliberate slowness, dragging yourself back and forth across his lap until the heat between your bodies becomes something alive and insistent. beneath the layers of fabric you feel him, hard and warm and unmistakably wanting, the rigid line of his cock pressing up through his robes like a secret he cannot keep from you anymore.

zuko moans, low and startled, the sound vibrating against your lips as he pulls back just enough to breathe. his amber eyes are half-lidded now, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, and that faint flush you love so much has crept all the way down the column of his throat.

“what—hah—what’re you doing?” he asks, voice rough and cracked at the edges, the fire lord’s composure fraying like an old banner in the wind.

even as the words leave him his hands betray him, sliding to your hips and guiding you with gentle pressure, urging you to keep moving, to keep sliding against that hard bulge that twitches every time your clit catches just right.

you moan softly, the pleasure sharp and sweet like a spark against dry leaves, and you shake your head with a small smile that feels almost wicked in the amber glow. 

“nothing,” you whisper, the lie soft and breathless, and he knows it is a lie but he does not call you on it.

instead his fingers tighten on your waist, not to stop you but to anchor himself, the way he once anchored himself to honor and duty when the world demanded too much.

you both lean in again and the kiss returns, deeper this time, tongues stroking with a new urgency while your hips keep that slow, rolling grind that makes every nerve in your body sing.

his breath hitches against your mouth each time you drag forward, the hard heat of him rubbing perfectly against your clit through too many layers of cloth. you feel the way his thighs tense beneath you, strong from years of firebending forms and battlefield stances, now trembling just slightly under the weight of your pleasure.

zuko’s heart beats steady and fierce inside his chest; you can feel it where your palms rest against his armored breastplate.

he is the same man who once chased the avatar across the world with rage and shame and a need to prove himself worthy, yet here he lets you unravel him without protest, only that soft, embarrassed hitch in his breathing that makes your own chest ache with tenderness.

you grind a little harder and his head tips back, exposing the long line of his throat. a quiet groan escapes him, raw and honest, the kind he would never allow in court but offers you freely in the privacy of these shadowed halls.

his hands slide up your back, palms warm even through the silk, mapping the curve of your spine like he is memorizing a new firebending stance, careful and holy.

the friction between you builds like a controlled flame, steady and rising, never rushing. your clit throbs with every slow drag forward, pleasure blooming low in your belly and spreading outward until your fingers curl tighter into the metal at his shoulders.

he feels it too; you know he does because his hips lift just slightly to meet you, an instinctive roll that presses him harder against your core and draws a sharper moan from your throat.

his eyes flutter open for a moment, amber and molten, locking onto yours with that intense honesty he has carried since the day he chose his own path.

you see the fire lord in him then, the man who carries his nation on his shoulders, yet you also see the zuko who still blushes when you tease, who still hesitates before letting desire win.

that contrast makes your heart swell and your body burn hotter, a rush of love and lust so tangled you cannot tell them apart.

another slow grind, another shared moan, the soft wet sounds of fabric and mouths and breath filling the chamber like a private melody. his grip on your hips grows firmer, guiding you now with more confidence, the way he once learned to guide flame without letting it consume him.

“you feel… so good,” he admits in a whisper against your lips, voice husky and almost shy, the admission costing him something precious and beautiful.

you smile into the kiss, nipping gently at his lower lip, and the small sound he makes in response is half protest and half surrender.

the scrolls lie forgotten on the table behind you, ink and parchment no match for the living heat of his body beneath yours.

outside these walls the world waits with its treaties and expectations, but inside this circle of your robes and his armor there is only the slow, deliberate drag of your hips, the deepening kiss, and the way his warmth seeps into every part of you like sunlight after a long winter.

you keep moving, steady and unhurried, letting the pleasure climb in soft waves that make your thighs tremble and your breath catch. zuko’s forehead rests against yours now, eyes closed, lashes brushing your skin, and he lets out another quiet moan that vibrates through both of you like the first tremor of an earthquake only you two can feel.

in this moment he is not the fire lord. he is simply yours, warm and wanting and wonderfully undone, and the knowledge settles deep in your chest like a promise carved in flame.

But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.

He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.

But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.

The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.

You said you liked to cook for him.

He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.

You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.

Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.

He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.

Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently. 

It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.

Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink. 

All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.

And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete. 

If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.

He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.

If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.

Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before. 

He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.

He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.

Absolutely not.

You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave. 

He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.

That would work. That would work just fine.

You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.

He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.

Perfect. Simple.

Something warm for you to come home to.

And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.

It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.

He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.

He liked to think she’d say he picked right.

That he’d found someone good.

Someone she’d love too.

He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.

Plenty of time.

He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.

You always did the same for him.

Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.

“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”

Right on time.

“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared. 

He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.

Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.

He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.

“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough. 

You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control. 

You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.

“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.

He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.

“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”

You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.

“…Did you cook?”

He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.

“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”

It’s the least he could do. 

You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.

“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”

You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.

He needed to cook more often. 

He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.

You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him. 

It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.

Gosh, he missed you today. 

He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.

Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.

You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.

“You’re in a good mood.”

How couldn’t he be?

He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.

“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”

You gazed at him, smiling at his words.

“So you made dinner for me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.

He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.

“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”

“You’re trying to spoil me.” 

He snorted softly under his breath.

“Pretty sure that’s my job.”

His favourite job.

You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.

“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”

You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.

Good.

“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”

Clark’s hand paused for just a second.

“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”

You nodded.

“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”

Daniel.

The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.

“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.

You tilted your head, thinking.

“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”

Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.

“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”

The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.

Last few days.

Did you mention that before? 

“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.

“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”

He glanced back at you.

“…Similar how?”

You smiled, completely genuine.

“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”

Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.

“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.

You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.

“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”

The other night.

The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.

He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.

“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.

You nodded, still oblivious.

“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”

Easy to talk to.

Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.

Of course he was.

Normal hours. Normal life.

No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.

“Sounds like you two are getting along.” 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”

He glanced back at you again.

“What happened?”

You frowned slightly.

“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”

His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it. 

“Poor guy,” he murmured.

“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”

Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing. 

You made people feel better just by being there.

Made him feel better just by being there.

He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.

“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”

Without him. 

The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.

You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.

“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”

He nodded slowly.

Same routine. Same life.

Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.

You kept talking.

“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. 

Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late. 

He was grateful, but there was something else there too. 

His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…

“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.

Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused.  He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.

He knew it was stupid.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.

He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.

He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.

His thoughts drifted for a moment.

Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.

There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.

He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah. That.

That he knew how to do. 

He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.

Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.

He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.

Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.

Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.

It’s not much, but it would work for now. 

“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,

“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation. 

“Clark, we don’t have to—”

He was already moving before you finished the sentence.

He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen.  He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet. 

His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.

You looked tired.

He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.

That he could fix. 

His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.

You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.

There you were.

He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.

You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.

He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.

Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.

Gotcha.

His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”

His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.

“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”

Please.

He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting. 

Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.

“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.

Finally. 

His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.

Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer. 

The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.

The way he liked you best. 

He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion. 

The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.

Gosh, how did he get so lucky? 

He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.

You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.

“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.

You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more. 

Oh, sweetheart.

Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?

His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.

You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy. 

Not that he thought he deserved it. 

He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities. 

Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.

He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.

He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.

“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated. 

It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already. 

He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him. 

It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.

His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently. 

“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”

Let him make you feel good. 

Let him make it up to you. 

You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed. 

He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. 

“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you. 

He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild. 

A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried. 

He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.

As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He truly wasn’t.

He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder. 

He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars. 

He owed you that. 

Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.

He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out. 

“Ah, Clark—“

He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful. 

He swore his name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, angel, almost there.”

Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Let go for him. 

When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him. 

Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.

When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath. 

He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too. 

Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again. 

“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.” 

He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him. 

Always so eager. 

“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate. 

He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze. 

He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you. 

“You’re so handsome, Clark.” 

The words stop him in his tracks. 

Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face. 

The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance. 

Focus. 

He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night. 

If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.

Gladly.

Every single night.

“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”

You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye. 

“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”

You’ll be the death of him. 

“Sweetheart…” he groans softly.  “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more. 

He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw. 

The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.

“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”

“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”

You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time. 

He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.

No—tonight was about you.

Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds. 

So wet, so ready for him. 

He pauses there, eyes locked on yours. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”

Just say, and he’ll stop. 

“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”

Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.

He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance. 

“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders. 

“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”

He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then. 

“So good for me, angel, so good—“

His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him. 

It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier. 

Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t. 

Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this. 

Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely. 

How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two? 

Far too long. 

His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back. 

“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”

He had to be. 

He had to make this good for you. 

He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

He really hopes so. 

Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part. 

But this? This was the part that really mattered. 

It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good. 

“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“

You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own. 

Yes, just like that. 

He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus. 

He couldn’t be done with you yet. 

He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch. 

It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love. 

“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”

He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat. 

His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.

“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.

There is no hesitation in your reply. 

“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”

A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on. 

He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none. 

“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”

He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words. 

The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.

His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force. 

He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”

“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.

He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll. 

“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth. 

Say his name again. 

Tell him it’s only him.

“Clark… oh god, Clark—”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him. 

Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you. 

His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.

You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.

He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier. 

Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”

You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.

“Clark, you know you did.”

His smile didn’t quite settle.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”

You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.

“I promise.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.

“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.

You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He paused immediately, turning back to you. 

His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.

“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.

You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw. 

“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

Darn it. He should have hidden it better. 

“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”

He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.

“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”

Different.

He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?” 

He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted. 

Do it better this time.

If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.

“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”

He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.

He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.

Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.

Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.

“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.

“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”

“You’re leaving?”

Your voice is quiet.

Oh, sweetheart, no.

It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.

“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”

He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it. 

You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.

“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”

The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.

“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”

He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right. 

“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”

You blink at him.

“Oh.”

He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.

“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything. 

You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient. 

You always make him talk more than he planned to. 

He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.

“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

“It’s alright, we can—”

“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”

You don’t say anything.

For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around. 

You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

There’s no getting out of this. 

“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.

Your face softens even more.

“Clark—”

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”

He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.

“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.

You blink.

“What?”

He stills, not meeting your eyes.

“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”

You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.

“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”

He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder. 

He never should have started. 

This is exactly what he didn’t want. 

“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”

Deserve more than him. 

He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission. 

“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.

He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.

“You think I don’t know who I’m with?” 

He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head. 

“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”

“Yeah, but that’s not—“

“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window. 

He shakes his head faintly. 

Surely that’s not true. 

“I’m not always here to do that.”

“Yes, you are.”

He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.

“Yeah, right.”

You tug his face again until he looks back at you.

“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”

He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at. 

“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”

“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.

He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.

You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.

“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.

You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.

“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”

Always know how to keep him steady. 

You grin.

“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.” 

He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.

“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”

You shake your head immediately.

“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”

That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hey, that only happened twice.” 

“Three,” you correct.

“…Okay, three.”

He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—

Your stomach growls.

He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“Oh my god.”

Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.

“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.

You laugh into his chest.

“I’m fine.”

“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”

Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.

You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.

“Hey!”

“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”

“I’m not a patient!”

“You are when you don’t eat.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.

Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.

“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

He stops instantly.

“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“All night, huh?”

He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.

You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.

“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”

“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling. 

He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.

You point at him.

“Out.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot. 

You really love him.

I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.

He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.

Still good.

He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.

From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.

He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.

Tonight was good. Better than good.

And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.

Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard. 

He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.

He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl. 

He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.

Yeah.

He thinks he can do that.

a/n: first clark fic wooo!

but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty

when it happens again a few days later, you shrug it off again. you don’t want to be the kind of person who reads too much into things. you’ve worked really hard not to be that person anymore.

still, you find yourself opening your phone to his contact more often than usual. typing. deleting. then typing again.

hey —that’s too empty.

just checking in —sounds forced?

are you okay? —that’s too heavy. too direct. you don’t think you have the right to ask so bluntly.

though… you remember wishing someone had asked you that when you were in a not-so-good place.

you close your messages without sending anything. your chest tightens with anxiety—just a little—but you breathe through it like you’ve learned.

but then days pass. then a week. then another.

worry doesn’t hit all at once. it seeps in slowly, settling into your every thought. you catch yourself thinking about suguru at inconvenient times—standing in a line, brushing your teeth in the morning half conscious, lying awake at night unable to sleep.

every time your phone buzzes, your hope spikes in an embarrassing way.

it’s never him.

you tell yourself you’re projecting. you’ve been in that place where the world feels like too much—where even something as simple as responding to a text feels too daunting of a task.

you know what it’s like to vanish without meaning to and you guess knowing that should make this easier.

it doesn’t.

after a few more days of no contact, you finally try calling him… even though you despise phone calls. that says a lot.

the line rings and rings and rings…

you hang up before it goes to voicemail, heart pounding like you’ve done something wrong. your hands feel unsteady after, like they used to when you were younger and everything felt like too much. you hate that reaction. hate that it still lives in you somewhere.

you try to ignore it. but now? nowyou’re really worried about him. again, you try to find reason. he’ll probably reach out when he’s ready like he always does. again, you shouldn’t project.

but concern doesn’t disappear when you ask it to.

by the time you’re standing in front of his door your stomach hurts.

the walk to his apartment felt longer than it should have. every step felt like another chance to turn around.

you had excuses lined up and ready: he’ll be asleep. you’re overreacting. this is intrusive. it’ll be really awkward. you have nothing to say!

when you reach his door you’re still not sure what to say, even after you’ve gone over a billion different ways a conversation could go.

maybe he’s ghosting you because he doesn’t want to be friend anymore.

your fist hovers inches from the door and you exhale sharply.

you hesitate, because of course you do. your heart is beating too fast, your palms are sweaty, and your brain is cycling through worst case scenarios you don’t want to name.

but finally, you muster the courage to knock. you were here already. you couldn’t be that girl who wimped out of everything again.

the silence that follows is loud. and through it, the thought of leaving flashes through your mind so clearly it scares you.

you tried…that’s enough. time to go home.

however, something heavier roots you in place. you shouldn’t leave. couldn’t, actually. you needed to know your friend was okay.

so you knock again, a little firmer this time.

there’s movement inside. a pause. and then footsteps towards the door. you take a deep breath, preparing yourself.

the door opens just a crack.

geto’s face appears in the gap.

relief hits you first, sharp and dizzying. he’s here. he’s alive. your shoulders loosen before you can stop them.

then the rest registers.

geto’s eyes look tired in a way that isn’t just about the loss of sleep, dark bags making home under his eyes. his hair is messier than you’ve ever seen it. he’s always taken care of the luscious locks… but apparently not right now.

though, it’s the look on its face that really gets to you. it’s blank. not in his usual quiet or guarded way.

nothing in his expression even shifts when he sees you.

like a corpse.

“…oh,” geto says plainly, “hey.”

he utters the two words like they’re nothing. like this is just an ordinary day—like you haven’t been worried sick after being ignored by him for weeks.

at that exact moment, regret slams into you—sharp and shameful.

you should’ve checked on him sooner. you really shouldn’t have waited until time stretched on for too long.

“hi,” is all you finally manage to whisper back, even though you want to say so much more.

your throat tightens. you weren’t ready for how much it would hurt to see him like this.

there’s an awkward pause where neither of you move. you’re suddenly acutely aware of how long it’s been and how strange this must be for him. you don’t want to overwhelm him.

but you also don’t want to pretend everything’s fine.

“you… um… you haven’t been answering?” you try.

it comes out like a question instead of the statement you meant.

he looks away, jaw tightening. “yeah. sorry.”

that’s all he offers. no explanation.

it hurts.

you’ve been close with him for a few years. you thought maybe you’d earned enough trust for him to tell you when things were wrong.

but you know, even like this, that he must be hurting more than you are.

the door opens a little wider. not an invitation, exactly, but not dismissal either.

okay. well maybe your presence here was fine.

suguru’s apartment is dim, thin curtains drawn tight. the air feels stale. there are signs of life everywhere, but no signs of living.

there’s a high pile of dishes left in the sink and a crumpled blanket on the couch like it’s been slept in for weeks.

your chest aches.

you stand there, unsure where to put your hands, your eyes, your words.

this is the part you’re terrible at. you know you should reach out to him right now. you should say the right thing. maybe offer comfort without sounding rehearsed.

you don’t know how to do any of that.

but you do know why you came.

“um… i just wanted to check in on you… it’s been a few weeks,” you murmur softly. “i thought you left the country or something!”

shit.

you don’t even know where that last part came from—that thought had never crossed your mind until this minute.

maybe you should’ve kept your mouth shut.

he doesn’t laugh or twitch like usual when you try to fill the awkward gaps with useless jokes. instead, suguru only nods like he’s tired.

“sorry. i’ve been…” there’s a pause like he doesn’t know what he’s been doing. “busy.”

you don’t believe him. you know he knows you don’t too.

“oh” is all you respond with.

you’re really fucking bad at this.

he opens the door wider after a moment, stepping aside like he’s giving in rather than inviting you in. you take that as permission, slipping past him with careful steps, like the wrong movement might snap the fragility.

the door shuts behind you.

the click of the lock makes your stomach twist.

you stand there, hands useless at your sides, not sure where you belong. you don't say anything, trying to steady your racing thoughts. neither does he.

the silence stretches.

it isn’t comfortable. it isn’t neutral. it’s just there, pressing in on you from all sides. suffocating. it floods the space where something should be said but isn’t.

geto moves first.

it’s subtle and something he doesn’t even realize he does. his shoulders sag and he drags a hand down his face like it takes effort to keep himself upright. he exhales emptily, then turns away from you without another word.

he crosses the room slowly, movements dulled, each step is heavier than the last. when he reaches his couch, he doesn’t even bother sitting properly.

he just…collapses into it, slumping forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. it’s scarily as if he’s been holding himself together purely out of obligation. your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

you clearly recognize how he feels. you can recall the time you felt it.

that alone terrifies you even more.

you stay where you are for a second too long, watching him. the way his once shiny hair falls into his face, now dull and uncared for. he goes still once he’s there—like moving any more might be too much.

this wasn’t how you imagined him at all.

well, you don’t even know what you imagined. but whatever it was, it wasn’t this. not him looking so spent… so tired.

you take a few tentative steps closer, stopping a careful distance away. close enough to be present but still far enough in fear that you’ll overwhelm him.

another pause settles in.

you feel your heart pounding in your ears.

your brain starts shouting at you—don’t ask. don’t make it worse. don’t open a wound you can’t fix.

this is the part where you usually retreat. where you convince yourself silence is safer.

but you just can’t.

your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeves.

“…suguru?” you say softly.

just his name. testing it. seeing if he’ll come back to shore or if you have to go back out into the deep to get him back.

he doesn’t respond. but his shoulders tense, just a fraction.

you swallow, throat feeling tight. this feels like stepping off a ledge.

after a long minute, you finally whisper it.

“are you okay?”

the words hang in the air.

for a moment, nothing happens. you almost think he didn’t hear you because of how quiet you spoke.

but then his shoulders are trembling.

just once at first—sharp, like he’s been jolted awake after a nightmare and his body reacted before he could stop it.

geto lets out a sound that’s quiet and broken. he brings his hands to his face like he’s embarrassed to be seen like this. like he can still fix it if he hides fast enough.

“…that’s a stupid question,” he mutters, lacking any conviction.

his voice is wrong.

your chest throbs again painfully. “i’m sorry. you don’t have to answer,” you say quickly. “i just—”

he inhales, shaky. then exhales, worse.

“i don’t know,” he says. the words crack halfway through. “i really don’t know.”

and that’s when something shatters.

his head drops into his hands. his elbows press harder into his knees like he’s folding in on himself. another breath stutters out of him, then another, each one rougher than the last.

it hits you in the chest like a brick.

he’s crying.

quiet. you’re only able to tell in the way his shoulders shake and he sniffles just one.

it’s the same exact way you’ve cried before.

he’s been holding it back for so long his body has forgotten how to let it out properly.

fear flares hot in your chest and you freeze in your spot. your first instinct is to do something. anything. but your body won’t cooperate.

you’ve been here before. you know how overwhelming the simple question felt when you were already falling apart. but maybe that’s why you asked it.

you’re rooted to the spot for a whole minute. it seems to stretch for an eternity.

suguru’s breathing hitches again. it’s small and barely there. a soft, broken sound that slips out of him like he didn’t mean for it to. and something in you breaks with it.

your eyes are burning before you can stop the reaction.

old memories rush in uninvited—the nights you spent staring at the ceiling, the times you wished someone would just stay and hug you without asking you to explain yourself.

you press your lips together, hard, but it doesn’t help much.

before you can overthink it—before fear can catch up and drag you back like a tide—you move.

it’s sudden and clumsy. unplanned and uncalled for. one second you’re frozen, the next you’re crossing the room in a few quick steps, heart pounding like you’ve made a terrible mistake you can’t undo.

there’s a brief pause and a moment where you hover, unsure, caught between wanting to help and being terrified of doing the wrong thing.

and then you’re sitting down beside him.

not touching him, just close enough that your knee almost brushes his and that he knows you’re there.

his shoulders tense and he turns his face away from you.

“sorry,” he mutters, voice thick. “you shouldn’t have to see this.”

your breath wobbles. before you can swallow the words back down, they slip out.

“hey,” you say, softly. shakier than you meant it to be. “please don’t say that. don’t apologize for anything. it’s okay.”

he stills.

your hands tremble slightly in your lap, but you keep them there, resisting the urge to grab onto him, to hug him and give him the comfort he deserves.

“it’s really okay,” you repeat. “you don’t have to stop. or… hide.”

your voice cracks on the last word.

you hate that it does, but you don’t take it back.

he lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts. it catches in his chest, stuttering on the way out.

and then suguru is crying harder.

not loudly still, just deeper.

something’s given way and he doesn’t know how to put it back together. his shoulders shake, uneven and exhausted, but he still won’t look at you. his blurry gaze stays fixed somewhere on the floor, jaw clenched like he’s bracing himself for impact.

your eyes sting at the sight and tears blur the edges of your vision. you blink a few times, trying to ground yourself. you don’t want to make this about you and you don’t want him to feel like he’s made you cry too on top of everything.

you swallow.

“you don’t have to be so strong anymore.” the words feel dangerous, but you say them anyway. “i know you’re tired.”

his breathing falters again.

he presses his lips together, like he’s trying to swallow the sound back down, as if crying is something he can still control if he tries hard enough. you know it’s not.

his shoulders curl inward further, his arms wrapping around himself, spine bending under a weight you can’t see but you can feel.

you shift on the couch a little. close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him. you stop there, giving him time. giving yourself time.

again, your hands twist in your lap.

you want to reach out so badly it almost hurts. the ache is as strong as a current.

so you give into it. for him.

“i know i’m not great at this,” you admit, eyes fixed on the floor just like his. “but i just…i really care about you. you shouldn’t suffer alone. you can share the burden…” you take a breathe, and then add, “if- if you want…”

the word sits heavy between you.

his crying doesn’t stop. but it softens, just a fraction, like the sharpest edges have dulled. he tilts his head slightly away, breath shuddering, and for a terrifying second you think he might pull back entirely.

but he doesn’t.

the question fall from your lips before you can stop it.

“do you want me to… to hug you?”

your heart starts racing, loud in your ears, every nerve suddenly awake. you shouldn’t have asked so bluntly. maybe you should’ve given him more time.

you brace yourself for him to shake his head—or pull away—or just close off completely.

he doesn’t respond for a long moment.

his breathing stays uneven, shoulders trembling with aftershocks. he keeps his face turned away from you, eyes fixed on nothing, lashes damp.

your stomach twists with the urge to take the words back, to apologize for overstepping.

you almost do.

but then suguru is nodding, it’s barely there. so small you almost miss it. but it’s unmistakable. he slowly lets his arms fall away from where they were tightly crossed in front of him.

“okay…”

you move slower, giving him space to change his mind. you move to sit closer. close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm.

you pause again—one last chance for him to pull away.

when he doesn’t? you lift your arms and wrap them around his side, gentle and loose enough he could slip out if he wanted to. your cheek hovers near his shoulder like you’re waiting for permission even now.

he stiffens for half a second.

and then he collapses into you.

it doesn’t happen all at once. he sinks into your arms like he’s falling into a sink hole. but really, he sinks as if his body has finally found a place to rest.

he turns his whole body toward you and his forehead presses into your shoulder. his breath hitches as another quiet sob slips out, finally audible. his hands curl into the sleeves of your hoodie, gripping like he’s afraid you’re gonna disappear.

your eyes burn harder but you swallow it down and you hold him just a little bit tighter.

“you’re okay. i’m not going anywhere,” you murmur hoarsely.

his breathing breaks again at that. it’s a quiet and broken sound muffled against your shoulder. he clings a little tighter, hands shaking.

time stretches strangely after that.

you don’t know how long you sit there—minutes, half an hour, maybe longer—him shaking softly, you holding on, bodies sore yet both of you breathing through it together.

neither of you move while suguru’s sobs ease into uneven breaths. he still doesn’t speak. you don’t need him to and he doesn’t have to. he just stays curled into you, exhausted down to the bone.

you know exactly how it feels so you let him.

you’re not sure when exhaustion pulls him into slumber… and you’re not sure when you fall after him.

⋆⁺₊❅。

suguru wakes in fragments.

first he feels the dull ache in his muscles. then, the faint warmth pressing against his chest. and finally, the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing.

for a moment, he’s still, letting it register. he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes fully. the world is soft, somehow softer than he remembers it being in weeks.

his lashes stick slightly, damp and crusty from the tears he couldn’t stop. when he blinks, the motion is slow.

the swell of his eyes still aches, but gentler now, muted by exhaustion and the quiet presence of the girl he loves beside him.

he shifts just enough to glance at you without disturbing your sleep.

the edges of your face are softened in the dim light, strands of hair falling against your cheek. your eyes are closed, but there’s tension there too, small lines that tell him you’ve been holding yourself tight too.

something warms in his chest—a surge of affection so sudden it almost makes him startle.

he stays still, just watching you. memorizing the small things—the rise and fall of your shoulders with your breath, the slight twitch of your fingers, the soft crease at the corner of your brows.

and then, slowly, almost instinctively, you stir. your eyelids flutter and you shift slightly as if sensing him there.

suguru’s heart leaps.

you blink slowly, just as he had moments before. and when your gaze lands on him, he sees it—the soft worry still lingering in your eyes even though you’re disoriented from falling asleep without meaning to. he can visibly see the concern that still hasn’t faded from your expression.

he swallows, tense in a way that’s entirely different from before. no panic, no guilt, just a tight, affectionate awareness. his lips twitch into something like a small, quiet smile.

“hi,” he whispers, voice rough, almost reverent.

he doesn’t want to speak any louder. he shifts closer to your body. not by much, just enough to feel even more grounded in your warmth. for the first time in days, even weeks, he finally feels… lighter.

he rests his head a little more firmly against your shoulder, suddenly not so afraid to sink into you anymore.

he glances at you again, careful, taking in the way you blink the haze of sleep away from your sight. his chest aches in a way that’s soft, like it’s finally making room for something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a while.

“you stayed,” he murmurs, almost like a question.

you blink, still waking, your own chest tightening. “huh? of course i did… i wasn’t gonna leave you alone again…”

again.

he swallows. hard. his throat still feels raw. but he lets out a shaky breath. it feels like he’s letting some more weight slide off him, little by little.

there’s a quiet stretch of time where neither of you speak. there seems to be a lot of that. but this time it isn’t tense. it’s comfortable. his cheek rests against your shoulder. his eyes are still half lidded and tender.

your hand moves on its own, gently resting over his broad back, fingertips light and steady.

he inhales, slower this time. a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his lips. not everything has been magically fixed…but he can breathe easier now. he can live, not just exist.

and then, very slowly, you let the words slip out. not consciously, just a stream that feels like it’s been there, ready to come, and the presence of him makes it possible, “you know, i… uh, i wasn’t always okay either. before i met you, i had… lots of bad days. for longer than i care to remember.”

he shifts slightly, just enough to glance at you with that tender gaze. he doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t even blink—he just lets you continue.

“i didn’t talk to anyone about it at first. i just… kept it all inside. i thought it would go away on its own.” your hands twitch against his back, almost subconsciously. “it didn’t. and it… it got worse before it got better.”

your voice drops a little. it’s distant, almost as if you’re remembering something far away. “um… something bad happened and eventually i started seeing a therapist. that… helped. not everything fixed overnight, not even close. but… it made it a lot better.”

you pause, hesitating, testing yourself.

then, softly, “so that’s why i know a little about feeling like you’re too far gone. or like nobody can ever understand,” you huff out a breath, “but… you’re not alone. if you ever want to talk about it— i mean, when you’re ready of course— you um… you can talk with me.”

the words linger.

for a moment, he doesn’t react at all. he stays leaned into you, breathing slow.

your heart starts to race again in the silence. you worry you said too much. worry you’ve made it about yourself and crossed some invisible line.

but in reality, he’s letting what you said settle somewhere deep before touching it.

his fingers move.

just slightly, curling into the fabric at your sleeve.

“…thank you,” he says.

you blink.

he doesn’t lift his head at first, still pressed against your shoulder. but then, slowly, he meets your eyes. puffy and vulnerable, they hold yours for a long moment.

something unspoken passes between you—relief, trust, and a fragile acknowledgment that you’re both still here.

and before he even realizes it, his arms are around you—a way to make sure you’re here and he’s here. and the world outside doesn’t matter for a second. his cheek presses lightly against yours and his hands rest on your back.

your body stiffens for a fraction, startled by the contact, even though you had been the one hugging him earlier, but you don’t pull away.

your hand instinctively rises, resting on his arm, fingertips light and steady, letting him feel your presence too.

he inhales, shaky, then slowly exhales, letting out another quiet breath he’s been holding in for days. the ache in his shoulders softens. his face buries into your neck, eyelashes against the skin. you feel the faintest tremor run through him—but it isn’t weight this time. it’s relief.

“thank you,” he repeats against you, voice almost inaudible, softer, but you hear it. “…for everything.”

you squeeze back gently. “you don’t have to thank me,” you murmur.

he lets the words sink in, letting himself relax a fraction more. he rests there, arms wrapped around you, feeling like he can finally exhale. in that quiet, tender space, he feels finally feels a little bit of peace.

you let yourself watch him for a while, just feeling the warmth of him, letting the quiet stretch out.

after a while, your eyes wander to the window behind his sheen curtains. the sky is darkening outside… and big, soft snowflakes are drifting down.

you gasp without meaning to in complete awe.

suguru peeks up at you in question.

“it’s snowing!”

he watches how your face lights up in that way it does when you’re giddy—and he can’t help the curve of a smile tugging at his lips.

“it is,” he murmurs, still looking at you.

you grab at his sleeve gently. “we should go outside! get some fresh air. it might… feel good,” you say softly, hopeful and excited, but still trying to be careful not to push.

he hesitates, blinking up at you. “outside?”

you finally look at him, reigning yourself back in, “yeah,” you murmur, “just for a little while? it’s so pretty. and it’ll be good to get some air too.”

he swallows, still leaning against you, and after a moment he gives a tentative nod. “okay then.”

you smile, relieved. he shifts off of you slowly, like he doesn’t want to, muscles stiff.

after getting into coats, both of you move towards the door. when it opens, the cold rushes in, sharp and crisp against your cheeks.

beautiful chunks of snow flutter down, big and soft and so so pure.

you tug on his hand with a giggle, pulling him outside completely. the snow lands onto suguru’s hair and yours—though it probably doesn’t look as good as it does on him as it does you.

he blinks as you tug on his hand, and for a moment his surprise turns into something soft and unguarded.

a small laugh escapes him.

it’s been days since he’s felt like this. weeks even.

light.

snow lands on his hair and shoulders and he grins without thinking, brushing them away with a quick shake of his head. your laughter carries him along, and he can’t help but mirror it.

“hey, careful!” he teases, voice rough but warm, nudging you gently as another flake lands on your nose. you giggle louder, swatting at it, and his chest aches pleasantly at the sight—at the way your eyes sparkle despite the cold, the way your smile makes the world feel so much lighter.

he squeezes your hand, tugging you toward him briefly, eyes bright, the tension long gone from his shoulders.

“this is nice,” he murmurs, and it isn’t just the snow. it’s everything—being outside, being here, being with you.

he tilts his face up, letting flakes land on his lashes, his lips curling into a soft, happy smile.

you squeal softly, tugging him along again, and he laughs, a little louder this time.

he lets himself move with you, the cold biting his cheeks, the snow crunching under his feet.

“look at it,” you whisper, eyes bright. and he does. he watches the snow swirl around, the flakes catching the dim lights of the street.

he’s happy. he really is.

he squeezes your hand again, tighter this time, shy but sure. “thanks for everything,” he says softly, full of warmth and something like awe.

he squeezes your hand again, tighter this time, shy but sure. “thanks for everything,” he says softly, the third time, full of warmth and something like awe.

you smile back, just as soft, and squeeze his hand back. both of you feel oh so warm despite the chill of winter.

you both keep walking, letting the snow fall over you, letting the cold sting your cheeks, letting the joy sink in.

the world feels impossibly big, impossibly soft, and impossibly alive.

when you round back the block and end up near his place again, neither of you slow down. if anything, your steps drag, reluctant, like the idea of going back inside would break whatever spell the snow has wrapped around you both.

the building looms quietly ahead, familiar and unthreatening now, but still… you don’t let go of his hand. he notices. doesn’t mention it. he kind of hopes you won’t either.

you stop in the middle of the sidewalk instead, breath puffing out in little clouds. you glance around, at the untouched snow piling up along the curb, smooth and perfect. an idea sparks.

“…this might be stupid,” you start, already half embarrassed, “but… we could make a snowman?” your voice lifts at the end hopeful. “i mean, since it’s sticking and we’re out here already!”

for a beat, he just stares at you.

then he lets out a laugh. something in his chest loosens even more.

“a snowman,” he repeats, amused, so achingly fond. “you’re serious.”

you shrug, ducking your head in embarrassment. “kind of. i mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“no,” he says quickly, smiling wider now. “no, i want to.”

the words come easier than he expects.

you light up instantly, clapping your gloved hands in quiet excitement. “okay! okay, good. um—where do we start?”

he crouches down without thinking, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it together between his palms. it’s cold enough to sting, but he barely notices.

“guess we start here,” he says, rolling it against the ground.

you kneel beside him, your shoulders brushing as you help. the snow sticks to your gloves, to your sleeves, to the hem of his coat.

the first snowman comes together slowly. suguru’s oddly focused, packing the base like it’s a serious task, while you smooth the middle and keep fixing the same dent over and over.

“it keeps leaning,” you whine.

he tilts his head, studying it. “maybe it just likes that side.”

you huff a laugh and smile at him, “you’re right.”

you find two sticks for arms and hand them to him. he sticks them in, then pauses.

“hmm…these look weird.”

you pout. “they’re fine.”

he shrugs. “okay okay. artistic choice.”

by the time you’re done, your fingers are numb and your cheeks hurt from smiling. you both step back to look at your snowman.

“i think he needs a friend…” you contemplate.

he nods without hesitation. “yeah. it’d feel rude not to give him one.

the second snowman ends up shorter and rounder. you laugh when the head almost slides off, steadying it with both hands.

“hold on—hold on—” you say, trying to fix it.

“i’ve got it,” he says, reaching in to help, your hands overlapping for a second before you both still.

you don’t pull away. neither does he.

you finish it together, brushing snow from each other’s sleeves without really thinking about it. when you’re done, the two snowmen stand side by side, uneven and kind of charming.

“they look like us!” you giggle without thinking.

“yeah,” he replies softly. “they do.”

snow keeps falling steadily. the world feels small and calm. you realize you’re standing closer to him than before.

he glances at you. you look up at the same time.

“cold?”

you grin knowingly. “just a little.”

he huffs softly, rubbing his bare hands together and looking at your gloved ones. “even though you’re the one that thought ahead?”

you look down at his hands—red at the knuckles, fingers stiff—and before you can overthink it, you reach out and grab them.

he startles slightly. “hey—”

“hold still,” you say, already cupping his hands between yours, gloves and all. “you’re freezing!”

you rub them together briskly, breath puffing out in little clouds as you focus way too hard on the task.

he watches you, eyes wide for half a second, then soft. a quiet laugh slips out of him, a little breathless. “you don’t have to do that.”

“i can’t let you get frostbite. besides… i wanted to.”

that seems to knock the air from his lungs just a bit.

his smile turns shy and giddy, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. he squeezes your hands gently, almost absentmindedly.

snow settles into his hair. onto your shoulders. neither of you lets go.

“mmh well… this is nice,” he murmurs.

you nod, cheeks suddenly warm despite the cold. “yeah. it is.”

there’s a pause that’s charged and soft all at once. you sway just slightly closer, still holding his hands, still warming them, until there’s barely any space left at all.

you don’t know who leans in first.

you only know that suddenly he’s close enough that you can feel his breath, and still, you want to be closer. as close as you can possibly get.

so you kiss.

it’s soft and surprising and immediately right. your hands slip from his fingers to his coat, his hands coming up to your waist like it’s always belonged there.

both of your lips are chapped, but it doesn’t really matter. his lips are warm despite the cold, and gosh, does it feel nice. the kiss lingers, unhurried, like neither of you wants to be the first to pull away.

you breathe him in and your chest feels too full all at once.

he exhales against your mouth, a quiet sound that almost feels like relief.

your forehead rests against his when you finally part, noses brushing. you keep your hands fisted in his coat like letting go might send him drifting away again.

for a second, he just looks at you.

really looks.

his eyes soften, something fragile flickering there, and his thumbs trace small, absent circles at your waist.

you break the spell first with an exhale. “woah…”

he smiles that smile you adore, still close, voice low and warm. “i hadn’t even realized how long i’ve been wanting to do that.”

you duck your head, smiling. “yeah… same.”

but then he’s tilting your head up and you’re kissing again.

this time it’s giddier, smiles breaking through, noses bumping as neither of you quite figures out how to stop. you pull back for half a second, just to laugh… and then you’re kissing again, closer, warmer, like neither of you wants to let the moment end.

snow keeps falling around you, the world hushed and glowing, the two uneven snowmen behind you slowly blurring together.

still, neither of you are in any hurry to go inside.

you’re glad he’s here with you.

masterlist

hi, my first reverse comfort fic so i hope this is okay🥹

i’m sorry for not writing an actual bday fic because i ran out of time and took too long to edit this…

His eyebrows pushed together into a confused frown and he took his earbuds out of his ears. Putting them into their case, he approached you, a slight amusement lifting the corners of his mouth. “What’s going on here, hm?” He teased as he leaned against the wall, adjusting his backpack against his shoulder.

From the moment he didn’t get any of your usual texts throughout the day, Hajime had a feeling he wasn’t coming home to your usual bubbly self.

You didn’t have the energy to turn to him, your eyes remaining closed as you only shifted on the balls of your feet in acknowledgment of his presence. “If I make eye contact with my keys, I’m gonna start crying.” Your voice was soaked in exhaustion, your work day heavy on your shoulders.

The bundle of various keys, consisting of mostly colorful keychains, laid on the floor next to you on one side while your handbag, clearly tossed in a sign of defeat, sat on your other side. 

“Bad day?” He asked as he bent over to grab your keys off the floor and went around you to collect your bag next. 

You sniffled with a nod. “I hate everyone.”

Using his free hand, he got ahold of your arm and he gently pulled you away from the door, right into his chest. Stubborn and exhausted, your arms hung by your side as Hajime cupped the back of your head and pressed a kiss against your hair. “Even me?”

Suddenly the worries of the day didn’t feel so suffocating as you melted into his touch. “Not if you don’t make me cook.”

He laid his head on top of yours. “So I should cook?” He joked.

For the first time, since you walked into the office that morning, your lips twitched into something close to a smile. “Do you want to make my day worse?”

Hajime had many amazing qualities, but cooking wasn’t one of them. Luckily he gladly took on washing the dishes as one of his many unofficial assigned chores, which you absolutely loathed doing. 

“Takeout it is, then.” He chuckled lowly as he pulled away from you. “Let’s get you inside first.” 

“Yes, please.”