the movie had ended nearly twenty minutes ago, the credits had long disappeared from the screen, and the empty bowls from dinner were still abandoned on the coffee table because neither of them had the energy to get up and move them.

jude was lying beside her, one arm tucked behind his head, casually scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t been staring at the same few apps for the last ten minutes. she knew because she’d been watching him do absolutely nothing while claiming he was “relaxing.”

she, on the other hand, was staring at the ceiling, silently searching for something—anything—that could save them from another hour of sitting in comfortable boredom. they had already watched two movies, spent far too much money on food they definitely didn’t need, and wasted at least forty minutes arguing over what to watch next.

somehow, she had gotten her way. a tragedy jude had been silently mourning ever since the opening scene.

“i still think my choice would’ve been better.” he announced, finally tearing his eyes away from his phone to stare at the blank TV screen like he was still personally offended by the movie.

she slowly turned her head towards him, raising an eyebrow. for a moment, she just stared at him, waiting for him to realize how ridiculous he sounded.

“jude,” she said, pressing her lips together to stop herself from laughing. “you spent the entire movie complaining.”

he stared at her in disbelief, giving her leg a light nudge with his foot, like the tiny gesture alone was enough to defend himself.

“i did not,” he insisted, his voice carrying the kind of offense usually reserved for much bigger accusations.

she let out a small laugh, shaking her head as she turned towards him. “you sighed every five minutes.”

he opened his mouth to argue, but she continued before he could. “not even subtle ones either. full dramatic sighs.”

the corner of his mouth twitched, already knowing she wasn’t finished.

“you said the plot made no sense,” she said, far too pleased with herself, leaning back against the sofa like she had just presented undeniable evidence. “you paused the movie to ask me how much longer was left.”

before he could defend himself, she stretched her leg out and gently tapped his with hers, the satisfied smile on her face making it obvious she knew she had him.

“hey,” he protested, looking down at where she’d bumped him, then smoothly right back at her.

“what?” she blinked at him, putting on the most innocent expression she could manage, even though the smile threatening to appear gave her away.

jude narrowed his eyes.

“did you just kick me?” he glanced down at where her foot was still resting against his leg, looking genuinely betrayed.

“you’re a professional footballer, jude. surely you can handle a tiny kick.”

for a second, he just looked at her.

then the corner of his mouth lifted, that familiar smug little smile appearing like he’d suddenly found a way to win the argument after all.

“i can handle a lot more than that for you, baby.” he said, his voice dropping into a teasing murmur, far too confident for someone who had just been complaining about a harmless kick.

“are you seriously trying to flirt your way out of losing an argument?” she asked, her voice laced with amusement, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched him.

jude didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“maybe,” he simply smiled, reaching over to steal a piece of popcorn from the bowl between them like he hadn’t just been caught trying to charm his way out of losing.

the argument was over. well… as over as anything could be with jude. he never actually admitted she was right, and she knew better than to expect him to, but eventually they both decided the movie debate had gone on long enough.

so they moved on. by doing absolutely nothing.

he went back to scrolling through his phone, occasionally showing her random videos he found funny. she pretended not to care, then laughed at almost every single one. he stole some of her snacks. she stole them back. he complained like she had committed a serious crime despite the fact that he was the one who started it.

somehow, this became their activity for the next fifteen minutes. which would’ve been fine… if they weren’t still bored.

she looked around the living room, then at him, then back at the living room… then back at him.

she shifted closer to him, closing the small space between them until she was tucked against his side, mostly because she had run out of ideas and partly because being bored was easier when she was annoying him.

“why are you doing that?” jude’s eyes left his phone, narrowing slightly as he looked down at her.

“doing what?” she blinked.

“that.” he gave her a look, the kind that said he already knew she was planning something.

she glanced down at herself, pretending to be confused. “i’m sitting next to you.”

“no,” he said, setting his phone down. “you’re plotting.”

“i’m not plotting.” a laugh almost escaped her.

he looked down at her, his expression changing slightly — not surprised, just amused, like he already knew she was lying. “careful.”

“what?” she looked up at him.

jude’s mouth twitched as he watched her, already suspicious. he set his phone down beside him and tilted his head slightly. “you’re either about to ask me for something or start trouble.”

she smiled, completely caught but not even trying to deny it. “maybe both.”

“i knew it.” his lips curved into a small smile as he looked away, like he was trying not to encourage her. then he shifted slightly beside her, turning his body more towards her as he waited, already knowing she was about to suggest something.

“jude,” she whined, letting her head fall back against the sofa. “we need to do something. we’ve officially reached the point where we’re bored of being bored.”

he didn’t answer immediately but his attention was fully on her now. his phone had been long forgotten somewhere on the sofa, abandoned the second he realized she was definitely up to something.

she turned her head towards him.

“jude.”

he looked at her, already knowing from her tone that she wasn’t going to let this go. “i heard you.”

she waited a second, then shifted closer, eventually resting her head against his shoulder as she waited for his answer.

“and?” she asked patiently.

jude looked down at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. he shifted slightly on the sofa, getting more comfortable as if he genuinely needed time to consider the most important decision of the night. “i’m thinking.”

she stayed quiet for a moment, her head still resting against his shoulder, waiting for his so-called “thinking” to lead somewhere. the silence stretched. she looked up at him.

“are you actually thinking, or are you just sitting there looking like you are?” she asked, watching his overly serious expression for a moment before a laugh threatened to escape. the way he looked so focused made it almost impossible not to laugh.

then his expression turned offended.

“wow,” he lightly squeezed her cheek between his fingers, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “the disrespect.”

“you’re so dramatic.” she let out a small laugh, turning her face slightly away from his hand.

“i’m hurt.”

“you’ll survive.”

“barely.”

she rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

then she went quiet. not bored quiet. thinking quiet. jude noticed.

“why do i feel like that silence means trouble?”

her smile grew wider as the idea fully formed. she lifted her head from his shoulder, turning towards him with sudden excitement.

“i have an idea.” her eyes lit up as she brought her hands together in a quick clap. “hear me out.”

his eyes immediately narrowed. he knew that tone. the last time she had said “hear me out,” it had never been followed by anything normal.

“i don’t like where this is going.” he said, though the small smile on his face betrayed him.

she ignored him, a grin spreading across her face as she pushed herself up from the sofa.

“hide and seek.” she said it like she had just come up with the greatest idea in history.

“…hide and seek?” jude stared at her. for a moment, he genuinely looked like he was waiting for the rest of the sentence.

she nodded, completely serious. he blinked, glancing around the room before looking back at her.

“you’re serious,” the small smile on his face gave away that he wasn’t actually against it—he was just trying to understand how they had gone from being bored on the sofa to this. “we’re really doing this?”

“yes, go hide.”

he stayed exactly where he was on the sofa, staring up at her like he was waiting for her to reveal that this was a joke.

“that’s it?”

“that’s it.” she looked back at him, confused by his confusion.

“you’re not even going to explain the rules?”

“jude, it’s hide and seek. i think you’ll manage.” she gave him a shrug.

a slow, confident grin spread across his face as he finally pushed himself off the sofa. he straightened to his full height, looking down at her like he’d just accepted the challenge of a lifetime.

“don’t come crying to me when you can’t find me,” he said, his voice full of mock confidence. “you clearly underestimate my hiding abilities.”

“please,” she said with a quiet laugh, waving a dismissive hand. “i bet i could find you in under a minute.”

“you really think i can’t hide?” he looked at her in complete disbelief, his eyebrows shooting up for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

“jude…” she looked him up and down, making a very obvious show of it before meeting his eyes again. “you’re six foot something.”

he frowned.

“six foot one,” he corrected, as if the extra precision somehow strengthened his case. he folded his arms, looking at her expectantly. “so?”

“and you think you’re gonna disappear?” she blinked.

he didn’t hesitate.

“yes,” he answered with effortless confidence, like the answer was painfully obvious. the corner of his mouth lifted into a smug smile as he shrugged one shoulder. “i fail to see how’s that relevant.”

she looked at him for a second. then another. trying—unsuccessfully—to keep a straight face.

“jude…” she shook her head, a laugh already escaping her. “because you’re built like a lamp post.”

the silence that followed lasted all of half a second. then she completely lost it. a burst of laughter escaped her as she bent forward, one hand flying to her stomach while the other reached for his arm to steady herself.

jude instinctively glanced down at himself, turning slightly as if checking whether she might somehow have a point.

“i’m not built like a lamp post.” he looked back at her with complete sincerity, sounding genuinely offended by the comparison.

“i can’t believe you actually checked.” she completely lost it. she managed between laughs, shaking her head.

she was still laughing when he looked at her for another second, clearly deciding that words weren’t going to win this argument. a small, determined smile tugged at his lips.

“right,” he muttered.

before she could say anything else, he turned on his heel and took off down the hallway. she stared after him, completely caught off guard. for a second, she just stood there, trying to process what had happened. then she blinked.

“did you just run away?”

a few seconds of silence followed. then his voice echoed from somewhere upstairs.

“you said hide!”

she pressed her lips together, already fighting another laugh.

“jude,” she called back, already knowing this was going to be a disaster. “you’re supposed to hide, not announce your escape!”

she shook her head, still smiling as she made her way upstairs, listening carefully. the confidence he had disappeared with was honestly impressive. he had spent the last five minutes insisting he had “hiding abilities,” and now she was about to find out if that was actually true. she walked slowly down the hallway, looking into each room. the house was quiet. too quiet.

“jude?”

no answer. she let out a quiet huff of amusement and continued down the hallway until she reached the bedroom. she pushed the door open slowly, peeking inside. nothing immediately caught her attention. she stepped in, looking around the room.

“okay,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “you’re really trying this time.”

a small movement near the window caught her attention. she stopped. slowly, she turned her head towards the curtain. she took a few steps closer, already trying to hold back a laugh. and then she saw it. jude was behind the curtain. or, more accurately, jude had attempted to be behind the curtain. because while the curtain was doing its best to hide the upper half of him, his legs were completely visible underneath.

she just stood there. looking at him. looking at his very obvious legs sticking out. then back at the curtain. she had to press her lips together to stop herself from laughing. the funniest part was that he wasn’t even moving. he was completely still, probably convinced that his plan was flawless. a six-foot-something professional footballer, hiding behind a curtain like he had just mastered the art of invisibility. she stared for another second.

“jude.”

silence.

“seriously?” she looked down at his legs again.

behind the curtain, he stayed perfectly still. which somehow made it even worse.

“your legs are out,” a laugh slipped from her lips. “like…really out.”

for a moment, she expected him to admit defeat. instead, his voice came from behind the curtain.

“they are not.” he was far too confident for someone whose hiding spot had already been exposed.

she rubbed a hand over her face, completely speechless, before glancing down again, just to make sure she wasn’t somehow imagining the very obvious pair of legs sticking out.

“your entire body is outside the curtain.” she slowly pointed at him.

she could practically hear him trying to come up with a response. he slowly looked down, as if he was only now checking whether she was telling the truth. his eyes landed on his very visible legs sticking out from underneath the curtain.

“…how unfortunate.” he said it with complete seriousness, like he had just discovered a major flaw in an otherwise perfect plan.

she burst into laughter. jude sighed, finally stepping out from behind the curtain with as much dignity as he could possibly recover. he straightened his shirt, acting like nothing embarrassing had happened.

“i was warming up.” he said it casually, with the kind of confidence that made it obvious he expected her to believe him.

she pinched the bridge of her nose, still trying to process the fact that he had just called standing behind a curtain “warming up.”

“you know warming up usually involves moving, right?” she blinked.

“i was mentally preparing.” he looked at her, completely unfazed, while scratching the back of his neck and glancing away briefly before meeting her eyes again.

“for what?

“the next round.”

before she could answer, he walked past her with a suspicious amount of confidence. she turned around, watching him with disbelief as he started walking away again. “you’re going again?”

“obviously.” he glanced back at her, like the answer was obvious.

“i found you under a minute.” she let out a small laugh.

there was a brief pause where he looked like he was deciding how to respond. then, with complete confidence:

“i was testing you. wanted to see how quickly you’d figure it out.”

“right,” she said slowly, clearly not believing a word of it. “round two, you have sixty seconds.”

“that’s not enough time.” he looked offended.

“maybe don’t choose a hiding spot where your legs introduce themselves first.” she shrugged, already amused.

jude clicked his tongue, folding his arms across his chest.

“the curtain let me down.” he sighed dramatically, sounding genuinely disappointed by its lack of cooperation.

“of course you’d blame the curtain.” she tilted her head, amusement clear on her face.

he looked like he was about to defend himself again, already preparing another explanation. she waved him off, trying not to laugh again. “go now, i’m counting.”

he opened his mouth, probably ready with another excuse, but she was already covering her eyes and facing the wall.

“one…”

the second she started counting, she heard his footsteps disappear down the hallway.

“two…”

a door opened somewhere nearby. she paused for half a second.

“three…” she raised an eyebrow.

the closet. or maybe the bathroom. then came a small thud. something had definitely fallen. let’s hope it wasn’t jude.

she bit back a laugh.

“please tell me that wasn’t you,” she whispered to herself, even though she already had a feeling it was.

“four…”

knowing him, he was probably standing completely still, hoping the noise would somehow disappear. there was silence. then she heard it. a quiet sound from somewhere in the house — like he was trying desperately not to laugh. she smiled, shaking her head as she continued counting.

“five…”

by the time she reached the end, she already had a feeling this round was going to be just as ridiculous as the first. she lowered her hand and turned around.

“ready or not…” she paused for a moment, letting the silence build. “here i come.”

she walked towards the open doorway, glancing down the hallway. she checked the bathroom first. nothing. she stepped inside for a second, looking around just to be sure. she paused, her eyes moving from the shower to the bathtub.

“okay, progress,” she muttered, almost impressed. “good. at least we’re not at the point where you’re hiding in the shower.”

she left the bathroom, glancing back down the hallway. it was quiet. then she noticed the guest room door. it was slightly closed. a smile tugged at her lips. that was suspicious. she walked towards the room, her steps quieter as she approached the door. she pushed it open slowly, looking around. the room was empty. no movement. no obvious signs of jude. no feet sticking out, no curtains involved, no disaster waiting to happen.

she had to give him that much—he had learned from his mistakes. she stayed quiet for a moment, letting herself believe he might have actually pulled it off. then she noticed the closet. the one place in the room that looked like it was trying very hard not to be noticed. it was closed. completely closed. suspiciously closed. she walked towards it, already smiling.

she reached for the handle. jude heard some movement, his confidence disappearing almost instantly.

silence.

she opened the closet door. he was standing completely still, hidden between the clothes, trying his best to blend in. for a second, neither of them said anything. then she raised an eyebrow.

a pair of broad shoulders were sticking out between the jackets, making absolutely no attempt to look like they belonged there. she stood there for a second, taking in the scene. the effort was there. the execution, unfortunately, was questionable.

“jude…”

“what?” his voice came from inside the closet, completely calm.

she glanced at the clothes surrounding him, then back at the very obvious person hiding between them.

“you’re not a jacket.” she blinked then burst out laughing, the sound warm and effortless.

his confidence faltered for the briefest moment. not because she had found him—he expected that eventually. but because she had insulted his entire strategy.

“i was going for the same idea.” he frowned, pushing the clothes away from his shoulders as if they were somehow responsible for the situation. he looked more offended by the clothes’ failure to hide him than the fact that she had found him.

“the idea was to blend in,” she gestured towards the clothes around him. “not become the largest item in the closet.”

“you’re literally the reason the jackets look small.” she paused, looking him up and down.

he shook his head, still trying to recover from the attack on his hiding skills.

“alright,” he stepped out of the closet, fixing his shirt and pretending he hadn’t just been exposed between her old jackets. “enough about my strategy.”

she opened her mouth.

“nope,” he said quickly, pointing at her before she could say anything else. a small grin appeared on his face.

“your turn to hide,” he walked past her towards the hallway, clearly enjoying the fact that the attention was finally off him. “let’s see how good you are.”

she followed him into the hallway, watching as he turned around and covered his eyes with one hand, leaning casually against the wall.

“you have one minute,” he announced, sounding far too confident for someone who had just been found hiding between jackets.

“don’t peek.” she smiled, already backing away.

he let out a quiet laugh. “relax. i’ll give you a chance.”

“a chance?”

“yeah,” he glanced back slightly—not enough to actually see her. “wouldn’t want to ruin the fun.”

the second he started counting, she slipped away quietly.

“one…”

she walked quickly down the hallway, keeping her steps light.

“two…”

she reached their bedroom and pushed the door open carefully, making sure it didn’t make a sound.

“three…”

she glanced around the room, considering her options. the closet was too obvious. behind the curtains would be too predictable. and after his first attempt, she wasn’t about to make the same mistake. her attention dropped to the space beneath the bed.

perfect.

she crouched down and slowly lowered herself onto the floor, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous this felt. once she was underneath, she pulled herself farther back, settling into the shadows. she covered her mouth, holding back a laugh as she imagined jude walking around the house with all the confidence of someone who had definitely forgotten he had been defeated twice already.

“forty-four…”

his voice echoed faintly from the hallway. she stayed completely still. this time, she was winning.

fifteen minutes later, he was still searching. and somehow…

he still hadn’t found her. at this point, he wasn’t even looking for her anymore. he was looking for an explanation. he stood in the hallway, hands on his hips, completely confused.

“okay…” he looked around the empty rooms. “this is getting ridiculous.”

from beneath the bed, she had to bite down on her lip. she could hear the frustration in his footsteps as he walked around the room again.

“i know you’re somewhere,” he called out, his voice echoing through the bedroom.

a few seconds passed. nothing. jude waited. still nothing. his patience started wearing thin. he let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair as he looked around the room again.

“baby…” his voice softened, but there was still a hint of defeat in it. “please, come out now.”

“i’m starting to think you’re not even hiding anymore,” he called out, his voice carrying through the room. “i think you’ve moved out. i miss you.”

she nearly laughed. she was enjoying this. it was almost impressive how quickly he had gone from “i’ll find you in seconds” to acting like she had vanished from the entire house. fifteen minutes ago, he was confident. now he was negotiating with silence.

she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“jude…” her voice was quiet, but it was enough.

the second his name left her lips, the room went silent. a pause.

then—

“aha,” his voice changed instantly. the frustration disappeared, replaced by pure victory. “i knew it.”

she immediately regretted giving herself away.

“wait—”

before she could move, he dropped down beside the bed.

“found you.”

she tried to pull herself farther back, but it was too late. his hand reached under the bed and caught her ankle gently.

“jude!”

“nope,” he laughed, carefully pulling her out as she tried to hold onto the edge of the bed. “you actually thought you were going to win?”

with one last pull, jude slid her completely out from under the bed. she dissolved into laughter, sprawled across the floor while he looked far too pleased with himself.

“fifteen minutes,” he said proudly. “but i got you.”

“you begged me to come out.” she shook her head.

“that was a strategy.” his smile faltered for a second.

for a second, she just stayed there, lying on her back, looking up at him. he stood above her with the most satisfied expression she had seen all night. she barely had time to take a step before his hands caught her around the waist, stopping her.

“hey, jude—”

he laughed as she protested, lifting her just enough to make her lose her balance before gently dropping her onto the bed. she landed with a soft bounce, breathless with laughter, looking up at him as though she couldn’t quite believe he’d actually followed through. before she could sit up, he leaned over her, trapping her beneath him with a grin that screamed victory.

“next round is on the bed,” he announced confidently. “you know i’m winning this, baby.”

she shook her head, completely entertained by the confidence he had somehow regained. then she dropped her head back against the pillow, trying to understand how he had turned a simple game into such a big event. he leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, gentle and quick, like he was celebrating his very important victory. when he pulled back, he still had that satisfied look on his face.

“we’re having a rematch tomorrow.” she pushed herself up onto her elbows, the smile still lingering on her face as she watched him.

jude let out a quiet laugh, clearly amused by how determined she was.

“shhh,” he lifted a finger to his lips, silencing her before she could start planning the rematch already forming in her head. “we have a long night ahead.”

he reached for her and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek as he enjoyed the moment. she took advantage of his distraction, tugging him closer and stealing a quick kiss that left him momentarily speechless. he didn’t let her pull away so easily, chasing after her lips for another kiss. when they finally broke apart, her lips traced a playful path to his cheek, leaving a soft peck there before she leaned closer to his ear.

“still counts as a win for me.” she whispered, the quiet triumph in her voice making him chucke softly.

“enjoy your victory, baby,” he whispered back, a quiet challenge in his voice. “i’ll have mine soon enough.”

she settled back against the bed, watching him with an amused expression as he carried himself like he had just won a championship—which he hadn’t.

but she wouldn’t trade it for anything. not the teasing. not the ridiculous competition. not the way they could spend hours doing absolutely nothing and still feel like time moved too quickly.

Jude opened the apartment door with a quiet click

He walked inside and dropped his training bag by the entrance while taking off his shoes and stretched

“I'm so hungry” he called from the hallway as the smell of food filled the whole house

You were standing by the stove stirring the soup “Perfect. You came home at exactly the right moment”

Jude walked up behind you and looked into the pot “What are you making?”

“Tomato soup. I've been craving it for the last few days”

“Smells good”

You smiled to yourself “I hope it tastes as good as it smells”

Jude hummed quietly while stealing grapes from the fruit bowl on the counter. Leaning against the kitchen island he looked around the room “Have you seen my phone?”

Without turning around you shook your head “no”

“I swear I had it a second ago” He started looking under the cushions, on the chairs, then checked the pockets of the hoodie he'd thrown onto the counter

“I swear to God I left it right here” he said pointing at the kitchen counter with a frown

You could barely stop yourself from smiling

His phone was hidden behind the pasta container, exactly where you'd secretly placed it as soon as he'd walked into the kitchen

“Maybe you left it in the car again? Or at training?” you said casually

“No, I'm sure I brought it inside” He sighed and walked back over to you “I'll look for it later”

You scooped up a spoonful of soup “Want to taste it?”

“It's ready?”

“I need to know if it's missing anything” You turned slightly away from him pretending to keep stirring the soup.

In one quick movement you poured a large mound of salt onto the spoon and carefully covered it with a thin layer of soup.

After blowing on it to cool it down, you turned back to him with an innocent smil

“Open”

Jude didn't hesitate for a second

He leaned forward and ate the entire spoonful.

For the first second...nothing happened

Then he slowly started chewing.

His eyebrows pulled together slightly as he struggled to swallow.

You acted like you hadn't noticed anything “So?”

Jude cleared his throat “It's... good”

You looked at him with fake surprise “Really? Maybe I should add a little more salt”

He scratched the back of his neck “No— I mean... it's perfect. It's... really good. It doesn't need any more salt”

“Are you sure?”

He went quiet “I don't really know how to say this...”

Jude looked back at the pot “I think it's... maybe just a tiny bit salty”

“A tiny bit?”

“Really... just a tiny bit”

“Are you sure?” you asked trying your best to keep a straight face as you reached for another spoonful “Let me check”

Jude immediately reached out and stopped you.“NO—wait”

“Why?”

“Because... maybe I just got a saltier part?”

You looked at him barely holding back your laughter “A saltier part of the soup?”

The two of you stared at each other for a few seconds and that was it

You couldn't hold it in anymore

You turned away covering your mouth with your hand as your shoulders shook with laughter

Jude frowned. He looked at the spoon, then at the pot......and finally back at you

“You did something?”

Still laughing you pulled his phone out from behind the pasta container. It had been recording the whole thing for the last few minutes

Jude's eyes went wide “I knew it! You were the one who hid my phone too!”

“That was just the first part of the plan!” you giggled, looking at him

“So you've been messing with me this whole time?”

You didn't answer

You were laughing so hard that you had to lean against the counter for support

Jude just shook his head with an amused smile “You're lucky I love you but one day I'm getting you back. Just wait”

©loudmissy 2026 this story is my original writing. Please do not copy, translate or claim it as your own without my permission. Thank you for respecting my work ♡

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denisebellingham: give my angel baby a kiss from grandma!🩷 - liked by author

yourbestfriend: tell that man to put a shirt on, nobody's tryna see his ribs💀

↳ judebellingham: you could never just let me live in peace😒

yourcousin: looking that good is illegal in at least seven countries

↳ ynusername: ik, they almost wouldn't let us through customs🫣

aurelientchm: my goddaughter is growing up too fast!!😤

↳ camavinga: there's only one godfather. stop this.

↳ vinijr: yeah and we all know it's me. y/n's just taking too long to announce it officially

↳ rodrygogoes: 🤨

ynusername

liked by brahim, sancho and 77 others.

ynusername find us in a flower field💐🌻🌷🌼🌺

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yourbestfriend: your life is quite literally a pinterest board - liked by author

yourcousin: y/n girl your man's fine af😢

↳ yourcousin2: fr. like, my mouth is watering all of a sudden

↳ ynusername: watch me block both of you😭

tolami_benson: my favourite little family😫💞 - liked by author

yoursister: post some cute shit like this again and i'm reporting your account

↳ ynusername: hating from outside the club is crazy

ynusername

liked by trentarnold66, bukayosaka and 89 others.

ynusername la vie est belle. a week in the south of france🌊☀️🐚🌴🫧

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judebellingham: best week with my best girls❤️ - liked by author

jobebellingham: i see a suspicious lack of my niece's face in these photos

↳ ynusername: she's camera shy (like someone i know👀)

yourbrother: pls keep the pda for private viewing only🤢

nonzinoo10: when's the wedding?

↳ ynusername: let's slow down.

yoursister: okay, we get it. y’all have a cute baby. y’all are in love, and y’all went to france. pls give us a break

↳ camavinga: you wish that was you huh?💀

↳ yoursister: more than u know sksjsj😭😭😭

it wasn't like you meant for any of it to happen.

you'd been careful, fiercely careful even, to keep your life tucked away from all that came with dating jude. he'd made his decision to protect his private life, especially when you two found out you were having a baby, and you were more than fine with that. he always said he didn't want to be one of those guys who treated his family like a public exhibit, and you had always appreciated that about him.

you'd watched enough of his life get dissected online—his every game, every interview, every faint slip of emotion. the press and fans, some more intense than others, had opinions on everything about him. and when your daughter was born, the stakes got higher. both of you were clear about it: no one was going to make your baby girl feel like she owed the world anything.

so your instagram account stayed small and anonymous. a little private bubble where you shared pieces of your life that no one outside your tight-knit circle got to see. soft images of her little fingers wrapped around jude's thumb, her cheeks flushed as she ran around in your back yard, her face lighting up at the museum, where every artefact seemed like the most exciting discovery of her three-year-old life. and your people—your families, jude's teammates, your own friends—would find their way into the comments, joking, saying how she looked more and more like her dad every day.

on other platforms, you never hinted at anything. especially not on twitter. no full names, no tags—just the subtle pictures of toys spread across the floor, or a pair of tiny sneakers next to his, just a few sizes too small. to the rest of the world, you were just a proud mom with a little girl who, based on your twitter captions, had an amazing dad who somehow never made it into your feed.

and it had worked.

for three years, you and jude had managed to stay under the radar. no pap shots, no tabloids digging into your lives, just peace. the kind of peace you never realised you'd treasure this much. until it slipped through your fingers.

it was a friday night. jude had a game the next day, so he'd fallen asleep early, his body draped protectively around you, one arm resting over the spot where your daughter would normally wiggle in between you both sometime in the middle of the night. it was your nightly routine to scroll through instagram before bed, replying to the handful of comments on your posts, maybe resharing an old memory for your close friends.

tonight, you were posting a small video you'd taken at the park that day. it was nothing special, just jude holding your daughter's hand as she walked across the grass, her tiny steps wobbly. you didn't write much for the caption, just something simple like, "my favourite view."

then, you logged off, tossed your phone to the side, and nestled into bed.

but by morning, you could tell something was wrong.

your phone was buzzing nonstop, lighting up in rapid flashes that instantly made your stomach drop. instinctively, you reached for it, feeling jude shift beside you as you did. unlocking it, you were met with an avalanche of notifications: messages, follows, likes—all from accounts you didn't recognise. your private account, the one with less than a hundred followers last night, had thousands of notifications.

you sat up, eyes wide as you scrolled through. every photo was filled with comments from strangers, fans, people you'd never seen before.

ynusername

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ynusername two sides of the same coin.🤍

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username: ??

username: i need answers. immediately.

username: a BABY? i'm speechless.

username: who are you and why are there so many photos of jude on your page???

username: i thought i knew everything about him... who is she?? is she HIS??😭

username: this is how i find out he has a family???

username: this feels like a fever dream, no way jude’s been a dad this whole time

it felt like the ground dropped out beneath you.

your fingers shook as you clicked through your account settings, scrambling to make it private again, but it felt pointless—like shutting the door on an already broken window. by the time jude woke up, stretching in that lazy way he did, he glanced over at you with his usual sleepy smile, but the sight of you half in tears froze it on his face.

"hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep, but you could see him snap to attention as you tried to explain what happened, words tumbling out so fast you barely made sense.

he listened, brow creased as his hand found yours, steadying it between his palms. "it's okay, baby," he said softly, his voice calm, but you could see the way he swallowed, how he looked down and let out a long breath, processing.

he knew exactly what this meant; you both did. the privacy you'd guarded so fiercely for three years was suddenly slipping away, and it was only a matter of time before the chaos started—the endless questions, the ruthless assumptions.

and sure enough, it began.

you'd gone private again, but it didn't matter; people had reposted screenshots, scrutinising every photo you'd shared. the internet was relentless, obsessed with details you'd never imagined anyone would care about. the comments spilled over with speculation, twitter threads popping up with people wondering who you were, when you and jude had gotten together, if the little girl in your photos was his.

the weight of it was wearing you down, and jude could see it. it was easier for him; he'd grown up under the public eye, knew the feeling of being watched, scrutinised. but for you, it was different—suffocating, heartbreaking, to watch the life you'd built be picked apart and exposed. you felt like you were losing something sacred.

one night, he found you curled up on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your notifications, eyes distant and tired. he settled beside you, quiet at first, just holding you. then, in a soft voice, he broke the silence. "maybe it's time we tell them. officially."

you stared at him, surprised, a bit wary. "are you sure?" you asked, searching his face, because you certainly were not. "i mean, we don't have to, do we? we could just... maybe let it blow over?"

he shook his head slowly, a hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips. "they're already guessing, making up their own stories. and i don't want them turning you or our daughter into some mystery they feel entitled to solve." he paused, his hand gently brushing your cheek before resting on the back of your neck. "they already know pieces, love. if we do it our way, maybe we can control the narrative."

you nodded, because, yeah, he made sense. still, it did little to calm the anxiety swirling in your stomach. the idea of letting the world into this small, perfect life you'd built felt overwhelming. but jude had always been protective, and if he genuinely believed this was the right move, that it was time, maybe he was right.

the next morning, he posted on his own account. just a few pictures of the three of you. he didn't write much, just a simple, "my favourite girls.❤️” and that was it.

it didn't take long for his fans to fill up the comments, reactions as chaotic and intense as you'd expected. but in the middle of it all, there was kindness, too. supportive messages, people cheering on your little family, voices of love rising above the judgment—the love overshadowed the hate.

later that night, jude found you on the couch, your daughter dozing against your shoulder. he sat beside you, his arm curling around you both as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. the world might have been watching now, but here, together, none of that mattered.

all that mattered was the three of you.

──────────────────

judebellingham

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judebellingham my favourite girls.❤️

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username: it should have been me is all i'm saying

username: not the little belligol arms, i CANNOT😭💗

davidbeckham: proper family man now.🤍

username: is anyone else irrationally mad right now or am i just too invested??

↳ username: yeah you definitely need to touch grass

aurelientchm: big love, bro.🤝🏽❤️

username: @ynusername can u fight?

username: everyone is putting in their opinions as if we know this man personally. at the end of the day, we're just fans. he doesn't owe us every detail of his life.🤷🏽‍♀️

username: do we get to know her name at least??

username: i can't even hate on it. she seems like a good mom, and their kid is adorable

Two late goals from Argentina, clinical and ruthless, tore the final apart in stoppage time. The final whistle sounded like the end of everything. The stadium erupted in blue and white while the England players stood frozen on the pitch, chests heaving, dreams crumbling in front of their eyes.

Denise had her sunglasses on, but her grip on your arm was tight. Mark looked utterly devastated for his son, jaw clenched, eyes glassy. Your own throat felt raw, too tight. None of you could find words. You could only stare down at the pitch as Argentina celebrated wildly in front of the shell-shocked Three Lions.

Jude was near the centre circle, hands on his hips, head bowed. Even from the stands you could see the devastation carved into him. His broad shoulders rose and fell with each ragged breath, jersey clinging to his sweat-drenched frame. He tried so hard to hold it together, his jaw locked tight, eyes blinking rapidly against the sting, but the mask was cracking. You watched him mouth “fuck… fuck” under his breath, one hand dragging roughly down his face as if he could wipe the reality away. His knees looked like they might buckle for a second. The worst part was always watching him grieve the dream in real time, watching the reality of what they'd just lost settle in. 

He still tried. He always did. You saw him pull a couple of the lads into quick, tight hugs, clap backs, force a few words of encouragement even as his own world felt like it was collapsing around him. But the pain was written so clearly across his face. His eyebrows furrowed deep, lips pressed into a thin line, dark eyes glassy and distant. He looked lost. Gutted. Like the weight of every “what if” and “so close again” was pressing down on his shoulders so much he could barely keep himself upright. The minute you saw him crying, your heart shattered clean in two.

“God, I just hope they’re easy on him in the interviews,” you whispered, voice tight.

“They never make it easy,” Mark replied quietly, patting your back.

Denise’s voice was barely above a breath, but it was steady. “He knows how to handle it. He just needs to get through the next few hours.”

The time between the final whistle and when the lads finally made their way over to the family and friends section blurred into something heavy and suffocating. You couldn’t bring yourself to check your phone. Couldn’t find any words for Denise or Mark. The hurt sat deep in your chest, sharp and aching, all for him.

You only looked up from the floor when you heard movement around you. Jude was walking over, cap pulled low, head down, shoulders slumped so low that it made him look smaller than his six-foot-one frame ever should. The devastation rolled off him in waves.

He hugged his mum first. She held him tight, whispering things you couldn’t hear, and you watched his broad shoulders tremble under her arms. Then his dad. Mark held him upright, hand rubbing slow circles on his back, murmuring quiet words of pride. That’s when you finally caught a proper look at his face. His breathing was hitched, eyes red-rimmed, one hand covering them as if that could shield him from the cameras that never stopped clicking. The media could be so cruel. They’d been vicious during the Euros, tearing him apart for every mistake, every expression, every “arrogant” celebration that wasn’t a celebration at all. Tonight they weren’t quite as vicious yet, but still… they were there. Waiting for the golden boy to break.

You met his eyes over Mark’s shoulder. His eyebrows knitted together the moment your eyes locked, and you were sure your face mirrored the pain on his. His bottom lip trembled for a split second before he forced it still. He was with his safe people, but the stadium still felt too exposed, too bright, too full of eyes that wanted to watch him fall apart.

Instead of letting himself fall into you – because he knew if he did, the dam would break completely – he dropped into the seat beside you and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, cap pulled even lower to hide his face more. You placed a hand on his back, rubbing slow, soothing lines up and down, offering whatever small comfort you could. It felt like the rest of the stadium had gone quiet. All you could hear was the occasional quiet sniffle he tried to hide.

“I’m so sorry Jude–” 

He shook his head quickly, dismissive. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it out loud yet, like mentioning it at all was irritating the wound. 

You frowned, heart twisting as you tried to find something else to say. “Did the interviews go okay?”

He nodded, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah… yeah. Just told them I was gutted.” His voice cracked on the last word and he cleared his throat, trying to steady it. “I’m so fucking–” He couldn’t finish, his voice breaking again as he hid his face with his hands. The words were too painful, caught in his throat.

You shuffled closer, your hand never stopping its gentle path along his back. “Alright, baby… I know. I know,” you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder.

He stayed hunched forward, breathing shaky, the weight of another near-miss pressing down on him like it might crush him right there in the stadium’s seat. Eventually the staff started rounding the lads up for the post match briefing before the third place game on Saturday. Jude stood slowly, blinking away fresh tears, trying to pull some composure back together that clearly wasn’t there.

He hugged his mum and dad again, long and tight. In that moment Morgan Rogers wandered over, looking just as drained as the rest of them. He’d become a close friend to Jude during the tournament, always by his side, and by extension he’d grown close with you too.

“Sorry Morgs,” you said quietly as you pulled him into a hug, “I don’t know what to say to you.”

He let out a heavy sigh against your shoulder, a little more composed than Jude but still clearly gutted. “Yeah… I know,” he mumbled, voice quiet. “Doesn’t feel real yet.”

You pulled back and gave his arm a gentle pat, your worried eyes already drifting back to Jude, who was wiping at his face again as he let go of his dad. “Stick close to him tonight, yeah?” you whispered.

Morgan nodded, frowning a little, the concern clear on his face. “I got him. Don’t worry. We’ll see you back at the hotel later.”

Jude eventually turned toward you. He placed a hand on your waist, not a full hug yet, like he still didn’t trust himself not to completely break down in front of everyone. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering there for a second.

“I love you,” you whispered, hand cupping the back of his neck, thumb stroking gently.

His voice came out higher than normal, shaky and cracking under the weight of everything. “I know, baby… I love you more.”

Then they were gone, trailing after the staff with their heads down. All you could do was watch his tall frame disappear, shoulders still carrying far too much, and wait until you could finally have him to yourself at the hotel later.

A few hours later you were lying on his bed in the team hotel. The room was dim, only the bedside lamp on. Jude’s head was buried in your chest, his body curled into you like he was trying to disappear. He’d showered and changed into his favourite black hoodie and joggers, but he was still so withdrawn, so quiet compared to the Jude you knew and loved. All losses affected him. But losses with England broke something deeper inside him every single time.

He loved playing for his country. It wasn’t just football to him; it was legacy, it was family, it was the little boy from Stourbridge who grew up watching the Three Lions and dreaming of being the one to finally bring it home. Every time they got close and fell short, the shame lingered. He carried the weight of a nation’s hope on his shoulders, and when it slipped away again, he internalised it as a personal failure. Like he hadn’t been good enough. Like he’d let every kid back home, every fan who believed, every former player who’d come before him, down. It wasn’t rational, but it was Jude. He was a winner through and through, and this kind of hurt cut right to the soul of his very being.

You kissed his temple softly, not rushing him. You’d stay here in silence until they forcibly dragged him from your arms if you had to. He wasn’t crying anymore, he was just silent. Both hurt the same.

After a long stretch of quiet, his voice finally cracked the stillness, low and hoarse.

“I… I wanted it so bad.” The words came out raw, almost childlike in their honesty. You felt them land heavy in your chest, a fresh source of sadness pouring over you. “You all did, Jude. You all fought so, so hard out there.”

“But it wasn’t enough,” he whispered, voice breaking on the last word. “It’s never fucking enough. We got so close again… I really thought it felt different this time. I believed in us. I believed in me.”

He shifted slightly, pressing his face harder into your chest like he could hide from the memory of those late goals. You ran your fingers up and down his neck, slow and soothing.

“Jude… you’re twenty-three. Twenty-three. You just led your country to the semi-finals of a World Cup. Do you know how insane that is? How many players would kill for what you’ve already done at your age?”

He stayed quiet for a moment, breathing against you. When he spoke again his voice was muffled but thick with emotion.

“It just hurts so much. I don’t know what even happened to us. We were winning. We were in control. And then…” His shoulders started to shake. “It felt like we were finally going to do it. Like the whole country was behind us. Like maybe this was our time.”

You tightened your arms around him, heart aching.

“You brought the nation together, Jude. For weeks people have been smiling again, believing again, wearing the shirt with pride because of you and the boys. Kids all over England are kicking a ball around in the park right now pretending to be you. That doesn’t go away just because it didn’t end with the trophy. You gave them hope. You gave them something to dream about. You get to keep doing that for years.”

He let out a shaky breath, almost a sob, and shuffled up so he could bury his face properly in the crook of your neck. His big body curled around yours, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist as he breathed you in like you were the only thing keeping him together.

“I knew if I let you comfort me in the stadium I was gonna sob,” he mumbled against your skin. “And… you know I just don’t want people seeing me like that. Not the cameras. Not the whole world. They already love tearing me down when things go wrong. Especially after the Euros… I couldn't give them that again. But I wanted you to comfort me, I needed it.”

You stroked the back of his neck, pressing soft kisses to his hair.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, baby. Not with me. Not with your family. You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to be gutted. You just carried a whole country on your back for weeks. It’s okay if it feels heavy right now.”

He was quiet for a long time, just breathing against you, fingers clutching the back of your top.

“I really thought we had it this time,” he whispered eventually, voice small. “It felt… different. The lads were so together. The belief in the camp was real. And then it just… slipped. Again.”

You held him tighter.

“And it will feel different next time too. Because you’re going to keep growing. You’re going to keep getting better. And one day, whether it’s the next tournament or the one after,  you’re going to lift that trophy. I know it. Your mum knows it. Your dad knows it. The whole country knows it, even if they’re hurting tonight. It hurts because you had belief, Jude. But we all still believe in you.”

He let out a wet, broken little sound and pressed even closer, legs tangling with yours.

“I just wanted it for them, you know? For my family. For you. For the fans who travel everywhere. For the kids who look up to me.” His voice cracked again. “I wanted it so fucking bad.”

“I know you did, my love. And you’ll get another chance. You’re only twenty-three. The best years are still ahead of you.”

He stayed buried in your neck for a long time after that, letting the quiet comfort of your arms slowly ease some of the weight. Every now and then his shoulders would shake with another quiet sob, and you’d just hold him closer whispering how proud you were, how much you loved him, how this one loss didn’t define the incredible player and man he was.

You kept stroking his hair, heart still aching for him, but so full of love it almost hurt. This was your Jude. The one the world didn’t always get to see. The one who carried everything so beautifully, even when it broke him.

“I’ll never forget your face when they sang Wonderwall and Hey Jude to you,” you whispered, voice soft. “Never. You’ve made some beautiful memories, baby. Ones that millions of people are going to hold onto for years. That’s not nothing.”

He stayed quiet for a long time, just breathing against your neck, arms locked around you like you were the only solid thing left in the world. When he finally spoke, his voice was small and raw.

“It just… it hurts so much tonight. I know I’m young. I know there’ll be more chances. But right now it feels like we were so fucking close. Like we had it in our hands and it just… slipped away again.”

You pressed a kiss to the top of his head again, hands smoothing down his back

“I know, my love. And it’s okay to feel that. You’re allowed to be devastated. You’re allowed to grieve it. But please don’t let it make you forget how far you’ve already come. Twenty-three years old and you’re one of the best players in the world. You’ve carried this team. You’ve inspired a whole country. Kids are going to grow up wanting to be you because of what you showed them this summer.”

He let out a shaky breath that sounded half like a sob, half like a laugh.

“You always know what to say,” he mumbled, voice higher than usual from crying. “Can’t even cry properly without you making it feel better. Even when I feel like the biggest failure in the world… you make me feel like maybe I’m not.”

“You’re not,” you said firmly, tilting his chin up gently so you could look at him. His eyes were red, lashes wet, but they were still the same beautiful brown eyes you fell in love with. “You’re my favourite person in the whole world. The hardest worker I know. The one who never gives up. The one who makes me proud every single day. This one loss doesn’t change any of that.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something fragile and hopeful flickering across his face. Then he leaned in and kissed you. Gentle and slow, full of everything he couldn’t quite say. It was soft and grateful, his lips moving against yours like he was trying to pour every ounce of love and thanks into it. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered. “Seriously. Tonight would’ve been unbearable if I didn’t have you waiting for me.”

“You’ll always have me,” you promised, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Win, lose, or draw. I’m right here.”

A tiny, tired smile finally cracked across his lips. It was barely there underneath the grief, but you saw it. It was the first one you’d seen since the final whistle, and it made your heart feel a little lighter.

“There he is,” you whispered, smiling back. “My favourite smile in the world.”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter and kissed you again, slower this time, sweeter. When he pulled away he tucked his face back into your neck, arms tightening around you as his body finally started to relax.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your skin, voice sleepy and warm. “For being here with me. Loving all of me. Even the shit parts that make me cry like a baby.”

“Especially the shit parts,” you teased gently, still playing with his curls. “I love every single one of them.”

He didn’t answer with words, he pressed one last soft kiss to your collarbone and let out a long, exhausted breath. Within minutes his breathing evened out, the tension finally draining from his shoulders as a restless sleep took him over.

You kept holding him, hands still moving gently over him to soothe him, heart full even though it still ached. Tomorrow would be hard. The media, the questions, the what-ifs. But tonight he was safe, here with you in your arms. One day, you truly believed it, he would lift that trophy. You closed your eyes and imagined it. His smile lighting up the whole stadium. The tension finally falling away from his shoulders. The relief he’d feel. Until then, you’d be with him for every high and every heartbreaking low.

Your eyes scanned your computer screen one last time, reading through your article before finally sending it. They lingered over every word, every comma, every period, making sure everything was perfect. It was a habit of yours—to review everything over and over until you finally felt at ease. Deep down, though, you knew it was already fine. It was just your nerves playing tricks on you.

You let out a soft sigh and lifted your head, stretching your neck, which had begun to ache from spending so long hunched over your keyboard.

And that was when you met his eyes.

Those blue eyes that had been watching you for the last thirty minutes.

No, that wasn't true.

Maybe an hour.

But if you were being honest with yourself, you'd been feeling them on you for weeks now, always at the most unexpected moments.

Clark had this habit of silently watching you, as though he were trying to solve a puzzle that only he could see.

The moment your eyes met, he immediately looked away and turned back to his own monitor, pretending he was deeply focused on something important.

You almost laughed.

It was such an awkward reaction.

Such a Clark reaction.

If anyone else had seen him from the outside, he probably would've looked like some kind of stalker.

But you knew better.

He was just your boyfriend, completely lost in his own thoughts, imagining something or reflecting on something you could never quite understand.

So you smiled to yourself and returned to your work, although your mind was no longer fully focused on the words in front of you.

Clark had always been like this.

Strange.

But never in a bad or unsettling way.

It was more as if he saw the world through a different lens—one that only he could look through.

Sometimes the simplest things seemed like profound mysteries to him.

Other times, the things that felt impossibly complicated to you were solved by him with astonishing ease.

Understanding him had taken time.

A lot of time.

Patience.

Carefully observing all of his little habits.

But maybe he understood you far better than you understood him.

Because he never complained about your silence or your bad days.

He was simply there, with those blue eyes and his quiet way of loving you.

Despite everything, loving him had never been difficult.

You had been together for eight months now, and your relationship was serious.

You knew his parents, and he knew yours.

You went to parties together, shared an apartment, and your belongings had become so intertwined that you could barely tell what belonged to whom anymore.

Your colorful scarves rested beside his neatly pressed ties.

Your work blouses hung next to his perfectly ironed dress shirts.

You even had matching mugs—the ones he'd excitedly bought from a little shop downtown—and every morning you used them to drink coffee together.

Yet despite all that closeness, Clark sometimes seemed unable to say the things that truly mattered.

Expressing himself with words wasn't easy for him.

Instead, he'd start with those long, lingering looks, as if he expected you to read his mind.

As if he believed you had powers just like his.

Then he'd smile, and you'd convince yourself you had imagined it.

But then another glance would come.

And another.

And the doubt would quietly settle back into your mind.

As your fingers absentmindedly continued typing, you started wondering what could possibly be going through his head.

Was he thinking about breaking up?

No.

That was impossible.

You remembered the keychain he'd given you.

The one that read "Best Boyfriend Ever" in shiny letters with a little plastic heart attached to it.

At first, you'd thought it was ridiculously cheesy and far too flashy.

But Clark had chosen it with such genuine excitement that you hadn't had the heart to refuse.

He carried the matching one.

It said "My Favorite Girlfriend."

And every single time you pulled out your keys, his eyes lit up like a little kid's.

So you carried it proudly, even if your coworkers occasionally teased you about it.

If he'd given you something that meaningful, there was no way he was planning to end your relationship.

Maybe it was jealousy.

But no.

Clark wasn't a particularly jealous person.

Sure, there were those moments when he'd gently place a hand on your waist whenever someone stood a little too close to you.

Or when he'd tilt his head with that unmistakable expression that clearly said,

"I don't like this."

But he always handled it better than you did.

Once you got home, he'd simply ask whether you'd felt uncomfortable.

No scenes.

No accusations.

No arguments.

He was surprisingly calm about things like that.

Sometimes it honestly amazed you.

Maybe he wanted to go on a trip?

But he hadn't mentioned anything, and the two of you always planned those things weeks ahead of time.

No.

That wasn't it either.

One possibility after another disappeared, and you still couldn't figure out the answer.

When work finally ended, he did exactly what he always did.

Without saying a word, he picked up your purse and slung it over his shoulder.

Then he grabbed your coat—the one you'd brought that morning because it had been cold—but now, with the warmth of the evening settling in, you no longer needed it.

Clark carried it neatly folded over one arm, with that effortless way he had of taking care of you without ever making a fuss about it.

The two of you walked toward the exit together, and you slipped your hand into his free one, feeling the warmth of his fingers intertwine with yours.

There was no need to talk.

Sometimes the silence between you was far more comforting than any conversation.

On the way home, you stopped at the little crêpe stand the two of you loved so much.

You ordered your favorite—the Hawaiian one, with ham and pineapple.

Clark ordered his usual.

Chocolate and strawberries.

You ate while walking, stealing bites from each other's crêpes and laughing when whipped cream ended up smeared across his cheek.

By the time you reached your apartment, the sun had already disappeared below the horizon, and the cool evening breeze drifted through the open windows.

Clark placed the bags on the table and, without saying a word, picked up the dishes the two of you had taken to work so he could wash them.

He shrugged off his suit jacket in one smooth motion and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his forearms as he turned on the faucet.

Everything happened in silence.

Just another routine the two of you knew by heart.

Meanwhile, you placed his briefcase beside the couch and set your purse in its usual spot.

You gathered the coffee mugs you'd both left on your little desks that morning and carried them into the kitchen.

After that, you began organizing your shared workspace.

You knew you'd be assigned another article tomorrow, and you'd probably end up working late again.

And Clark simply couldn't work if everything was messy.

It was one of his many little quirks.

You didn't mind clutter.

Sometimes you even claimed it helped you think.

But Clark needed everything to be exactly where it belonged.

So you placed his pen holder on the right side of his desk, perfectly aligned with his mouse.

Then you set his notebook—the one he only ever used at home—on the left side, carefully lining up its cover with the edge of the desk.

You even sorted through the loose papers left over from previous days.

Then you turned to your own desk, arranging things a little more casually, because you didn't care if your pencils crossed over each other or your sticky notes poked out in every direction.

Clark was still washing the dishes, water running steadily as his hands moved with the same calm rhythm he seemed to have for everything.

You knew he'd probably gathered every single dirty plate, mug, fork, and spoon lying around the apartment, because that was just how meticulous he was.

He never left anything unfinished.

No matter how small it seemed.

You walked into the kitchen and started putting away the leftovers he'd carefully stored in different containers, each one tightly sealed and labeled with what was inside.

He was so organized that sometimes it made you laugh.

But it also gave you a strange sense of comfort.

As you closed the refrigerator door, you felt his gaze settle on you once again.

That gentle but unwavering weight of his eyes.

The silent reminder that something important was on his mind.

Without turning to look at him, because you knew you would get nervous if you did, you asked quietly, "Will you tell me someday?"

Your tone was calm, as though you didn't really care about the answer.

But deep down, you knew you did.

Clark paused for a second, his hands still submerged in the soapy water, and lifted his head to look at you.

"What will I say, sweetheart?" he asked, and there was that small smile in his voice that always appeared whenever he felt he'd been caught.

You finally turned toward him and saw him smiling in that sheepish way you knew so well, as though he'd just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.

"Exactly. I don't know what you'll say, but you'll say something," you replied with a teasing smile.

He let out a quiet laugh as he continued scrubbing the dishes, moving the sponge in slow circles.

The water continued to run, its sound filling the kitchen, but the silence between you was comfortable, like an old blanket.

"It might scare you," he finally said, his voice softer now, almost shy.

That made you stop what you were doing and move to stand beside him, resting your hip against the edge of the counter so you could look at him better.

He kept washing the dishes, but every few seconds his eyes drifted back to you.

"Scare me?" you asked, not quite understanding what he meant.

You frowned for a moment, thinking of all the things that could possibly frighten you, but none of them seemed to fit him.

"I'd be scared if it were a proposal like... I don't know... doing it on the balcony. Now that would completely ruin Clark Kent's image," you joked with a light laugh.

He immediately blushed, a soft pink spreading from the base of his neck all the way to his cheeks.

That only made you laugh harder.

It was so incredibly easy to make him shy just by mentioning something even slightly inappropriate.

"No... that would be vulgar," he replied seriously.

But there was so much affection shining in his eyes that you couldn't help smiling even more.

"What is it?" you asked, softening your voice so he'd know you genuinely wanted to hear him.

Clark set the plate he'd been washing aside and wiped his hands on his pants, a habit he always had whenever he needed to think carefully before speaking.

"I... hypothetically..." he began.

The words came out with difficulty, as though he were trying to assemble a complicated puzzle inside his head.

"I think everything is going really well and... I don't know... I just..."

He tried to finish the sentence, but the words slipped away from him like water through his fingers.

"Hypothetically," you repeated, raising an eyebrow with curiosity.

He smiled, relieved that you'd given him an easy opening.

"If everything keeps going well... hypothetically, we could get married," you said, finishing the thought he couldn't bring himself to say.

He looked at you with such a huge smile that it seemed like even his teeth were glowing.

"And keep living together," you added, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Because to you, it was.

You had already spent eight months sharing every corner of your lives together, and the thought of that continuing forever didn't feel strange.

It felt beautiful.

"If... hypothetically... that happened..." he asked, his voice more serious now, as though he truly needed to know your answer, "would you want to live in Metropolis?"

You shrugged because, honestly, you'd never really thought about it.

The city had its charm, with all its lights and constant energy.

But sometimes it felt overwhelming too.

"I don't know. Maybe... or we could move to Smallville," you suggested without giving it much thought.

The name had simply slipped from your lips almost on instinct.

But Clark froze completely.

He quickly turned off the faucet, shook the excess water from his hands, grabbed a towel, and dried them in a hurry.

Then he reached into the back pocket of his pants for his phone.

You watched him, completely confused.

"Exactly. Hypothetically speaking," he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he unlocked the screen.

"If we moved to Smallville... hypothetically... there's a piece of land for sale there, and the price per square meter is really cheap. Look, here's the listing."

He showed you the pictures on his phone.

Two large lots.

Surrounded by trees.

Plenty of open space.

You nodded as you looked at them, and he kept talking, his voice overflowing with excitement he could barely contain.

"And hypothetically, if you wanted a house exactly the way you like it, we could build it from scratch. I've already looked at blueprints. I have, like, ten different house designs saved in my favorites folder."

He swiped to another picture, showing you the property from a different angle.

"And hypothetically, it's actually inside town. It's only a few blocks from downtown, but it's close to the market too, so it isn't isolated or anything."

He kept swiping.

"And it's close to the schools too. Hypothetically, when our kids start going, they could just take the bus."

Clark switched to another picture.

It showed Smallville High School, its brick walls surrounded by tall trees.

"And I think that school has the best curriculum. Hypothetically, if our kids ever got bored of farm life, they offer dance classes, soccer, art, cooking... even knitting. I asked, and the classes are inexpensive. They also have after-school activities."

He paused for only half a second before adding,

"Hypothetically, of course."

He kept scrolling through pictures on his phone without stopping, while you watched him with an ever-growing smile.

"Hypothetically, the house could have a big backyard where the kids could play. Maybe even a vegetable garden, because you like plants, right? I've already watched tutorials on how to build urban gardens... hypothetically speaking."

He smiled to himself before continuing.

"And the library—I didn't forget about the library. Hypothetically, it'd have a huge window overlooking the fields because you once told me you loved reading with natural sunlight. I even have bookshelves saved from the internet that would be perfect... hypothetically."

He finally stopped for a breath.

You could barely keep yourself from laughing at the overwhelming number of hypotheticallys he'd managed to fit into a single conversation.

"Oh! And hypothetically there's also a hardware store nearby in case we ever need to fix something. There's a park with swings only two blocks away, the grocery store is a five-minute walk, and the church..."

He smiled sheepishly.

"Well... Smallville's church is small, but it's beautiful. Hypothetically... if we ever wanted to get married there."

Then he quickly corrected himself.

"But I know you said you wanted to get married in Metropolis, so we can leave that exactly as it is."

"Hypothetically."

Finally, he stopped.

He realized he'd been talking nonstop for quite a while.

His cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

He hurriedly locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket, as though doing so could somehow erase everything he'd just said.

"Of course... all of that was purely hypothetical," he said with a nervous smile, scratching the back of his neck.

You looked at him.

Not with fear.

But with a mixture of surprise and tenderness so overwhelming that it made your legs feel weak.

You had imagined so many things about your future together, but you had never imagined that he had already planned it with so many details... and with so many "hypotheticallys" that fooled absolutely no one.

The future itself didn't scare you.

What scared you was being with someone who didn't picture you in theirs.

But Clark did.

And he'd thought about it in so much detail that it made your heart tremble with quiet excitement.

Getting married? You had always joked about it, casually throwing comments into the air whenever you watched weddings on TV or when one of your friends got engaged. But Clark truly wanted a life with you. He even thought about the children you might have someday, the school they would attend, the classes they would take, the vegetable garden you could plant together. It was so much, and it felt so real, that for a moment you didn't know what to say.

"Isn't... maybe... it a little too soon?" he said, trying to sound calmer, but his voice betrayed how nervous he was. The excitement from a few moments ago faded slightly, and he lowered his gaze to the floor. "I... well... they're... land listings, that's all," he added, as though that explained everything, and a smile formed on your lips before you could stop it.

"Do you really want to marry me?" you asked, and your own voice came out a little shyer than you had expected.

He looked back up at you and smiled with that smile of his—the one that always made you feel like everything was going to be okay.

"Of course. I can't imagine anyone else being my wife. And if we have children, I've been thinking that about a year beforehand we should start buying baby accessories," he said, pulling out his phone once again to show you something. "I've been reading about different cribs, strollers, and baby clothes, but of course, I thought about the wedding first. You said you wanted it at the church in Metropolis, so I made a budget, and I have it right here..."

He swiped across the screen and showed you a spreadsheet filled with numbers, with categories like "flowers," "catering," "music," and even "wedding dress (options)."

You opened your mouth but couldn't say a single word.

He immediately realized he'd given himself away again.

"Hypothetically, of course," he said quickly.

That made you burst into laughter.

You couldn't hold it in anymore.

The laughter came from the deepest part of you, mixed with a tenderness that completely filled your chest.

You threw yourself into his arms and kissed him, feeling his hands wrap around your waist as he pulled you against his chest.

The kiss was sweet and warm, and when you finally pulled away, he looked at you without letting go, his blue eyes shining as though he had just found the greatest treasure in the world.

You smiled, feeling your heart beating much faster than usual.

"So... are you going to propose to me?" you asked, absentmindedly playing with the collar of his shirt.

"It's a surprise," he replied, letting out a nervous little laugh. "I'll show you the budget, but the proposal will happen when you least expect it. Hopefully soon, though, because I want to reserve the date and buy the land before someone else does." Then he quickly added, as though it somehow made it less obvious, "Hypothetically, of course."

You laughed and wrapped your arms tightly around him, feeling his warmth and hearing his heartbeat against your own. But then an idea crossed your mind to keep teasing him, because you knew that if you didn't embarrass him just a little more, you were going to burst out laughing.

You loosened the hug and looked him straight in the eyes, wearing the mischievous smile he already knew all too well.

"Well, Clark," you said, placing a hand dramatically over your chest, "have you also planned what flowers we'll have at the wedding and what song will play during our first dance? Because you've already thought about it, haven't you?" You let out a little giggle that filled the entire kitchen.

Clark opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it again, and such a deep blush spread up his neck that it looked as though he had stepped into the sun. He froze for a moment, and you instantly knew you had hit the mark.

"Well..." he admitted in a quiet murmur, clearing his throat as he pulled you a little closer against him. "Let's just say I have. But it's not just a game, you know. It's the future I want with you. Truly. No jokes, no dancing around it."

His eyes softened, and that shy smile you loved so much appeared on his face.

"And yes, I've already picked the song for our first dance. But that's a secret I'm keeping until our wedding day."

You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over, and he joined in, blushing but smiling just as brightly.

"Oh, Clark!" you said between laughs, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

You paused before adding with a teasing grin,

"Hypothetically, of course."

He laughed with you, pulling you into another hug and pressing a kiss to the top of your head while the night carried on outside, filled with stars that seemed to shine just a little brighter for the two of you.

.

Clark couldn’t concentrate.

Monday churned, but his head stuck between Friday night and Saturday morning—the soft thud of your feet on his balcony, your laugh in his kitchen, you asleep in his bed in his flannel like it had always been yours.

He hadn’t stopped replaying it. Not when he dropped you off at home Saturday afternoon. Not during Sunday patrol. Not during the solo grocery run he barely remembered doing. Not during the half-written article blinking back at him from his computer screen.

He should’ve been wrangling an exposé on city sanitation negligence. Instead, the cursor blinked at him like a metronome for daydreams. All he saw was your sleepy smile when you padded out for coffee, the way your nose scrunched when you stole a bite of his pancake, the heat in your eyes when you’d said his name.

He scrubbed a hand down his face.

He was in trouble.

“Earth to Kent!” Jimmy’s voice drifted over the partition, sing-song and far too pleased.

Clark blinked. Jimmy leaned his elbows on the divider, camera strap cutting across his chest, grin loaded.

“You’ve been staring at that doc for twenty minutes and typed—let me see—three words?” Jimmy squinted. “Four if ‘the’ counts twice.”

“Hey, man. Just thinking,” Clark said, nudging his glasses up.

“Mmhmm,” Jimmy rocked back on his heels. “Thinking about someone in particular?”

Clark raised a brow. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Baaabe, make the bad man go away...” Cat crooned as she swept by, latte in hand, devilry in her eyes.

Heat ripped across his cheeks.

Lois, trailing behind Cat with her coffee, barked out a laugh. “Oh my God, Clark. Her voice when she said that? She knew exactly what she was doing.”

“I—” he fumbled, flustered. “She had some drinks!”

“She was cute,” Jimmy chimed in. “And bold. Which is saying something, considering we all watched your ears go bright red while she clung to your chest like a koala.”

Cat perched herself on the edge of her desk. “I like her. She’s got moxie.”

“I like her too,” Jimmy added, waggling his eyebrows. “She’s good for you.”

Lois smirked over her mug. “And clearly into you, Kent. Don’t even try to play dumb.”

Clark cleared his throat, looking down at his keyboard like it could save him. “We’re...just friends. Best friends."

“Sure,” all three chorused.

Cat leaned in conspiratorial. “That girl was ready to dropkick a man for bumping into her last month. But when it came to you? Putty. Absolute puddle.”

Jimmy grinned. “You wanna hear what I think?”

“No,” Clark said flatly.

“I think you’re smitten, my dude. Like, Romeo-and-Juliet, falling-over-balconies smitten.”

“Jimmy—”

“Except you’re, like, way more reserved than Romeo, and she’s not stupid enough to fake her own death, so it’ll probably work out.”

Clark clicked his tongue, “What kind of analogy is that?”

“A hopeful one,” Lois muttered, walking off toward her desk. “If it gets you to finally ask her out.”

Cat pointed at him with her straw. “Friendly PSA, Clark: make a move before someone else does.”

His jaw worked. “Cat.”

“What?” She shrugged. “A city like this? Cute nurse like her? Charming mid-west personality? Tick-tock, big guy.”

When the teasing finally subsided and the bullpen returned to its usual hum, Clark sat in silence, staring at the blinking cursor again. The words didn’t come, but his thoughts sure did.

You.

That little black dress. The way your hand slid down his chest when you perched onto his lap at the bar, drunk on laughter and a little too much spirits. How your voice softened into something near-whispered when you begged him to “make the bad man go away,” and the way it had sent a very human kind of heat curling up his spine.

Then the flight home. The shared bed.

The Saturday morning pancakes, coffee, revelation of wanting more in the future - his mind's eye creating nirvana for him with you at the center. 

It had all been perfect. So perfect. Like a moment borrowed from a life he hadn’t realized he’d been aching to have.

Jimmy reappeared for only a moment to drop a file on his desk and murmur, gentler now, “She looked happy with you, man. Don’t overthink a good thing.” 

Clark leaned back in his chair and stared out the bullpen windows toward the blue sky, the faintest ache blooming behind his ribs. This wasn’t a borrowed moment. Not nostalgia. Not a one-night detour into almost, if he could help it.

You’d slid back into his days and nights like the missing drumbeat in a song he’d been humming for years.

He dragged himself closer to his desk and began to type. Not the lede about broken trash routes. Not union quotes or council minutes. A different sentence, simple as gravity, honest as breath:

He was done pretending this was only friendship.

He loved you.

Properly, unconditionally loved you. He’d keep it to himself a little longer—say it right, say it when the world was quiet and the sky was theirs—but the fact of it no longer scared him.

Clark exhaled, a small, helpless smile tipping his mouth as his cursor finally began to move across the page. Somewhere between Friday night and Saturday morning, the line he’d been guarding had dissolved. And now there was only this:

Do the job. Do right by the city. The world.

And when the day was honest and the sky was clear, do right by the woman who slept in his bed, in his flannel.

Before someone else tried to.

.

“Kent! Get in here! Now!”

Clark’s head jerked up from his monitor just as the last few keystrokes of his poetic spiral vanished behind the system’s auto-save. He blinked toward Perry’s office, where the editor-in-chief stood with one hand on the doorframe and the other holding a thick manila envelope.

Lois glanced up over her mug, “Uh-oh. What'd you do this time?”

Clark pushed back his chair and walked towards the office. “I—don’t know." He gave her a weak shrug, and Lois offered a shrug in return.

The moment he stepped through the door, Perry closed it behind him.

“Sir, I didn’t do anything,” Clark said automatically.

Perry grunted. “Actually, you did. That’s the problem.”

"Uh...?"

Perry held up an envelope, slapped it lightly against his palm, and then tossed it on the desk with enough force that it slid toward Clark’s abdomen. “You wrote something decent, Kent.”

“…Thank you?”

“No. I mean, award-winning decent.”

Clark stared. “Award—?”

“Human Interest, Kent. First time in six years this paper’s taken the damn thing home. You remember that article you did back in May—construction site collapse, off-duty nurse stabilizing civilians on scene before EMS arrived?”

Of course Clark remembered.

The day his life changed. 

He remembered you with your sleeves rolled up, hands steady and stained in blood. The tilt of your chin as you worked. The way your voice cut through panic like a scalpel.

“I remember,” he said softly.

“Well, the committee couldn’t get enough of it. Said it was ‘a quietly heroic piece about the quiet heroism that keeps the world turning.’ Their words, not mine,” Perry muttered, opening a drawer and pulling out a celebratory cigar he wouldn’t light until after six. 

“You got it, Kent. The plaque, the speech at the Observatory —it'll be a long night with other award recipients and schmoozing with the city's top dogs. Don't screw it up.”

Clark was still reeling. “Speech? Schmoozing?”

"Try night to faint," Perry clapped him on the back. “Charity Gala’s in two weeks. Saturday. Suits. Honors the reporting, among other organizations. Lois can help you with the words, assuming she doesn’t rewrite them entirely. And—” he lifted a finger, “—there’s a plus one.”

Clark dragged a hand over the back of his neck. “A… plus one.” 

Perry gave him a look. “Don’t tell me you’re still a boy scout about these things. Bring someone. Impress the committee. Bring a date.”

Clark’s brain offered him the image before he could stop it: you, in something that caught the light; your hand on his sleeve; the city glittering behind the Observatory’s glass.

Perry squinted. “Wait—are you seeing someone?”

He saw you in his mind. In his shirt. In his bed.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh… I'll ask someone.”

“Good.” Perry leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grunt. "Say, the nurse you wrote about.”

Clark’s head came up. “Sir?”

“The subject of the story,” Perry clarified, as if explaining gravity. “The reason you’re getting a plaque instead of a pat on the head. Before you ask, the committee doesn't invite story subjects unless their org buys a table,” Perry grunted.

Clark frowned. “But—she’s the reason the piece exists!”

“No argument,” Perry said. “MetroGen already plans on sending their suits and high-paying donors. Hospital PR gets twitchy about putting staff on a dais without releases, union clearance, the whole HIPAA three-ring circus.”

He pointed at the envelope. “That’s where you use your guest. Bring her as your plus-one and we’ll make sure she’s acknowledged from the podium, if she wants. Optics are cleaner, too—she’s not being paraded as ‘Hospital Property,’ she’s there because the story mattered and the person mattered to the city.”

Clark nodded slowly.

Perry added, softer, “We did float her name to the coordinator. They said the same thing—happy to spotlight if you bring her. So ask her, Kent. Let the room meet the reason you won."

Then a pause.

"Also, I’d rather not watch you lurk by the punch bowl like a haunted coat rack.”

Clark tried not to smile. Failed a little. “I don’t lurk.”

“You loom,” Perry said, rising to end the meeting. “Different verb, same problem. Wear a tux that fits. And if you cry at the podium, make sure the camera’s on you when you do.”

Clark gathered the envelope, still a little shell-shocked. “Yes, sir.”

Perry was already waving him off. “And Kent?”

Clark paused.

“Make it count.”

.

Clark left the office with the envelope tucked under one arm as if it'd float away if he loosened his grip. Everything looked the same, but everything inside him felt bright and off-balance. 

Jimmy popped up over the partition like a meerkat and snapped a photo. “Journalist haze! Pulitzer-core!”

“Delete that,” Clark managed, ears betraying him. 

Cat clocked the envelope, then his ears—already pink. “So? We toasting you or roasting you?”

When Lois caught his expression, her eyes narrowed with worry, “What happened?”

Clark just blinked at her.

"Did you get fired?"

Clark shook his head, silent.

“…Did you win something?”

He nodded, slow and dazed.

She snorted. “You won something. Jesus, don't scare me like that."

"Perry—” Clark cleared his throat, holding up the manila envelope like proof of life. “Perry told me I’ve got a plus-one. Gala. Two weeks.”

Jimmy straightened, delighted. “Plus-one? Oho.” He pointed, delighted. “Who’re you bringing?”

Cat nudged Jimmy, “We know the answer already, don't spook him! He’s a midwestern deer. Ease in.” She dropped the phone to her thigh and aimed a straw at him.

Lois chuckled, more to herself, "And don't overthink it."

Cat wagged her phone. “Also—flowers. Clean shirt. Use your face.”

“My… face?” Clark echoed, scrunching his nose.

“Yeah, the gooey one!" Cat extended an arm, hand waving at Clark's face, "The one that makes even the grouchiest leads forgive you."

Lois planted a hip on his desk. “Ask her properly. No weird half-invite that sounds like a scheduling memo.”

Jimmy braced both hands on the partition this time, eyes bright. “We talking our favorite nurse, right?"

Clark’s ears warmed. He glanced from one to the next, then squared up. “Yes, her,” he said. Not shy. Just honest. “I’m asking her.”

Jimmy extended a fist bump, with Clark returning it. “You nervous?”

Clark rolled a shoulder, considering it. “Excited,” he admitted. “A little nervous. Not about her. About… making it good.”

Cat nodded, “Tell her why you want her there. None of this ‘well, technically, there’s a seat’ bull.”

Lois’s then tapped the envelope in Clark's hands. “Remember: you won because the story had a heart. Bring the heart.”

Clark looked down, then back up, steadier now. “I will.”

Jimmy snapped, like he’d solved it. “And breathe.”

Clark huffed a laugh, cheeks still hot. “Copy that.”

Lois squeezed his shoulder, “Go get the girl, Smallville!”

Perry’s door banged open. “This a newsroom or a quilting circle? Scatter!” he barked.

The bullpen snapped back to speed—phones bleating, a printer coughing, Jimmy tripping over a power strip on his retreat. Lois shot Clark a last pointed look—ask her—then peeled off. Cat winked at Clark and vanished.

Clark slid back into his chair before they could see the way his hands shook. The envelope thumped onto his desk; the manila edges looked absurdly formal next to his battered notebook and cold coffee. He didn’t open it again. He knew what it said. What he wanted was to see you see it.

He lasted seven minutes.

He tried to work. Wrote four words about sanitation, deleted three. Checked the clock. Imagined the hospital rooftop at dusk, the grocery aisle where you argued about oatmeal, the exact bend in your smile when you said his name like it meant safety and trouble all at once. The thought cut through him: I don’t want the next time to be tomorrow. I want it to be now.

He stood, paced a useless loop around his desk, sat again, racing thoughts. Don't be too eager. Don’t spook her. Ask right. He pictured coming home to you, flowers, and... dinner. Tell her at dinner. Invite her to the gala. Tell her she was the part that mattered.

His phone lay face-down by his notebook. He flipped it over, thumb already hovering. Your thread sat pinned at the very top: texts, photo of a badly lit sunrise you sent from before your day shift, his shot of a cat that he saved, a voice memo of your laugh when your blender lid blew off. The cursor blinked in the empty bubble.

He typed, paused, deleted one word, and hit send.

CLARK: Hey. Are you free tonight?

.

Your shift had barely hit second gear, and your feet already felt like you’d run a 10K through wet concrete. Two admits, one transfer waiting on bed placement, one family asking for a doctor every five minutes as if you had a spare in your pocket. You were halfway between vitals and charting when your phone buzzed in your scrub top.

Sierra, probably, you thought. She always checked in to make sure you hadn’t stolen the last chocolate pudding.

You fished the phone out, the lockscreen photo you definitely hadn’t stared at this morning flashing up: you and Clark half-tucked into each other, laughter caught mid-tilt.

Under it:

CLARK: Hey. Are you free tonight?

You went still.

It was one line—clean, polite, practical—but it unstuck something in your ribs. Since Friday night, you’d stopped pretending this was only nostalgia. The image of his flannel on your skin, of waking tangled in him, had followed you into every quiet pocket of the weekend. You’d brushed your teeth with his spare, set his photo as your lockscreen without changing it back, and realized that the ground had shifted. You wanted more. You were terrified. Both were true.

“Hellooo,” Danielle said, snapping her fingers in front of your face. “You’ve been standing in front of the Pyxis station for like five minutes. You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, and stepped aside so Danielle could dispense a medication. “I’m fine. I just got a text.”

“Text from tall, hot, and glasses?” she teased, typing medication names.

You glared at her.

She held up her hands, not even bothering to look at you as she selected her patient's medication for the hour. “I’m just saying. You guys spend a lot of time together. I would've caught feelings by now if I were you, and be spinning into the void.”

“I’m not spinning.”

You were absolutely spinning.

You stared back down at the message like it might suddenly include a postscript:

“P.S. This is not romantic. Please do not spiral.” But no such luck.

You didn’t reply right away. You wanted to. But your brain was already setting off internal fire alarms and asking questions it had no business asking:

Is this where everything finally tilts one way or the other? Are we still just rebuilding? Are we already something more? Was that flannel night a fluke? God, what if this is the part where it starts to fall apart?

You took a deep breath, then typed.

YOU: Yeah, nothing planned

Sent. Delivered. Read instantly.

The ellipsis appeared, vanished, then returned. Classic Clark, starting three different sentences in his head before sending one.

Then:

CLARK: Great, I'll see you tonight! Your place. 

Vague. Infuriatingly sweet. Weaponized farmboy.

Your stomach did a small, traitorous flip.

You tucked the phone back, then pulled it out again. Curiosity was already chewing the edge of your good sense.

YOU: Are you okay?

Three dots. Stop holding your breath. Breathe.

CLARK: I'm great. I just have something I want to ask you.

Heat prickled your neck. You typed, erased, typed.

YOU: Should I… uh, make dinner? Any cravings? Did you need anything?

CLARK: Need just you.

Oh.

Heat rose up your neck so fast you had to pretend you’d remembered something important on a chart. You did not squeak. You absolutely did not squeak.

“Everything good?” Sierra slid up beside you with a pile of fresh linen, eyes already sparking with curiosity. “You’re making the face.”

You crinkled your nose, “What face?”

“The one that says: a handsome man just sent me a text that short-circuited my frontal lobe. What did Clark say this time?”

“N-no! This is my work face,” you lied. “Very professional. ”

“Uh-huh.” She shoulder-checked you and drifted off, humming.

You rolled your eyes and escaped to your next set of vitals, pulse still skittering. Halfway down the hall, the phone buzzed again.

CLARK: Don’t worry about food. I got us covered.

Another buzz, fast on the heels of the last:

CLARK: And that's all I'll say. Stop trying to interview me back.

You felt the smile before you realized it. Your thumbs moved on their own.

YOU: I’m a professional. It’s reflex

CLARK: So is being stubborn

YOU: Rude! Takes one to know one, Kent.

CLARK: I'll see you tonight, short-stack

You tucked the phone away and forced your brain back into hospital mode. The ward answered by detonating on cue: four call lights pinged in chorus, a bed alarm shrieked, and someone shouted “Where’s respiratory?!” from the far bay.

“Let’s move,” Danielle called, palm already slapping the crash bar.

You ran into the fray. Still, under the noise and motion and the cool, bright focus of your hands doing what they knew how to do, a little thread of warmth tugged at you, excited to see Clark tonight. 

.

You barely remembered the walk home after work. Just the afternoon sun hanging low behind the buildings, and your heart thudding against your ribs since you stepped out of the hospital.

Your feet moved on autopilot.

Shower. Fresh clothes. Deep breaths.

Don’t spiral.

It had been a long shift — back-to-back traumas, a few stitches, "I swear, I don't know how that got in there" emergencies — but somehow, you still had energy leftover. Nervous energy. That charged kind you used to feel before school dances or science fairs with Clark, when the air felt like it might crackle around you if you didn’t do something with your hands.

You were standing in your bedroom now, blow drying your dark hair, trying to choose between casual and… not-so-casual. Something in-between. A soft knit sweater, dark jeans. Simple. Comfortable. Safe.

You weren’t even sure why you were so keyed up. He didn’t say it was a date. He hadn’t said much at all, except that he wanted to ask you something tonight, and he had dinner covered.

Like whatever was coming next had weight. Like it had been building for a while.

You checked the mirror one last time, the nerves bouncing in your fingertips as you pushed your hair behind your ears.

Then, the knock. You froze. Another knock — three soft raps. Familiar.

You padded barefoot across the apartment, and opened the door.

There he was.

Clark stood there in the hallway, wind-tossed and unfairly handsome in a navy jacket and an oatmeal sweater, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a small bouquet of autumn flowers. Burnt orange mums, golden daisies, sprigs of eucalyptus that smelled like clean rain.

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “You brought flowers?”

A sheepish smile. “It felt like the kind of night for flowers.”

"Oh, Clark," you pressed a hand to your chest, "Thank you."

He passed you the bouquet, careful not to crush the petals between his fingers. 

“Come in,” you coaxed, stepping aside as you smelled the flowers.

“I, uh,” he began, then glanced at your sweater and jeans and seemed to exhale in relief, as if he’d made the right guess. “I was going to bring dinner, but… would you let me take you out instead? There’s a place a few blocks over—quiet, good soup, not too fancy.”

You laughed, nerves dissolving. “You had me at ‘quiet.’ Give me two minutes to grab shoes, 'kay?”

He waited by the door while you slid the flowers in a vase and found your boots. When you looked up, he was already watching you like he always did lately, as if the room rearranged itself around you.

Outside, the air had that clean bite of autumn, streetlights haloed with cool mist. He kept close, hand at the small of your back when you stepped off the curb, the old, unspoken boundary from Friday night humming between you like an exposed nerve.

The restaurant was a narrow bistro tucked under a canopy of turning leaves. Candlelight, small tables, the hush of other people’s conversations turning into pleasant static. You slid into a two-top by the window; he took the chair across, knees almost—not quite—brushing yours under the table.

“You okay?” you asked, because he looked like a man rehearsing the next words the entire afternoon.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, better than okay.” A beat. “I wanted to tell you this in person.”

You set your menu down. “Tell me what?”

He looked down at his own menu, then up at you — eyes glowing, impossibly soft and awe-struck. “That article. The one about you. Remember when I said it was nominated a couple of months ago?”

You nodded, lips parting.

He smiled a little. “I won the Human Interest award. Perry told me this morning."

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh—oh my gosh! Clark!” You didn’t even realize you’d reached out until your fingers were curling around his wrist.

“That’s incredible! You're incredible!” you breathed, shaking his arm a little. “You won!”

His gaze dropped to where you touched him, then rose, full of something that made your ribs ache. “We won,” he said, voice low. “It wouldn’t exist without you.”

You tried to say something else, but your throat was suddenly thick, emotions catching in the net of your chest. You remembered the moment the crane had collapsed, the cries in the street, the blood on your hands, the woman whose pulse was faint and almost lost under your fingertips. That article brought something so good from it. Something lasting, sealed to you for life.

Clark gave your hand a light squeeze with his free hand.

“There’s a gala,” he said softly. “Two Saturdays from now. Metropolis Observatory. Suit and tie, dinner, speeches, the whole thing. Perry arranged the Planet team there. Lois already RSVPed. Jimmy’s going. Cat booked a limo. Ron. Steve. Perry's dusting off his old tux. And I...”

He paused, then braced both palms lightly on either side of his silverware. You nodded as if you were giving Clark permission to continue, unsure where this was going. 

Then Clark cleared his throat, and the rest came out in a rush. His voice was vulnerable and hopeful, boyish and brave all at once. Just like when you were sixteen, that night with stars in the sky and the Kansas dirt beneath your back.

He looked at you like he was stepping over a line you’d both been toeing since Friday.

“I want you there with me. As my plus-one.” A slow inhale. “As my date.”

Your lips parted, the weight of the moment settling over your chest. You hadn’t expected that. Not with such directness. Not with the word “date” said like it was sacred.

He was asking you, and it felt like the kind of ask you didn’t just walk into lightly.

Clark Kent, your childhood best friend turned stranger turned world savior turned man-who-never-really-left-your-heart, wanted to walk into a fancy event and show the city you mattered to him.

Your lips parted, heat blooming up your neck. “Your… date?” You heard the wobble in your own voice and tried again, softer, shy but hopeful. “You really want me?

His answer was immediate, no space for doubt. “Yes, I do.” His eyes didn’t waver.

You tried to temper your grin and failed spectacularly. He watched the attempt, dimples deepening, and shook his head like he couldn’t help himself.

“Gosh, you’re so you,” he said, tender and a little awed.

That knocked a small, stunned laugh out of you. Your fingers curled in the napkin on your lap as your heart tripped over itself. Your voice caught a little when you answered.

You ducked your gaze, smiling into it, and finally breathed, “Okay.” Then steadier, happier: “Yes. Always yes, Clark.”

Clark’s expression split into that smile you've fallen in love with, the one that was all dimples and warmth and something deeper just beneath the surface. The waiter appeared, apologized for interrupting; you both fumbled menus, laughing, suddenly lighter. When the waiter retreated, Clark leaned in, voice dipping intimate.

“For the record,” he added, thumb brushing the side of his water glass the way it had brushed your lower lip that morning in his kitchen, “I'm asking not just because you’re the reason for the article or it’s good press. I want you there because I couldn't imagine standing in that room without you next to me.”

Under the table, your boot nudged his knee. You didn’t pull back. Neither did he.

You had two weeks until the gala.

Two weeks to figure out what to wear. You were itching to research reputable boutiques before sleeping tonight.

Two weeks to make sure you didn’t combust from this slow, wonderful burn you were both dancing in.

But tonight? Tonight was dinner, flowers, and Clark looking at you like you were the best part of his evening.

.

The city had thinned to a hush by the time you and Clark turned onto your block. The shopfronts were dark, leaves skittering along the sidewalk like coins, and the river wind carried that faint metallic chill that always meant another season was about to turn. He walked close enough that your shoulder brushed the back of his hand every few steps.

He kept stealing glances. You let him.

When the wind slipped between buildings, he shrugged out of his jacket and settled it over your shoulders without asking.

“Deja vu,” you said, fingers finding the lapel. “You and your chivalry.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmured, almost apologetic. “Blame Ma.”

The lobby light clicked on as you reached your stoop. It felt like the end of one of your old summers: the world quiet, the air full of almost. 

“Thank you,” you said, softer than the neon hum. “For dinner. For the flowers. For… asking me.”

Clark's mouth did that crooked half-smile that always made you blush. “You make it very easy to want to.”

Then he lifted a hand as if to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, then thought better of it and let his palm hover—close enough that you felt the heat. His eyes flicked to your mouth and back.

“Can I—” he started, voice low.

You held his gaze, a smile ghosting your lips. “Can you what?”

The echo of it tugged a string through time: behind the school gym; the night of the interview months ago; then him on your parents’ porch the August morning you left for Star City, your belongings in the trunk, sun catching in his dark hair; the near-kiss that had hovered, trembling, between breath and bravery.

He blinked like he felt it too. Something in your chest answered before you did.

You rose onto your toes and, because he was so tall and the universe has a sense of humor, you caught his tie with two fingers and tugged him down the last impossible inches. His breath hitchedand you pressed your lips to his cheekbone, slow and sure. Warm skin. Faint soap. The scratch of stubble he hadn’t bothered to tame for patrol.

Your hand rose to his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth in a promise you weren’t ready to cash.

“Goodnight, Clark,” you whispered, the words sinking into his skin. “And… congratulations. You’re a good man.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled, just for a second. When he opened them, they were bright with determination.

He didn’t chase your mouth. He didn’t try to turn the moment into more. He just leaned, barely, so your forehead found his shoulder. His hand gently settled between your shoulder blades and then lifted away.

“Goodnight,” he whispered back, his voice rough around your name. He didn’t let go fully right away. Neither did you.

Finally, you eased your fingers free from his tie, the loss bright as cold air. You stepped backward through the door, wearing his jacket and a ridiculous grin you couldn’t smother.

You stepped back, butterflies and ballast, both. “Goodnight, Clark. Text me when you're home."

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, grinning.

You slid inside the lobby and turned once more. He’d taken two steps, like he meant to be disciplined about leaving, and then looked back, caught in the same small gravity as that first night you reconciled.

You lifted your keys like a flag. He tapped the spot on his cheek where you’d kissed him, that boyish grin breaking through like sunrise, and lifted two fingers in a small salute.

Then he turned, the night catching his shoulders, and later, after he texted you 'good night', you climbed into bed already counting down to two Saturdays from now.

.

Another day at the bullpen of the Daily Planet with controlled chaos — reporters weaving between desks with coffee in one hand and notepads in the other, someone yelling about a press conference being bumped to noon, and Perry bellowing from his office that if one more printer jammed, he was going to personally hand-set type the next edition.

And yet… nothing could bring Clark down.

Not the beyond-early morning start as Superman. Not the glitching copy machine. Not even the intern who spilled lukewarm coffee on his desk and frantically tried to mop it up with half a napkin and a receipt.

He just smiled, said it was fine, and continued typing as if the sun had personally risen just for him.

Lois watched from across the bullpen, eyes narrowing. She drifted over and planted a hip on his desk. “You’re humming, Smallville."

Clark blinked up at her. “What?”

“You’re humming,” she repeated, arms crossed. “And smiling. At work. On a Tuesday.”

Jimmy appeared right behind her, holding two cameras and a takeout bag in his teeth. He set them both down, hands free. “Okay, but he’s been smiling and humming since he got here, which was, like, 7:52.”

"Not tardy?" Lois raised a brow, “And I recall our good friend Clark here doesn't care to show off his singing skills.”

Jimmy pointed. “He glared at me for whistling last week.”

Clark fought the grin pulling at his mouth. “You were off-key.”

“Deflection,” Lois accused. “Spill it.”

Clark shrugged, unbothered, and turned slightly back to his monitor. “I just had a good evening yesterday.”

“Uh-huh,” Jimmy said. “Would this have anything to do with our favorite nurse?”

Clark’s fingers paused on the keyboard.

Lois’s eyes sparkled. “It does.”

Jimmy gasped like he was on a reality show. "Did you hook up!?"

Clark’s ears went pink immediately. He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses as if that would deflect the attention. "No, no! Nothing like that."

Lois playfully shoved Jimmy, then asked gentler, “Did she say yes to the gala?”

Clark turned toward them fully now, flustered but unable to hide his excited smile. “She did.”

Lois’s eyebrows shot up. “It's really happening!”

“She said yes,” Clark repeated, a little dazed, a lot elated. “She’s coming with me.”

Jimmy fist-pumped so hard he nearly knocked over his second camera. “Let’s gooo!”

Lois aimed an I-told-you-so over the rim of her coffee. “What did I say? Ask properly. Don’t overthink.”

“I brought flowers,” Clark admitted, still dazed. “And we had dinner. Then, I walked her home and—” He stopped, the memory blooming warm. “—and she kissed my cheek.”

Lois’s mouth curved like a Cheshire Cat. “The cheek, huh?”

Jimmy clapped his hands, then pointed at Clark like he solved a crime. “That’s pre-kiss staging. Strategic. Crowd goes wild in Act Two.”

Clark tried to school his face and failed. “It was… good. It felt—right.”

“Gooey,” Cat announced, materializing with a latte and zero context. “He’s got a gooey face!"

Jimmy leaned toward Cat, stage-whispering, “He brought flowers, took her out to dinner, ended with a cheek kiss.”

Cat squealed, delighted. “Clarkie! Did you do the hand hover, too? The not-touch that counts as touching?"

Clark looked at his keyboard. “Maybe.”

Lois bumped his shoulder. “You look lighter.”

He let the truth sit between them. “I am.”

Jimmy pulled out his phone. “I’m putting this in the Planet group chat. Just a little emoji announcement. A wine glass and a tux. Maybe a heart. That’s subtle, right?”

Clark gave him a look. “Please don’t do that.”

Lois waved him off. “Let him. Everyone’s been curious since that article came out months ago.”

“It wasn’t like that when I wrote it,” Clark said honestly.

“But it is now,” Lois replied, voice softer. There was a moment — not quite teasing anymore. Just knowing. Like she saw something in him that went deeper than dates and galas and headlines.

Clark smiled, quiet and certain. “Yeah. It is.”

Lois nodded once, approving. “Good.”

Cat ignored them entirely. “Question: have you told her the committee wants the Human Interest winner photographed with their plus-one? Because that means stairs, cameras, and her looking lethal on your arm.”

“I told her the important part,” Clark said softly. “That I wanted her there.”

Jimmy glanced between them. “Wait—do I have to wear a tux?”

“Yeah, it’s a gala, Jimmy,” Lois said, rolling her eyes.

“Ugh. I hate wearing a tie.”

Lois grinned. “Too bad. He gets a date. You get a collar.”

He turned back to his screen, the newsroom buzz rising around them, but his mind snagged on the night before. The candlelight on your smile, the nervous little breath before you whispered yes, the way you tugged him down to plant that careful kiss under the awning you were both content to keep for now.

Printer jam shrieked. Phones rang. Perry swore he’d staple the next edition together himself.

.

The boutique smelled like steamed silk and new carpet, all soft lighting and gilt mirrors that made everything look a little dreamlike. Racks whispered when the sales associate, a patient woman with a ballet bun, slid hangers along the bar.

You stood, arms crossed, trying to talk yourself out of spiraling. Again.

This was your third boutique, traveling across the city. Other places didn’t have the dress or had options that didn't break the bank.

It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. It was just a gala. You were just choosing a dress. 

For a very public, very elegant, high-profile gala. With Clark. Your best friend since before you learned multiplication. As his date. At the Metropolis Observatory. Under the stars. With the entire Daily Planet and half the city council and most likely important or powerful city figures and families in attendance.

Your pulse did that hummingbird thing again. You were doomed.

“Something that feels like you, but elevated,” the associate said, as if reading your mind. “Not costume. Not armor. Your silhouette—just… clearer.”

You nodded, grateful for the translation. “Yes, please.”

Two gowns later—one that swallowed you whole, one that tried to maul your collarbones—she lifted a third like a spell being cast. Navy so deep it flirted with midnight. Backless, a clean plunge, a slit that was decisive without testifying in court.

You tried not to gasp. You failed.

“How about this one?” the sales associate asked kindly, holding up a sleek navy-blue backless gown with a slit up the side and a neckline that made your breath hitch.

You gave her a polite, nervous smile and nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Let’s try that one.”

The dressing room felt too warm, too intimate. Your fingers fumbled at the zipper of your hoodie, peeling yourself out of street clothes and into something that felt wildly more vulnerable. You drew the zipper up and turned toward the mirror.

For a second, you didn’t breathe.

The gown was breath-taking — dark and silky and form-hugging without being too much. You adjusted the bodice, twisted a bit in the mirror, and frowned at your reflection.

You didn’t look like someone who belonged at a gala.

You looked like someone pretending to belong.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again — standing in front of your bedroom mirror before prom, second-guessing everything about your dress, your makeup, your existence. Your parents had left a note on the counter (“Have fun. There’s leftover lasagna.”) and a hundred unspoken miles between you and the night.

You heard the familiar cough of the Kent truck and nearly came apart at the zipper. A soft knock. Then Clark slipped into your room, tie a little crooked, curls refusing to be tamed, holding a corsage in a crinkled white box. He stopped dead in the doorway when he saw you mid-spiral—lipstick in one hand, doubt in the other—and everything in him gentled.

“Hey,” he greeted. He set the box on your dresser, stepped behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Your tie’s crooked,” you deflected when he kept staring, because panic makes you petty.

He laughed under his breath. “Probably.” And then, quietly, mumbling exactly the right words: “You look like someone they write songs about.”

It knocked the air right out of you that night. He said it like he’d have said it if you were in sweats, like he was seeing the same you he’d seen since you were six and grass-stained. Your hands stopped trembling. He opened the box, slipped the corsage onto your wrist with careful fingers, and you did his boutonnière in return, thumbs grazing the warm line of his collarbone.

You blinked, startled by the memory and the flutter it brought with it.

You turned, smoothed a hand over your hip, then stepped out of the changing room.

The associate gasped quietly, a hand to her open mouth. “Oh, sweetheart.”

You tried to smile, but probably came as a grimace. “Too much?”

"Exactly enough,” she assured, looking at you like a proud mother. “If your man doesn’t forget how to breathe, I’ll give you a refund.”

You snorted, heat climbing your neck. “Well, he’s pretty composed.”

She arched an eyebrow, ushering you to the full-length mirror, making minor adjustments. “They all are. Until someone walks in wearing something like that.”

“Hair up,” the associate mused, fingers hovering near your neck. “Let the lines breathe. Pearl drop or something with a little sparkle. Minimal shoe, maybe strap. You’ll be walking a lot it seems.”

“And eating bread,” you said gravely.

She grinned. “We’ll allow it.”

You glanced at the price tag, grimaced, but then thought about Clark.

Then you saw the reflection you’d been avoiding: not Clark’s best friend, not the reliable nurse who fades to the edges when the crisis ends, but a woman who could walk into a room and be the point of focus. Who could be chosen, without apology.

You pictured his face when he turned and how his eyes went soft when something caught him off guard. The way his breath hitched when you wore his flannel. The careful way he said date, like it was a vow.

You swallowed hard, willing your voice steady. “I’ll take it.”

Alterations were pinned and promised the next afternoon. 

The next day, you sat with a tea in hand at a quiet corner café, the dress bag draped carefully across your lap. You’d sent a coy photo of navy fabric to Olivia and another to your favorite group chat of ER nurses, fishing for some kind of reassurance. You considerered texting Cat, but didn't. You didn't even reach out to your best friend, the one person who could give you all the answers. 

Not yet.

You wanted the first look to be Clark's. To see the look on his face when he saw you for the first time like this. 

You scrolled to your lockscreen—the candid of you and Clark mid-laugh, heads tipped together like an old habit—and your stomach flipped so hard you had to sip steam to hide the smile.

You opened Notes and started a list you’d pretend wasn’t a list:

hair up?

gold earrings

lipstick that survives drinks and a kiss

heels to dance in (maybe?)

bandaids

Your knee bounced under the table. You pressed your palm to it and breathed. It’s a gala, you told yourself. It’s a date.

It’s Clark, and somehow, that was the most comforting and terrifying part of all.

.

You had just tossed your keys on the counter and slipped your hoodie onto the back of the couch when your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You barely glanced at the screen—assuming it's just another late shift group chat or Olivia sending a meme—but the message hovering on the lock screen stopped you cold.

You quickly hung your dress carefully on the closet door, and unlocked your phone.

Unknown Number: Is this the our favorite nurse who made Clark Kent forget how to use words at O’Hanley’s?

Your pulse kicked as you felt your palms sweat.

You stared at the screen, rereading the message, half wondering if it was some weird spam text. But then:

Unknown Number: This is Lois, btw. Cat gave me your number. Don’t kill her.

You blinked. Lois. Of course. 

You slowly lowered yourself onto the couch, thumbs hovering.

YOU: I think you're overselling here.

YOU: …but also. Hi.

Her reply came almost instantly:

LOIS: Actually underselling then. I was two drinks in but I saw it. You walked in and it was like his brain flatlined. Forgot to mention it.

LOIS: Impressive stuff.

You let out a startled laugh. You didn’t even know how to respond, so you went with honesty:

YOU: I’ve been spiraling about the gala. I bought the dress yesterday, picked it up now. So. No turning back.

LOIS: YES! Okay, now you HAVE to tell me. Color? Cut? Cleavage level?

YOU: …tasteful cleavage. Navy blue. The slit is serious business.

LOIS: Consider me so proud. Clark will pass away on sight.

YOU: You’re very confident in your assessment.

LOIS: Please. I’ve worked with him for years. I’ve seen him get thrown off by far less. You’re like… the final boss.

You stared at that, smiling despite yourself. Something in your chest loosened—like a fist unclenching.

LOIS: Also, for what it’s worth, I know a man in love when I see one.

You stared at that message for a while, your thumb hovering, chest going tight in that too-familiar mix of hope and anticipation that had become routine ever since Clark had walked back into your life.

YOU: We’ve only been back in each other’s lives for a few months. But it feels like no time has passed. Which is kind of terrifying.

There was a longer pause before her response this time.

LOIS: Not terrifying. That’s real stuff. The kind you can build a life around. Don’t let fear talk you out of what your gut already knows.

You swallowed hard, the words settling somewhere deep. It was strange, how easy this conversation felt. You hadn’t had this kind of instant rapport with someone in years. Maybe ever.

YOU: What made you want to text me?

LOIS: I just… thought you might need a friend who knows the circus.

You laughed out loud this time, already typing your response before your brain could catch up. Maybe this new friendship would be another unexpected gift from the chaos Clark had brought back into your life.

YOU: Thank you. I'm so glad you texted. 

You stared where the dresss hung, at the tiny constellation of your life shifting, even just a degree or two, but enough to change the map. Somewhere between the bouquet on your table, Clark’s quiet ask, and Lois offering a lifeline, you knew it:

Something was moving. Not away from you, but toward you.

LOIS: Now, important question: What’s your music taste, and does it involve any guilty-pleasure boy bands?

.

It was the next week. Clark had only meant to drop a file off on Lois's desk, but the second he set the manila folder down on her desk, her phone lit up.

Your name, a bright banner along the notification line. A second buzz. Then another.

His heart did a familiar skip-beat-hitch since May, and even stronger since last weekend, and then a wave of confusion. Odd. You never once mentioned you were texting Lois for all the times you've seen each other since. 

“New friend?” he asked casually, pushing his glasses up and trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Lois didn’t look up from her screen, biting her pen, "Isn't it impolite to look at someone's phone?"

Clark leaned on the partition, resting his forearms on the edge. “Are you texting her?”

Lois finally flicked him a glance, mouth curving as she raised a brow. “Define her, Kent.”

“You know who."

“Could be a lot of people. I’m very popular.”

Clark gave her a look. She relented, only a liittle.

“She and I are forming a very healthy, supportive, female friendship. Girls supporting girls." Lois sighed, locking her phone and flipping it over face-down with theatrical innocence. "Life, work, music, and—oh—her dress for the gala."

That made his stomach flip a little. “She showed you her dress?”

“She described,” Lois clarified crisply. “Relax. Keep it in your pants, Ken. Stop picturing it on company time.”

He absolutely was picturing it. He pressed his palm flat to the folder. “Did she, um… say anything else? Anything about me or-or about the gala?"

Lois sang, delighting in his torment, "Not like I'd tell you."

Clark frowned and squared his shoulders. “Why not? We're friends. You and I are friends."

“Because you’d get all weird and ‘aw shucks’ about it. And honestly? I’m enjoying watching you twist.”

Clark huffed and gripped the partition, eyes narrowed. “So you are talking about me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just did.”

“Not directly.”

“Lois.”

“Clark.”

His stomach tightened, then tried asking again. “What did she say?”

Lois raised a brow. “Wouldn’t you like to know, reporter boy.”

“Yes,” he deadpanned.

“Well, you can’t. Confidentiality. Girl code. Locked vault.” She made a zipping motion over her lips. “But… if it helps, she does not have a thing for the cute ER doc she works with.”

Clark's brain blue-screened. “Wait, what ER doc?”

“Tall that you'd like," Lois mused, studying a chip in her nail polish. "Long, black hair like an indie musician. Drives a motorcycle. Very good with anatomy.”

Clark’s blood pressure spiked, and Lois swore the partition cracked under his grip.

Lois raised a hand to her mouth with mock-pity. “Oh, she didn't tell you? They have overlapping shifts. Buys her coffee, takes their break together. Real casual.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He opened again, irritation in his voice, "Are you serious? Because I've spent a lot of time with her, and she's never—”

Lois broke. It was so easy to bait him sometimes. She snorted so hard it turned into a laugh. “Clark. I’m messing with you.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “So there’s no—”

“No indie ER doc. No motorcycle. No private anatomy lessons,” she savored every word. Then, wickedly: "Then, wickedly: “Unless you count Justin.”

Clark stiffened. “Justin?”

“This nurse coworker she's mentioned,” Lois said, all innocence. “Solid guy. Reliable. The one they grab when a patient needs lifting or turning. Strong enough to help on the fly.” She watched the muscle jump in Clark’s jaw. “Real… dependable.”

A beat.

"Fell for it again!" she grinned. “Relax, I swear I'm done baiting you. She calls him in when the bariatric bed jams, not when her heart does. Brother-energy. ‘Dude’ every other sentence.”

Clark stepped back, exhaling hard. His heart was still racing like he’d been thrown into orbit.

“Right. Sure. You’re impossible.” He grumbled, walked backwards to his desk with a stern point.

“I live to keep you humble," Lois winked, organizing her desk. “But honestly - she’s great, Clark. She really is. And she really, really likes. It's disgusting.”

Clark stopped mid-walk and stood there.

“… So she didn't mention someone else, right?”

“Clark, no!" Lois emphasized, standing with an empty coffee cup. “She only has eyes for one Kansas farmboy.”

Clark’s face warmed.

Lois winked and passed him. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

He watched her cross to the coffee machine, focus shredded for the day, your name still pulsing phantom-bright behind his eyes—and the ridiculous, undeniable lift in his chest refusing to fade.

.

It was four days before the event. It had started as a small crisis—at least, according to Guy Gardner. Which meant, in reality, it was anything but.

A wayward asteroid had entered Earth’s atmosphere, breaking apart into volatile fragments. Superman had been on the scene in minutes, intercepting the largest chunks, while the Justice Gang handled the rest. Above the Pacific, the sky had been lit with streaks of green from Green Lantern's ring, Hawkgirl's wings slicing through the air, and Mr. Terrific's floating T-Spheres darting like silver bees.

The debris was cleared in under an hour. Cleanup—much longer.

Clark landed on the deck of Michael’s orbital platform, brushing dust from his cape. “Good work out there.”

Guy was already leaning against a bulkhead like he’d singlehandedly saved the planet. “We always do good work, some of us even do it without a cape. The people love us, Big Blue. Even when you hog all the headlines.”

Kendra shot Guy a look. “Some of us don’t do it for the headlines.” She turned to Clark with a small smile. “What’s up, Clark? You’ve got that 'thinking about asking something but not sure when' faraway look.”

Michael, always efficient, was already recalling his T-Spheres. “If you need us to check another debris site, I can deploy.”

Clark shook his head, though there was an odd hesitance in it. “We're good. Actually… I need a favor.”

That got all three of them looking at him. Never once had he asked for a favor in the three years their paths crossed.

Guy squinted. “A favor? You? Someone check if he's a clone."

“It’s nothing like that,” Clark said quickly, feeling heat creep into his neck. “There’s… an event in Metropolis this Saturday. Observatory gala. Formal wear. The Daily Planet's expected. I'm taking someone very important to me.”

“Ohhh, this is for that one thing you wrote months ago, with the crane?" Guy grinned, already catching on. "Good job, man. Now are you talkin' about that gal you’ve been mooning over?"

Clark gave him a flat look, but Kendra’s smirk suggested she wasn’t going to bail him out.

“It’s important to me and her,” he said finally, quieter. “And I want to be there the whole night. Present. No split-attention, half-listening to scanners while she's talking. I just… need to make sure someone’s watching the city while I’m off-duty. In case…”

“In case Earth decides to implode while you’re trying to have a social life,” Michael finished, his tone dry but not unkind.

“Exactly.”

Kendra tilted her head. “You want us to cover Metropolis for you on Saturday night?”

Clark nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble. I’ll owe you one.”

Guy crossed his arms, smirk widening. “One? Buddy, you already owe me for that time last Christmas Eve, you know it took me hours to get those stains out of my suit? But fine. I’ll do it—for the sake of love. But no ducking out halfway through the dessert course.”

“I’ll back Guy on that,” Kendra said, folding her wings in. “Go. Be… normal for a night.”

Michael tapped on his gauntlet, making a note in his schedule. “We’ll coordinate coverage. Consider Metropolis handled. Enjoy your evening, Clark.”

He felt a small weight lift from his shoulders. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

Michael lingered long enough to meet Clark’s eyes. “You save the world by choosing it every day. It’s allowed to choose you back.”

Kendra’s gaze softened. “You said ‘important.’ It sounds like you mean ‘the’ important.”

He let the truth sit between them. “She’s my best friend. I’ve spent months pretending that’s all this is.” A small, helpless smile found him. “I’m done pretending. I’m going to tell her what she means to me, and I’d like to do it without an oil fire or a runaway barge cutting in.”

Guy clapped him on the shoulder, before lifting himself up on a green platform. “Now we're talking! You’d better kill in a suit, Kent. And if your girl doesn’t dance with you, you call me—I’ll come down there and give her the whole Guy Gardner Charm Offensive.”

“That’s not a selling point,” Kendra muttered, already launching after Guy.

Clark only shook his head, fighting a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

.

You weren’t used to having nights like this.

Not gowns and observatories and a date who could make a tux look like it had been invented for him. Not nerves that felt less like dread and more like a fuse catching.

But somehow, here you were. 

It was the anticipated Saturday evening, in your apartment, surrounded by the quiet hum of your curling wand, the sigh of your perfume bottle, and the whisper of stain when you moved.

Clark texted you earlier that afternoon:

Hope you're excited. We'll be there at your place 6:00 sharp. Cocktail hour 6:30. Dinner starts at 7:30.

Your apartment was a disaster.

Or maybe you were the disaster.

Clothes were everywhere — heels kicked under the couch, makeup scattered across the bathroom counter, at least three backup dress options thrown over the back of your chair like the ghosts of bad decisions past. You'd spent all week planning for tonight and somehow still felt completely unprepared.

Tonight was the night. Clark's night.

You stood barefoot in front of your full-length mirror, one earring in, the other dangling from your fingers. The navy gown kissed every line of your curves like it had learned your body by heart. The slit running up your right leg stopped at a dangerous height, and the neckline… well. You had to adjust it more than once before finally accepting the fact that this was just what the dress did.

It wasn’t just stunning — it made you feel powerful, and maybe just a little dangerous.

You smoothed your hands down the bodice, over your hips. A few swipes of highlight shimmered on your collarbones and the curve of your shoulders. Your hair was freshly styled and pinned with care but then freed a softer curl on purpose. Your lips painted a soft, bold color that didn’t scream desperate, just… inviting.

You caught the faint pale line on your knee in the mirror—the almost-gone scrape from that awful falafel day—and smiled anyway. You’d healed. In more ways than one.

This wasn’t about outshining anyone. It was about showing up for Clark the way he always showed up for you. About being the steady beside his bright, the quiet beside his headline. About making sure that when he looked out over a room full of dazzled strangers, he found anchor first, not applause.

This was for Clark, who had looked so bashful as he handed you flowers and took you out to dinner like he hadn’t spent the last few months slowly ruining you for every other man on the planet.

Your phone buzzed against your vanity.

You picked it up, expecting a meme from Lois or a last-minute reminder from Olivia, only to see:

CLARK: We're here. Ready when you are. 

Oh.

You pictured him downstairs, fussing with a cufflink he could fasten with a glance, pushing his glasses up, and trying not to smile too hard. Cat’s rented limo idling at the curb, the city reflecting off the hood.

You slipped the second earring in, fastened the tiny clasp at your nape, then misted perfume at your wrists, your throat, the hollow behind your ear—pulse points that would keep him close even when he stepped away for a moment. Heels on. Clutch, phone, gum. The white shawl settled over your shoulders like a benediction against the autumn bite.

You faced the mirror and let the silence hold you for one last moment.

Tonight, you decided, you would make it easy for Clark to feel chosen. You would laugh first, reach first, steady his hand if he needed, and meet every new introduction with the kind of respect his Ma and Pa would be proud of. You would be worthy of the way he’d started looking at you—like sunrise.

You turned off the vanity light. The room softened, and the city glow reached in to find you.

“Time to show up,” you whispered to your reflection of the girl who had once felt invisible, now the woman who had learned to stay.

You gathered your shawl tighter, squared your shoulders, and stepped for the door. 

When you opened it, the hallway air embracing you, and the night—Clark's night, your night— was just beginning.

.

TBC!

Now playing: Caught In A Blue - Stephen Sanchez

.

The city lights blurred beneath your feet, all golden smudges and streaks of red taillights as Metropolis rushed by below. You were floating, literally. Clark’s arm was snug around your waist, his other hand resting lightly under your thighs. His hold was secure, careful, like he wasn’t entirely sure how much pressure would be too much.

You’d flown with him before, since that first dinner at his apartment months ago, but never quite like this.

Never with your body curled up against his like you were his.

Never with your heart thudding so loud, and not from fear of heights, it made you certain he could hear it too.

You exhaled softly, the night air a balm on your flushed cheeks. Your buzz was fading and in its place crept in a haze of exhaustion and heat and something else entirely.

“Ready to go home?” he asked, his voice low and warm against your ear, just loud enough to carry over the wind.

Your lips parted… then closed again.

You knew what your apartment would feel like right now. Empty. Quiet. Too many thoughts chasing each other in the dark. No soft, awkward smiles and deep chuckles. No Clark.

“…Can you just—” you hesitated and peered up at him. “Take me to your place? Please?”

His eyes met yours in the moonlight. 

And then, without a word, he turned west toward his apartment.

.

Clark landed on his apartment balcony like you weighed nothing at all. The night air clung to your skin, the soft rush of wind in your ears replaced by the steady thump of his heartbeat against your side. You blinked, your mind slow to register the scent of him — clean laundry and cedar soap.

He stepped inside, the curtains brushing against his shoulders, and carried you across the threshold. When your feet finally touched the floor, you felt the warmth of his hands linger a second too long at your waist before he stepped back.

You kicked off your heels without thinking. The second missed its mark, skittering across the floor with a soft clatter.

“Stupid shoes,” you mumbled, bending down to grab it, but your balance wobbled.

You fell right into him — palms against his chest, his hand sliding instinctively to your lower back to steady you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your head tilted back to look up at him with eyes half-lidded. The world swayed slightly from the buzz of alcohol, but it wasn’t the room making your knees weak. 

“You okay?” Clark asked softly, voice low, rougher than usual.

“Fine,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair. “Just… think I hit the limit tonight somewhere between fries and that last cocktail." You swallowed, gaze flicking from his lips back up to his eyes. “Maybe I just need to clear my head.”

A breath of laughter escaped him. “You want water? Clothes? Shower?”

You nodded. “Yes, please. All of that. In that order.”

He moved efficiently, soft towels laid out, a tall glass of water in your hand before you even sat down on the couch. When he returned from his bedroom, he had a folded stack of clothes in his arms - his shirt and sweatpants. You raised a brow at the top item.

A blue flannel shirt.

Because of course.

He handed them over without a word, his ears slightly pink.

“Thanks,” you said softly, your fingertips brushing his as you took the clothes. The contact was brief. Too brief. But it buzzed through you anyway. “You always this prepared when you bring someone home?”

He froze, glanced at you, and you caught the way his throat worked before he said, quietly but firmly, “No. Just you.”

.

Steam curled faintly along the mirror’s edge, fogging the reflection that stared back at you.

You didn’t mean to linger in Clark's shower, but after the night you’d had...the noise, the laughter, the drinks that hit harder than expected...the hot water had felt like much needed respite. You let it roll down your shoulders, over the ache in your knees, over the echo of the evening’s adrenaline still humming low in your veins.

When you finally shut it off, the apartment’s air felt too still. Too quiet.

You brushed your teeth, wiped the remnants of makeup from beneath your eyes, ran a towel through your hair until it hung damp and heavy around your shoulders. The pounding in your temples had dulled to a murmur, but the weight in your chest remained.

Your head was clearer, but your heart… not so much.

You’d felt this thing building for months... longer even, if you were being honest.

The pull. The gravity of him.

It was in Clark’s voice when he said your name.

In the way he looked at you when you weren’t watching and sometimes when you were.

In the texts, the jokes, the late-night walks, the shared laughter, the silences that never felt empty.

You exhaled, eyes falling to the towel rack.

The blue flannel.

You reached for it, fingers curling into the fabric. It was soft from wear, faintly smelling of detergent and something distinctly him.

You held it for a beat longer than you should have, heart tapping against your ribs.

You didn’t want the sweatpants. Not tonight.

You slipped the shirt on, buttoning it halfway. The hem brushed the tops of your thighs, the fabric too big, too warm. You rolled the sleeves once, twice. It was ridiculous, how much smaller but safer you felt wrapped in something so large. Something so Clark. 

When you stepped back into the living room, the lights were dimmed low, soft amber from the kitchen pendants spilling warmth over polished floors.

Clark stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, glasses off, the soft glow tracing the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. He was scrolling absently through his phone, likely checking the news, because of course he was. Always half in one world, half in another

He looked up and stilled. You watched the realization roll over him like a wave. 

The shirt. Just the shirt. His shirt.

Clark Kent actually stared.

Not subtly. Not apologetically.

His gaze caught first at the hem of his own shirt hanging loose on your frame, then at the damp curve of your collarbone. He swallowed, lips parting slightly, brows lifting like he’d forgotten how to blink. Your heart was doing an anxious little dance behind your ribs, pretending not to notice the way his eyes traced the curve of your legs.

“Feeling better?” he asked, voice suddenly a notch deeper than before, phone and world news forgotten.

You nodded, feet rooted in place, “Sober enough to feel embarrassed.”

A corner of his mouth quirked, crooked and honest. “You don’t have to be.”

“I got handsy,” you said, rubbing your arm, the memory of your playful flirting at the bar still lingering in your cheeks. “Sorry about that.”

He ran a hand through his hair and looked away, clearly recalling every second. “You were… very persuasive.”

Your cheeks warmed.

You then crossed the kitchen slowly, and he stepped aside as you passed him. Close enough that the flannel brushed his white shirt. Close enough to smell the warmth of his skin.

“So,” you said lightly as you leaned back on the kitchen island, trying to balance the heat now simmering between you. “Sleeping arrangements?”

He glanced up from the floor, already shaking his head. “You’re taking the bed.”

You arched a brow. “Clark…”

“I’m not debating this,” he said, tone firmer, arms crossing over his chest. The stance might’ve worked better if his voice didn’t sound quite so gentle. “You’re my guest. You’re exhausted. And I’m not letting you sleep on my couch.”

You crossed your arms too, mimicking him, “You’re really going to make me sleep in your bed?”

His eyes darkened. Just enough to make your stomach do a slow flip. You hadn’t moved away from him. And he hadn’t moved either. His gaze dropped again to your legs, to the way the flannel dipped at your chest. When he met your eyes again, there was no hiding the heat there.

The space between you hummed.

“I could take the couch,” you said quietly. “You’re taller. Bigger. It’d be… uncomfortable for you.”

“No,” he said, and the word came out softer but deeper—his Superman voice creeping in without permission. “That’s not happening. Take my bed.”

You swallowed, pulse quickening. “Okay. Fine. I’ll behave,” you whispered, your pout somewhere between teasing and surrender.

His lips curved, slow and dangerous. “I know you will.”

You caught his gaze and held it, both of you realizing at the same time what he’d just said.

His throat worked. He cleared it quickly, rubbing the back of his neck like he could undo the weight of the moment. “I’m—uh—gonna get a pillow. For the couch.”

You nodded, but your heartbeat didn’t slow.

He turned, almost too fast, retreating down the hallway with his shoulders tense, muttering to himself.

When he disappeared from view, you finally exhaled.

The quiet returned, but it wasn’t the same. It buzzed. It pulsed. It wanted.

And for the first time in a long time, something real curled in your chest—not fear, not loneliness.

It was anticipation. Alive and dangerous. And you weren’t sure you wanted it to stop.

.

It was well past midnight when you separated for the night. 

Clark’s wide bed smelled like him. Clean cotton. Soap. Warm air after rain.

You buried your face in the pillow, groaning softly as you twisted the covers in your fists. It wasn’t just the lingering warmth or the impossible softness of the sheets. It was the quiet. The intimacy of a space that belonged only to him, that had never been touched by anyone else as far as you knew.

And now, to you for the night.

The flannel you wore had slipped slightly off one shoulder. You didn’t bother fixing it. What was the point? You weren’t sleeping. You turned over once, twice, until the covers tangled around your legs.

Sleep refused to come.

Not when your mind kept looping through every single moment from earlier. The subtle way his gaze lingered. The heat in his voice. The way he’d said, 'take my bed' in that other voice. 

It wasn’t just kindness. You knew him too well to mistake it for that.

You shifted again, feeling the restless pulse between your thighs a traitorous echo of your racing thoughts. You flipped the pillow, staring at the ceiling, your eyes going round and round following the ceiling fan's silhouette. 

He wanted you here. You weren’t imagining that. But you also weren’t sure what it meant. Not when you were still figuring out where you stood — in his life, in your own heart, in this… strange, delicate thing that had grown between you in the months since reconnecting. 

He hadn’t kissed you. He hadn’t touched you. He hadn’t even let the tension slip past his mouth.

But it was there. Thick enough to drown in.

And still… no matter how well-worn your path into Clark Kent’s orbit used to be, this was new terrain. Adult terrain. Complicated by years of distance and secrets and a galaxy-sized heart that you were afraid to fall into.

You groaned, more like a mix of a moan and sigh, out of irritation, and closed your eyes. Counted backwards from one hundred, mouthing the words. 

One hundred. 

Ninety-nine.

Ninety-eight...

Forget it. 

.

In the living room, Clark lay awake on the couch, one arm draped over his face, staring into the dark.

He could dive down to the deepest part of the ocean without a single breath, survive the vacuum of space, hear a heartbeat three cities away if he really focused— but this couch?

It was going to kill him.

Not because of the cushion digging into his back. Not even the weird spring that jabbed at his ribs.

It was the way he could hear you breathing in his bed down the hall.

Soft. Familiar. Haunting.

He swallowed hard, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. The good thing. That Ma would be proud. That Pa would nod approvingly. That sleeping out here was how he kept the lines clear, how he reminded himself that you were his friend, not—

That sleeping out here kept the lines from blurring.

He stopped the thought before it finished.

Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw you. Bare legs in his flannel. Your dark hair damp and curling at the ends. The small, sleepy smile you’d given him before disappearing down the hall.

His mind supplied details his eyes hadn’t dared linger on. The way his shirt hung loose off one of your shoulders. The way your skin had gleamed faintly under the kitchen light. The way his name had sounded in your soft, tipsy, trusting voice.

He turned over, exhaling through his teeth, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. The leather of the couch creaked under his weight.

He shouldn’t have let you wear that flannel.

He shouldn’t have let you leave the bathroom.

He shouldn’t have wanted you this badly.

Clark pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, as if that could block out the images crowding his head.

It didn’t help.

He could still smell you—soap and skin and faint traces of his own detergent. He could still feel the warmth from where your body had brushed his when you’d passed in the kitchen. He could still hear that small, nervous laugh when he’d said, I know you will.

A sound caught in the air, a soft sigh or maybe a moan, drifting from the bedroom.

His breath hitched.

No, it could’ve been anything. A dream. A restless shift. But it slammed through him like a pulse.

For a moment, he sat up, every muscle taut, every instinct at war. He wanted to go to you. To check if you were okay. To see if that sound meant what his body hoped it did. But if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d stop at the door.

Instead, he clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay seated, to breathe through the ache spreading through his chest.

You were in his bed. You were safe. That had to be enough.

He lay back down slowly, staring at the ceiling until the shadows blurred, until the sound of your heartbeat steadied him again.

And somewhere between guilt and longing, Clark closed his eyes again.

Darn, he was thirsty...

.

You gave up.

There was no pretending anymore. You couldn’t stay in Clark's bed any longer.

The sheets were too soft, the pillow too warm, the air too heavy with his scent. Every time you shut your eyes, the flannel brushed against your bare skin, and you swore you could still feel the ghost of his hands steadying you in the kitchen hours ago.

You slid out from under the covers quietly, feet finding the cool hardwood. The apartment was half-lit, a soft gold wash spilling from the hallway lamp, painting the floor in amber lines. You tugged nervously at the hem of his shirt as you padded barefoot down the hall.

You stopped when you turned the corner.

Clark was already there.

He stood at the kitchen counter in the dim light, his back half-turned to you, white shirt stretching across his shoulders as he reached up for a glass. His hair was mussed, the curls at his nape uncharacteristically unruly.

He heard you instantly. Of course he did.

He turned slowly, eyes widening as he caught sight of your flushed cheeks, bare legs, hair mused from tossing and turning. The flannel hung off your frame like it had been meant for you.

You looked like something out of a dream he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Can’t sleep either?” you asked, your voice scratchy from disuse, fragile in the quiet.

Clark’s mouth lifted into a tired half-smile. “Couch isn’t exactly built for Kryptonian shoulders.” He grimaced faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s on me for buying it.”

You laughed, low and tired, and rubbed your arm. “Your bed’s too soft.”

He tilted his head. “Too soft?”

“Too you,” you said quietly.

The silence that followed felt different now.

Warmer.

Clark picked up another glass, filled it from the pitcher, and crossed to you. When he offered it, his fingers brushed yours.

You could feel his eyes on you, tracing your face, memorizing the constellation of your freckles, the faint pink at the corners of your mouth.

He looked at you like he used to look at the stars.

“Do you want—” he started softly, his voice dropping lower, “do you want me to take the bed? You can have the couch if you—”

“No,” you said too quickly. “I think I’ll feel the same regardless.”

He let out a quiet breath of laughter, eyes crinkling faintly. “So we just… both don’t sleep?”

You took a sip of the water to steady yourself, but it didn’t help. Your pulse was loud in your ears, your fingers tight around the glass.

You looked up at him, and the thought slipped out before you could catch it.

“…We could share it. Your bed.”

Clark stilled.

His chest rose with a slow, measured breath. His gaze searched your face, not for permission, but for truth, like he needed to be sure he’d heard you right.

“Just sleep,” you blurted, heat rushing up your neck. “Like when we were kids. I mean, we’re older now, but it’s not like it’s the first time we’ve slept together—wait, I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know what you meant,” he said, a little distant.

You sighed, embarrassed, your voice softening. “I just… I feel stupid. All night I’ve been overthinking everything.”

“About what?”

You hesitated. He watched you like he always did: patient, steady, waiting for you to meet him halfway.

“If it’s about Lois and everyone else tonight,” he said gently, “you have nothing to worry about. They like you. A lot.”

Your lips quirked into a faint smile. “No, not them… but good to know.”

He tilted his head. “Then what?”

You looked down, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “This. Us.”

The word hung between you. Fragile.

“I just… It's stupid,” you swallowed. "Remember when we used to lie in the grass back home? Just watching the stars, talking about everything and nothing? I miss that. When it was simple. I want it to feel like that again.”

Clark’s expression softened.

“I remember,” he said after a long pause. “The meteor showers. You’d fall asleep halfway through, and I’d stay up, making sure you didn’t freeze.” His voice cracked, just a little. “It's not stupid.”

You didn’t expect him to close the space between you, but he did. His hand rose, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your skin. The touch lingered.

You exhaled shakily.

He smiled, low and rough in his chest. “Come on, short stack,” he murmured, the nickname falling from his lips like a memory. “Let’s go… not sleep. Together.”

You snorted softly, laughing despite the tension.

“Not funny,” you whispered, your cheeks warm.

“Didn’t say it was.”

But the corner of his mouth twitched, and you followed him anyway. Down the hallway, side by side, the air between you still crackling with something neither of you dared name.

The sound of your feet on the hardwood echoed softly in tandem, your pulse still wild, your heart betraying the calm your words pretended to hold.

And when he opened the door to the bedroom, stepping aside to let you pass, his hand brushed the small of your back — brief, steadying, but enough to remind you that restraint wasn’t the same as indifference.

It never had been.

.

The room was dark, quiet except for the dull hum of the city just beyond the window and the faint whir of the ceiling fan above.

You lay down on the far edge of Clark’s bed, still wrapped in his oversized flannel. He slipped in carefully on the other side, slow and deliberate, like he was navigating a minefield.

You stared at the ceiling.

You’d done this before, a dozen times as kids. Sleepovers at the farmhouse. Nights spent watching storms roll over the wheat fields, whispering about constellations and futures that felt galaxies away. Back then, there was no awareness. No current humming between your bones. Just comfort. Safety.

This wasn’t that.

You could feel him. The weight of him. The soft pull of the mattress toward his side, like gravity itself had shifted. You could feel every breath he took, long, measured, steady,  brushing against the rhythm of your own.

He cleared his throat. “Still awake?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

“I was afraid of that.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the outline of him in the dark. "You're worried I won't fall asleep?”

“No, I'm worried I won't,” he said, voice low and quiet. “I can hear your heartbeat from here.”

“That sounds annoying.”

“That’s being Kryptonian.”

"I don't know how you don't have a migraine every day."

He chuckled under his breath. “That’s being Kryptonian, too. You learn to tune it out.

You huffed a laugh, eyes tracing the faint spin of the ceiling fan.

A beat passed. Another.

“I keep thinking about that one summer,” Clark said suddenly, voice softer. “When you stayed with us for a week while your parents were at Gotham for some work conference. We stayed up every night talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up.”

You smiled, caught off guard by the memory. “You wanted to be a journalist-slash-astronaut."

He smiled into the dark. “Guess I got halfway there.”

“And I said I wanted to be a nurse. No stickers, no lollipops.”

His chuckle was soft. “Yeah, you said you were too serious for that.”

“I misspoke. Lollipops do have the power to make things a little better. Seen it myself,” you whispered cryptically.

Clark chuckled, “Well, I think ten-year-old me was more delusional.”

“No,” you murmured. “He just wanted to help people. Same as now.”

Clark turned his head toward you, just barely. You didn’t have to look to know.

“You remember how we used to whisper until we fell asleep?” you asked, snuggling deeper into the bedsheets.

“Yeah. Sometimes you’d fall asleep first and I’d just… keep talking.”

You bit your lip. “I remember pretending to stay asleep. So I could keep listening.”

Clark chuckled under his breath. “I knew.”

“Jerk.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, just dense with unsaid things. The kind of quiet where every small sound mattered: the fan’s steady rhythm, the rustle of fabric, your breathing blending with his.

“Are you cold?” he asked suddenly.

“Y-yeah. A little.”

Clark shifted to get up and turn off the ceiling fan, but you reached for him. "No wait! I like the noise. Helps me not hear...phantom alarms from work."

His brow furrowed in the dark. “Phantom alarms?”

“Yeah. I’ll be home, perfectly fine, and swear I hear monitors or call lights going off. It’s like… muscle memory. A nurse’s curse.”

“That sounds—” he paused, echoing your earlier tone “—annoying.”

You smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard. It’s worse in the shower. I’ll close my eyes, and suddenly I hear everything! Beeping IV pumps, phone calls, footsteps. Always something.”

“IV pumps?” he asked, amused.

“Yeah, brand name’s Alaris. Evil little machines.”

Clark chuckled. “Alaris. Huh. That’s actually kind of a cool name for a baby.”

You turned your head so fast the pillow rustled. “No way! That would trigger me.”

“Noted,” he said, still laughing.

You grinned sleepily until you heard your own voice betray you. “Remind me not to trust you naming our kid.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your heart stopped.

'Our kid'?! Why did you even say that?! And felt your palms sweat from embarrassment. 

You swore under your breath, heat flooding your face. “I—I didn’t mean— I meant my kid—whenever that happens. You know what? Forget I said anything.”

You turned away, burying your face in the cool pillow, praying the universe would be merciful enough to erase the last ten seconds from existence.

Clark didn’t say anything.

But you could feel him watching you. That steady heat at your back, the weight of his gaze like sunlight through glass. You wanted to sink through the mattress. Or maybe you wanted him to reach across the distance and close it. You weren’t sure which terrified you more.

His voice came, quiet and low. “You don’t need to apologize.”

There was something else in it. Something that pulled the air out of the room.

You didn’t answer. Just stayed there, still and small, pretending the blush on your face was from the warmth of the room.

“I know you’re still awake,” he murmured after a moment. “Come closer.”

You froze.

“I promise I’ll behave.”

Your breath caught.

You hesitated for a beat then slowly shifted across the mattress. The blanket rustled. The space between you shrank until you could feel his body heat, the faint brush of his breath against the back of your neck.

He didn’t touch you. Not fully. But his arm hovered close — a barrier and a promise all at once.

“I missed this,” he said softly, his voice somewhere near your ear.

You didn’t ask what this was. You already knew. “Me too,” you whispered.

Your breathing slowed until it matched his. The fan hummed. The city murmured. The space between you disappeared by inches.

And just before sleep claimed you, somewhere between waking and dreaming, you thought you heard Clark exhale your name, followed by a whisper so faint it might’ve been a sigh.

“No Alaris then.”

And then everything faded.

.

It was the warmth that woke you first.

That, and the weight. The kind of weight that made it hard to tell where you ended and someone else began.

You inhaled slowly, your lashes fluttering open to the dim morning light filtering through the curtains. The city’s hum outside was muted. You shifted instinctively, half-asleep, and froze.

You were wrapped in Clark Kent. Entirely.

One of his arms was pinned beneath you, solid as iron but somehow still gentle against your ribs. The other was thrown firmly around your waist, anchoring you in place. His leg — long, heavy, impossibly warm — tangled with yours beneath the sheets, thigh pressed to thigh, ankle hooked behind your calf.

Your back fit against his chest like a second heartbeat. Like the space had been designed for you.

And his hand...Your breath caught.

It rested low against your stomach, fingers splayed, palm broad and heavy. His thumb brushed the bare skin just above your hip bone every time he breathed. A few centimeters lower and— God. 

You didn’t dare move.

You were still wearing nothing but his flannel. It was just long enough to preserve modesty if you didn’t move. But the buttons were misaligned, halfway open, and you could feel the way the fabric had ridden up your thighs during the night.

You had no idea how you’d ended up like this. One moment, there’d been a respectable gulf between you. The next, somewhere between exhaustion and gravity, you must have rolled into him.

Or maybe he’d found you.

Your pulse stuttered. You could feel it echo in his chest behind you, his steady heartbeat drumming slow and deep against your back.

Then...

“Mm…” he shifted.

He shifted, a soft, sleep-rough sound escaping his throat. The movement pulled you closer, his hand tightening reflexively at your waist. His thumb brushed the exposed skin there, a feather-light stroke that sent a shiver crawling up your spine.

He exhaled against the nape of your neck, the warmth of it stealing your breath.

You bit your lip, stifling a moan.

You should move. You should say something. You should laugh it off, slip away, make it a joke. But it felt too good. Too much like something you’d dreamed about for years.

You closed your eyes. Just a few more seconds, please.

Just until your heart stopped trying to escape your chest.

.

Clark usually woke before the sun did.

Even on his day-offs. Even when the world wasn’t ending. Even when the skies were clear and the scanners were silent and Metropolis had, miraculously, made it through the night without demanding Superman.

But this morning was different.

He didn't wake to alarms or cries or static in his ear. He woke to warmth.

To the soft scent of you — his soap, sleep, something floral that wasn’t his. To the weight of you nestled against him, the shape of you imprinted against every inch of his body.

His hand… was not where he last remembered it.

A split-second pulse of panic shot through him, followed by a rush of something headier — heat, ache, want.

His hand curled slightly of its own accord, brushing your soft skin.

Oh, no.

His mind snapped fully awake at once. The sheet had shifted, the flannel hitched high. His palm was resting indecently low, dangerously close to places he’d sworn he’d never touch without your permission. It was the kind of nearness that made his throat go dry.

Clark exhaled, slow and careful, as if he could keep his self-control intact just by breathing.

He could hear your heart hammering, faster now. Awake. Aware. But you hadn’t moved away.

That was a problem.

Or maybe the beginning of a much bigger one.

He drew in a slow, careful breath, willing the heat out of his system, willing his body to behave. His hand lifted by degrees, slow enough not to startle you, gentle enough that it felt like an apology in motion.

The cool air rushed in where his palm had been, and the loss nearly undid him.

“Hey, are you awake? I didn’t mean to…” he murmured into the quiet, apology and desire tangled in every word. “I wasn’t—”

You rolled over before he could finish. Your hair was a mess, a halo of tangled softness. Your eyes, still heavy with sleep, met his, and whatever excuse he’d been reaching for died in his throat.

“Hi, Clark,” you whispered, lips barely curved. “It's okay. You don’t need to apologize.”

"But I do,” he muttered, propping himself up on one elbow, trying to look anywhere but the open edge of the flannel that gaped at your collarbone. “I don’t normally manhandle my guests.”

You laughed softly. “Guess I’m special.”

His throat bobbed. His eyes flicked down, caught on the sliver of skin showing, the soft dip where your neck met your shoulder. He looked away too quickly, ears burning red.

You felt the warmth curl between your thighs.

Suddenly, you pushed the blanket aside and sat up, the sheets sliding down your thighs. His flannel shifted dangerously high, the top buttons undone from the night’s restless sleep. You clutched it closed on instinct, though part of you wasn’t sure if it was modesty or nerves.

“Bathroom,” you said softly, your voice smaller than you intended.

Clark didn’t move. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

You stood, feet brushing the cool floor, acutely aware of his gaze following you. Not leering, not bold, but hungry.

He raked a hand through his curly hair, sitting there in the dim light with the sheets pooled low around his hips, eyes still on you like he was trying to memorize every step you took away from him.

Your breath hitched.

You turned before you could say something foolish, ducking into the bathroom and closing the door behind you. You pressed your back against it, palms flat to the wood, your pulse racing.

Inside, you tried to catch your breath.

Outside, Clark sat motionless in the quiet, staring at the empty space where you’d been, his hands clenched in the sheets, every cell in his body fighting the urge to follow.

.

You padded into the bathroom, closing the door with care so the latch didn’t click too loudly. The mirror reflected flushed cheeks and a neckline of flannel that had fallen scandalously loose, baring the slope of one shoulder.

You turned the faucet on, letting the rush of water mask the sound of your breathing as you leaned against the counter. The cold porcelain under your palms grounded you, but it didn’t help the ache pooling low in your stomach.

It was impossible not to think about how his chest had felt pressed to your back, the weight of his arm keeping you there, the warmth of his palm as it had drifted lower. You squeezed your eyes shut, picturing that sheepish, sleep-heavy smile… and then wondering what it would look like if he wasn’t holding back.

Your breath hitched. The sound was swallowed by the running faucet.

You let yourself imagine him closing that last inch between you, his hand not stopping at your hip, the brush of his mouth against your neck. Your fingers tightened on the counter before sliding lower, needing relief.

The bundle of nerves was already sensitive, and your core slick with just the thought of him.

The image of Clark in bed was so vivid it made your knees weaken. You tried to keep quiet, biting your lip, every sound you made drowned by the gurgle of water hitting porcelain.

When it was over, you stood there for a moment, face flushed, head bowed, knees trembling, the faucet still running like a conspirator.

.

With you gone, Clark exhaled slowly through his nose and let his eyes fall closed again, just for a moment. 

He’d woken with his arm around you — no, practically draped over you — his hand far too close to places it had no business being. The warmth of you, the way you fit against him like no time had passed since childhood… it had been intoxicating.

He soaked it in.

The rhythm of your chest rising. The smell of his flannel was still on your skin. The memory of last night’s tension giving way to desire and trust. 

You’d slipped out of bed with a murmured “bathroom,” and he’d told himself to roll over, close his eyes, to go back to sleep. But then the faucet had turned on.

And then…

Something.

Not loud, but the kind of quiet, breathless sound that punched straight through his self-control. His hearing was sharp enough to catch the faint change in your breathing, the way it stuttered, quickened. He tried to tell himself he was imagining it. That you were just washing your face. That the heat curling low in his stomach was completely inappropriate.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and stared harder at the ceiling. It didn’t help. If anything, his mind supplied far too many possibilities for what might be going on behind that closed door.

By the time the faucet shut off, he was a knot of nerves and restless energy.

.

The door creaked open, and you padded back into the room, cheeks flushed, eyes a little unfocused. You met his gaze, slipped under the covers, and burrowed into the pillows like you belonged there.

“Mm. Your bed’s way better than mine,” you mumbled, voice soft and lazy. "I'm just gonna...try to sleep more."

He forced a smile, even as his pulse thundered in his ears. “Glad you’re comfortable.”

.

Clark moved carefully, easing his arm out from beneath you like defusing a bomb. The mattress sighed beneath his weight as he shifted, and the sound of your sleepy exhale nearly undid his resolve to move at all.

He waited a heartbeat, then slid out of bed. He stood there for a moment, basking in the morning sun, then padded quietly toward the bathroom.

Cold water. Toothbrush. A few splashes across his face that did nothing to steady the rush in his chest. He caught his own reflection — damp curls, dark eyes rimmed in the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep. His pulse still hadn’t slowed.

When he stepped back into the bedroom, the picture hit him like a blow to the chest.

You were back to sleep. Curled toward the warm dent he’d left behind, wearing his flannel that had slipped dangerously off one shoulder again. The hem brushed your thighs, one knee bent just enough to glimpse smooth skin beneath. The sunlight touched everything it shouldn’t: your bare legs tangled in his sheets, the rise and fall of your chest, the faint curve of your lips.

Clark’s throat went dry.

He’d seen beauty before. In constellations, in oceans, in the first light cresting the horizon after a rescue, but nothing like this. 

A smile ghosted over his lips, small and secret, and he exhaled through his nose, trying to steady the tremor that ran through him.

He stepped back, careful not to wake you, and made his way to the kitchen. The morning light followed him down the hall.

He set a pan on the stove, the motion mechanical at first, but his hands shook just slightly when he cracked the eggs. The scent of coffee filled the apartment, grounding him. He found himself humming some half-remembered tune from Smallville that his mother used to sing on quiet mornings like this.

Still, he kept glancing back toward his bedroom, eyes drawn to the faint outline of you in his bed.

He imagined you waking to the smell of pancakes, stretching under his sheets, blinking against the sunlight, that soft little sound you made when you were still halfway between dreams and waking.

The thought of it settled somewhere deep in him, where want turned to something gentler. And as the coffee finished brewing, Clark realized that he’d already made his choice.

.

You stirred to the faint sizzle of butter on the stove, the smell of coffee curling through the cracked bedroom door. For a moment, you just lay there, eyes still closed, cocooned in his sheets. The air was cool, but the blankets were still warm from him. Morning light spilled across the pillow you’d stolen, turning the soft cotton gold.

You reached for your phone without thinking, blinking blearily against the brightness of the screen.

Two unread texts.

JIMMY O: Great do-over meeting! You owe me an arm wrestling rematch!

You smiled faintly. Last night had been chaotic, loud, a blur of laughter and clinking glasses and the sweet haze of being seen again. Still, it had felt… good. Easy. You typed back: Deal. Prepare to lose again.

The second message was from Cat. No text, just a photo.

You opened it, and your breath caught. It was you and Clark.

His arm hooked casually behind your chair, leaning into you, heads nearly touching. The heat of the room glowed off your cheeks. His eyes were crinkled, mouth open in that rare, unguarded grin — the one that reached his eyes, that made the whole world look brighter. Your cheeks were flushed from the heat and the drinks, smiling just has wide, eyes bright, head leaning into the crook of his neck.

You remembered the moment vaguely. Cat swooped in with her phone, telling you two to "quit hiding, just let me take the damn picture.”

And now, seeing it? It wasn’t just a picture. It was proof.

Without thinking too hard, you set it as your lockscreen.

Eventually, your stomach gurgled with hunger. 

The faint scrape of a spatula pulled you back to the present. You slid out of bed, padding toward the door. Your fingers brushed the phone in your hand, knowing that if Clark saw that photo on your screen, you’d have to make a joke that Cat forced me. You’d laugh it off.

But you didn’t delete it. You didn’t even dim the screen.

.

Clark stood at the stove, back turned to you, flipping pancakes with that infuriating ease. The morning sun painted him in honey. Soft at the temples, catching on the curve of his jaw, glinting off the edges of his messy curls. The white tee clung to the broad lines of his shoulders, the waistband of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

You stopped in the doorway, just watching him.

The rhythm of his movements, the casual comfort of him here, sleeves pushed up, a spatula in one hand, humming something that might’ve been an old Smallville tune, made your chest feel too full.

He turned then, eyes catching yours, and smiled. That slow, easy smile that could stop traffic, the one that hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said softly, voice low from sleep and something else.

“Morning, Chef Kent,” you replied, trying to sound breezy, but your voice betrayed you, coming out softer than intended.

He smiled wider, that lopsided grin that reached the corners of his eyes. “Breakfast is ready.”

You crossed the kitchen and bumped your hip gently against his, playful, grounding yourself in the contact. The warmth that radiated from him was impossible to ignore.

You took the plate he offered and sat at the table by the window. The light danced over the steam rising from your coffee mug. He joined you, moving easily, like you’d done this a hundred times before. Like it was already routine.

For a while, you just… watched him.

The way his hands moved. The way his laugh softened when you teased him about his pancake flips. The way his eyes kept finding yours.

You could see it. Years from now, mornings like this. His steady presence moving through a kitchen you shared. The smell of coffee and syrup. His hands guiding smaller hands at the table, helping tie shoes, pouring juice, telling stories in that patient, gentle voice that made children lean in and adults believe again.

It wasn’t a fantasy anymore. It was a possibility. 

And that was terrifying.

Because you could feel yourself falling into him, and this time you didn't want to stop.

You didn’t want to go back. You didn’t want just friendship.

Not anymore.

Not after this. Not after laughter and midnight confessions, not after sleeping in his bed, not after pancakes and sunlight and the look in his eyes that maybe said he’d been waiting just as long.

You wanted this, whatever it was, whatever it could become, without apology.

You wanted Clark Kent. And you hoped he wanted you too.

But now, you stayed still, letting yourself savor the moment.

The two of you sat at the table tucked by the window, plates between you, a gentle silence stretching as you ate. Clark caught your gaze and raised a mug in a silent toast, his smile widening when you returned it.

Every now and then, you would quickly glance at your phone, tucked close to your body, just to see your lockscreen. 

.

When you stood to help with the dishes, Clark joined you at the sink, sleeves pushed up, one hand held out expectantly for a rinsed plate. and the moment hit him fully.

The domestic quiet. The ordinary miracle of you here, in his home, in his shirt, in his life again. 

He caught himself memorizing everything: the curve of your smile, the soft hum under your breath, the way morning light traced the edge of your cheekbone. When you turned to hand him a plate, your fingers brushed. Static. Heat. Something that went straight to his chest.

He couldn’t kid himself anymore. Not after last night. Whatever careful line he’d drawn between friendship and something else had blurred beyond recognition.

This wasn’t just friendship. Not anymore.

He felt it in every heartbeat, in every breath that grew heavier when you weren’t near. In your laugh — nervous, open, honest. In the way your voice softened whenever you said his name.

He wanted—Gosh, he wanted. He wanted mornings like this. The stillness. The sunlight. You. 

And then a vision settled in, uninvited and unstoppable.

You, standing in this same spot years from now, wearing one of his old t-shirts instead of the flannel. The counter cluttered with cereal boxes and permission slips, a lunchbox open beside your coffee and his workbag. A small hand tugging at your sleeve while you laughed, bright and unguarded, the sound spilling through the kitchen like sunlight.

He could see himself leaning down to kiss you before work — not as a friend, not as someone hovering on the edge of almost, but as the man who got to come home to you every night.

That was the truth. The steady, quiet kind that didn’t need grand gestures to make itself known.

He wanted you with a certainty that silenced every doubt he’d ever had.

It had been building for so long he couldn’t even mark where it began.

Maybe when you scraped your knees at six and cried. Maybe in the way you’d cheer at his high school football games, louder than anyone else. Maybe in the porch-light talks that lasted until dawn. Maybe the night he showed you who he really was, and you didn’t run, but stayed. You looked at him like he was still your Clark.

Maybe it started then. But this morning, watching you now… 

It wasn't because of fireworks or heroics, but because of pancakes. Because of laughter soft enough to keep. Because of the second toothbrush sitting beside his.

He couldn’t stop watching you, thinking that maybe this was the moment the rest of his life began. And he hoped, desperately, that you felt the same.

Then, you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, half-smiling, half-flustered, as if expecting him to tease you. “Something on your mind?”

Clark only smiled, eyes soft, and leaned in. Before he could stop himself, he reached his thumb out, brushing it against your plump lower lip, slow, deliberate, pretending to chase away a trace of syrup that wasn’t there.

He pulled back slightly, pretending to inspect his thumb. “Hm. Just syrup."

But as you laughed and bumped your hip into his, the sound bubbling through his kitchen like light itself, what Clark meant was 'you'. Every word left unsaid, every quiet promise between breaths.

Just you.

.

TBC!

Now playing: Always Forever - Cults

.

You woke before the sun.

The city outside was still blue-grey and drowsy, soft light slipping through the curtains.

Your neck hurt — something firm and warm beneath your cheek. It took a moment to place the steady rhythm under your ear, the faint rustle of fabric that wasn’t your blanket.

Your breath hitched.

Slow and hazy, lifting your head just enough to see Clark. Still in his suit, cape draped over both of you like a shield. His head had tilted against the back of the couch, chin resting slightly askew, eyes closed. Even in sleep, he looked like he was listening.

He stayed.

You watched him for a moment too long — the way dawn light curved against his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell steady under your palm. He shouldn’t have stayed, and yet… you were grateful he had.

Your throat was dry when you finally spoke. “Clark,” you whispered, quiet as the morning.

His eyes fluttered open — deep blue, soft with sleep. When he saw you, something akin to relief flickered through them. “Hey. Morning,” he murmured back, voice rough. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Stay?” you offered, a ghost of a smile tugging at your mouth.

He smiled faintly, sheepish. “Yeah.”

You sat up a little, careful not to tug the cape. “No, I'm...glad. I… I needed the rest. You're like a furnace. So cozy.”

That seemed to take him off guard. His expression gentled, and he laughed. “Good. Glad to be of service.”

You hesitated then. The words in your chest were fragile, sharp-edged. You smoothed your hands over your knees, gathering the nerve. “About last night…I'm sorry, Clark. I said too much.”

Clark straightened, brow furrowed, saying your name gently. "You said what you needed to. I’m glad you did. Don't be sorry.”

“But I am,” you sighed. “It was… unfair to you.” You traced the seam of his cape with your thumb, not meeting his eyes. “Unfair to Lois. I shouldn’t have said what I said about her. It’s not her fault. She’s incredible, and she's your friend. It’s just—”

You swallowed, pulse loud in your ears. “I saw the way you laughed with her, how easy it is between you, and I—” the word caught, “—I was jealous. Not of her, exactly. Just of that version of you, with her. The one who fits so perfectly in this world.”

Something flickered across his face — confusion, then guilt, then something that almost looked like pain.

“Hey,” he said softly, shifting closer. “It’s not like that with Lois. She’s—she’s a friend. We’ve been through a lot together, sure, but it’s not…” He trailed off, searching your face. “It’s not what you think. Never will be. I promise. You and I have a different kind of history.”

You smiled, small and brittle. “You don’t have to explain, Clark. I already feel stupid.”

“No, I want to, and you're not being stupid,” he said quickly. His tone wasn’t defensive — just earnest, like he needed you to believe him. “You’re not a phase, remember? I meant that. And if I made you feel like you were standing on the outside of my life again…” He shook his head, voice rougher now. “That’s on me.”

You exhaled shakily, nodding. “I know. I know. It’s just—sometimes it’s hard not to feel like I’m chasing something that isn’t mine anymore.”

He reached out before he could stop himself. He placed one large, steady hand lightly on your shoulder and squeezed. The warmth of it spread down your spine.

“I'll always be yours,” he said, so quiet it was barely a breath. Then, almost immediately, he swallowed and corrected himself, louder: “Your friend! I'll always be your best friend.”

You let out a shaky laugh, blinking back the tears that threatened to return as you felt heat rise to your cheeks.

He shifted, leaning towards you. “Just so you know, you're not the only one who's felt this way.”

You blinked. “What? What do you mean?”

He hesitated, mouth parting like he might finish the thought, but your phone alarm trilled sharply from the coffee table, shattering the fragile stillness.

The noise startled you both. You fumbled to silence it, heart racing, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered on you like a confession half-spoken.

“Oops, sorry,” you muttered, cheeks warm. “Work. What were you saying?”

"No, nothing that important," Clark pursed his lips. "I don't want to hold you up."

“If.... if you say so. I should get ready,” you murmured, standing up to stretch, scrolling through your phone notifications.

Clark stood when you did, readjusting his cape. “Yeah. Me too.”

Neither of you mentioned the heaviness still hanging between you, the unspoken thing hovering just out of reach. You both pretended the air was normal again, that last night was just an emotional misfire, that this morning wasn’t a beginning or an end, just another morning.

But when Clark turned to leave out your balcony door, he hesitated. “Hey,” he said softly.

You looked up from your phone.

He smiled, small and hopeful. “I'll text you later, but call me anytime, okay?”

You nodded and smiled back. “Yeah, okay. Anytime."

And when he vanished into the morning light, the echo of that word anytime lingered longer than it should have.

.

Four months since the interview.

Three and a half since the start of weekly dinners and movie nights.

One month since you’d cried in his arms and confessed everything you hadn’t meant to say.

You feared Clark would've pulled away.

He hadn't. If anything, he was everywhere after that night. Not intrusive. Just… constant. Like gravity.

It wasn’t something you planned; it just happened naturally, like the click of a seatbelt or the inhale before a laugh.

He still talked about Lois. About Jimmy, Cat, Steve, Ron, and Perry — the heartbeat of his other life. You’d learned to listen without flinching. To nod and smile when he mentioned an inside joke or an office anecdote that didn’t include you.

Because somewhere between all the moments, Clark had made sure you knew you mattered, too.

He’d text you after shifts to make sure you’d eaten. Bring oranges or soup when you so much as coughed. Drop by the hospital lobby “by coincidence” on his off days, always with that lopsided smile that made the other nurses whisper and gossip.

When he couldn’t come by as Clark, he came as Superman. A brief red and blue blur outside your balcony, a soft knock on the glass, a bright smile and a wave before he vanished into the clouds again.

In return, you started leaving the light on for him. Just in case. You made him stay for hot chocolate sometimes.

Or dinner. Or a movie neither of you finished because you ended up talking through it — about work, about Smallville, about everything and nothing.

He’d lean against your kitchen counter while you cooked.

You’d sit on his couch while he read drafts aloud, teasing his phrasing.

He’d make you laugh so hard your ribs ached, and you’d see something quiet in his expression when he looked at you. It was a softness that had nothing to do with nostalgia.

You started watching the news uninterrupted when Superman swooped in to save the day, forming a habit to save Clark's Planet articles and Superman headlines in a box with much pride. 

You told yourselves this was friendship. Rebuilding. Two old souls finding their rhythm again. 

But when he started brushing his thumb over the side of your lip to wipe away an errant coffee streak, or when you caught him watching you from across the room with that patient, unblinking fondness — it didn’t feel like friendship.

Still, neither of you said it aloud. You built something delicate instead, made of silence and almosts, of shared dinners and hovering glances and the kind of trust that came back slowly, one habit, dream, fear at a time.

It felt like Smallville all over again, cherishing the boy with stars in his eyes and a heart as big as the galaxy. 

.

The wind had a sharp bite to it now. Crisp and dry, sweeping in off the waterfront and through the golden-crimson leaves that skittered across the sidewalks like gossip. The city moved a little slower in mid-autumn, slower on a Sunday like today, with people tucked into coats and pulled scarves higher, clinging to warm cups and each other.

“Do we need more coffee?” Clark’s voice drifted lazily over the top of your grocery list.

We. 

You didn’t look up from where you were standing at the center of the produce aisle, trying to decide if bruised apples were worth the discount.

“I think you need more coffee,” you replied, brushing your thumb over a Honeycrisp. “You’re down to one bag. That’s an emergency.”

“Didn’t realize you’d memorized my pantry.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “I haven’t memorized it. I’ve observed. Like a concerned citizen.”

Clark grinned — his face soft, sweet, and golden in the early afternoon light streaming through the grocery store windows. Clark was dressed down today: glasses, white knit sweater layered under a navy jacket, hair ruffled from the wind, eyes still a little tired from whatever late-night flight had taken him away and back again.

You dropped three apples into the bag and nudged the cart forward with your hip. “Do we still need rice?”

“We always need rice.” He automatically reached to steady the cart, his hand landing on top of yours. Warm. Strong. Familiar.

You stilled. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then he cleared his throat and slid his hand away, resuming an easy rhythm like nothing had happened.

We, again.

“You’re turning into your Ma,” you teased, mostly to fill the quiet.

Clark’s laugh shook his shoulders, low and warm. “If I start freezing casseroles, you’re allowed to intervene.”

“I will. With force.”

“Do you want to get that oatmeal you like?” he asked behind you as you turned into aisle six.

You paused. “You remember which one?”

“Of course I do,” Clark said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “Banana nut. With the protein powder. Ugly brown box."

You stared back at him a second too long. He noticed — cheeks tinting the faintest pink — and turned his attention back to the shelves.

It was ridiculous, how much that one sentence meant.

It wasn’t the oatmeal.

It was the fact that he’d listened. That he saw you — the mundane parts, the quiet pieces. Not just the girl who saved strangers in the street, not just the old friend who knew too much.

Just… you.

You were still standing there, a little too soft in the moment, when you got to the checkout line. The cashier was older, sweet-eyed and chatty, with a name tag that said 'Marge' and a stack of “ask me about our pie crusts!” brochures taped to her register.

You and Clark worked in tandem un-loading your groceries onto the conveyor belt, hips and arms brushing against each other. 

Marge smiled as she scanned your groceries. “Date night in, huh?”

You immediately stammered, “Oh—we’re not—”

“Just groceries,” Clark said at the same time. The words came out too fast, too careful. He flashed an awkward smile, that nervous lilt slipping into his voice. The same one he used when reporters asked about Superman about his personal life.

Marge waved her hand. “No, really? You could’ve fooled me! Been here over twenty years, seen it all. You two move like you’ve been married ten years.”

Your heart skipped.

Clark let out a breathy laugh, eyes dropping to the magazine stand next to the register like the gossip plastered on the front page was suddenly fascinating. His glasses had slipped down a little, and when he pushed them up again, his knuckles brushed his cheek, the smallest tell that he was flustered, too.

You gave a half-smile. “Just old friends.”

She shrugged, unconvinced, and mock-whispered to you conspiratorially while scanning the last of your items, “Oh, hon, some friendships turn into the best marriages. The way he looks at you? That’s not just friendship.”

You didn’t respond. You were one-hundred-percent sure Clark heard her. He at least had the grace to not react. But you felt the silence stretch tight between you like the draw of breath before something important.

You smiled, polite and a little strained. “Have a good day, Marge.”

You paid quickly, not asking about any pie crusts, and avoided Clark's eyes. Your hands were trembling just enough that you nearly fumbled your card. Clark gathered the bags without a word, shoulders stiff under his coat.

Outside, the air was colder, the wind tugging at your scarf. Clark shifted the grocery bags easily into one arm, freeing the other to steady you when a gust nearly threw you off balance. His palm pressed lightly against the small of your back, guiding you forward.

Always protective without even realizing it.

You caught a leaf tangled on his shoulder and reached up instinctively, brushing it away. Your fingers lingered a second too long on the wool of his jacket.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His gaze held yours, open and unreadable, blue in the sharp light of late afternoon.

You swallowed, the ache catching in your throat. “We should—get back. Before the milk warms up.”

“Yeah,” Clark said softly.

You started walking, and he fell into step beside you, your strides matching without trying. Every few blocks, your hands brushed — his knuckles grazing yours, your sleeve catching his. Neither of you mentioned it.

The city hummed around you — cars, laughter, the distant clang of a train — but between you, the quiet carried its own pulse.

You told yourself the ache in your chest was nothing new. Just habit. Just history. Just the echo of something you’d learned to live without.

But every time someone mistook you for more, every time you had to correct them, the word friends tasted a little more like loss.

By the time you reached your apartment, the light had gone soft and gold, and the silence between you had grown too tender to name.

Clark handed you the bags. “Text me when you’re in?”

You nodded, smiling faintly. “I will.”

He lingered a moment longer than necessary, wind ruffling his hair. “I'll call you tomorrow night?”

“Yes, tomorrow night,” you said, biting your lip.

He turned to go, and you stood there watching his tall, familiar frame moving through the evening crowd. 

.

Clark tried to focus. He really did. 

He sat at his desk, staring at a half-written lead that had blurred into static. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, one hand absently turning his coffee mug in slow circles.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Sunday.

Marge.

He could still hear that woman's voice — light, teasing, far too sure of herself.

“You two move like you’ve been married ten years.”

And then, quieter, conspiratorial, the way only small-town women could deliver a truth like a benediction:“The way he looks at you? That’s not just friendship.”

Clark had laughed it off, polite, flustered. But the words had followed him home, threaded into the silence between his heartbeats.

Because for one terrifying, impossible moment, he hadn’t disagreed.

He ran a hand down his face, sighing quietly. He was twenty-nine, not sixteen. He shouldn’t still be sitting here trying to name a feeling he already knew the shape of. You’d called it friendship. He’d agreed. And maybe that was for the best. You’d both been through too much to rush back into something neither of you were ready for.

Still… the way you’d brushed that leaf from his jacket. The warmth of your hand. The small, startled laugh when he’d said we.

He hadn’t stopped replaying it.

“Earth to Claaaark!”

Clark blinked, startled back into the present. Cat was standing next to his desk, one perfectly manicured brow raised, a caramel-colored latte balanced in one hand and her phone in the other.

“You alive in there?” she asked. “I’ve been like, calling your name for the last thirty seconds.”

He straightened in his chair, trying to look less like a man who’d just been caught thinking about you instead of writing. “Sorry, Cat. What’s up?”

Cat smiled, "You free Friday night? I’m planning a bar outing for the team. O’Hanley’s, a new place uptown, very fancy, allegedly serves cocktails that cost more than my manicure. We deserve a break before Perry throws another tantrum.”

Across the partition, Jimmy perked up instantly from his desk. “Did someone say drinks? I’m in.”

“Duh, I was gonna get to you eventually,” Cat said dryly, then looked back to Clark. “So, are you in?”

Clark hesitated, fingers tapping the corner of his notepad. “Friday?”

“Yes, Friday,” Cat teased, mock exasperated. “The day that exists between Thursday and freedom. Do I need to send a calendar invite?”

He smiled faintly. “I… actually might have plans that night.”

“Ooh,” Jimmy drawled, wheeling his chair closer. “Plans? With who?”

Clark paused just a second too long. “I was going to see a friend.”

“Uh-huh. Which friend?” Cat asked, voice syrup-sweet.

He hesitated again, then said your name quietly — almost tenderly, like saying it aloud made something in his chest ease.

Cat’s smile sharpened. “Ah. The best friend. The nurse. ”

Clark gave a helpless sigh, already bracing himself. “She has a name, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Cat said smoothly, perching on the corner of his desk. “Remind me of it again?”

He frowned slightly but humored her. “You already met her, Cat.”

“Refresh my memory. I meet so many people.”

Jimmy smirked. “C’mon, man, tell her. She’s just being nosy.”

“Not nosy,” Cat corrected in a sing-song voice. “Forgetful."

Clark muttered your name under his breath before taking a sip of his coffee. The syllables came out softer than he meant to.

Jimmy grinned. “She's been doing okay? I still can't believe that guy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clark said quickly, too quickly. “She’s great. I've been checking in.”

“Of course you did,” Cat said under her breath, watching the way he said it — like the words themselves steadied something in him.

He pretended not to notice her smirk and focused on straightening a stack of papers that didn’t need straightening. 

Jimmy chuckled. “Dude.” Then, quieter: “You know, you light up every time you talk about her, right?”

Clark froze, “No, I don't.”

Cat crossed her legs, smug. “No, Jimmy's right. You get this look. It’s very…soft lighting, wistful piano music, unspoken yearning. It’s adorable, if a little tragic.”

Jimmy laughed so hard he nearly dropped his camera lens. “You are pretty obvious, man.”

“I’m not,” Clark said, flustered, though the warmth at the back of his neck betrayed him.

Cat, of course, caught it instantly. “You are. Tell you what, I’ll help speed it up.”

That earned her a suspicious look. “What's that supposed you mean?”

“Oh, nothing!” she said airily, standing and smoothing her skirt. Jimmy peered at her phone for just a moment, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his smile.

Jimmy’s grin widened. “You’re not thinking of—”

“Oh, I’m absolutely thinking of,” Cat interrupted. She angled her phone away from Clark’s line of sight, pretending to scroll.

“Friday,” she said sweetly, turning back to him. “Promise you’ll come, Clark. It’s a team outing. It'll be fun.”

Clark gave a small, weary smile, trying to mask the unease that always followed Cat’s particular tone of voice. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

Jimmy waited until Clark got up to the break room, leaning toward her across the aisle, voice low. “You’re really gonna do it?”

Cat grinned, eyes glinting. “Oh, Jimmy. It's like you don't know me at all.”

Jimmy whispered it, muffling his chuckle behind his hand. “This is evil.”

“Not evil,” Cat corrected, already tapping away. “Entertaining.”

Neither of them noticed the way Clark sighed at his desk — head bowed over a blank page, still trying to rewrite a sentence that wouldn’t come — or how his lips curved softly at the thought of you, completely unaware that somewhere across the bullpen, your phone was already lighting up.

.

It started with a notification mid-afternoon Tuesday.

You were sitting cross-legged on your couch, folding laundry fresh from the dryer. The room smelled faintly of clean cotton and vanilla detergent. Your hair—still a little damp from your shower—was tied up in a messy bun with a silk scrunchie, a few wisps falling against your cheeks. The old scrape on your knee, the one that had bloomed purple and red after the falafel incident a month ago, was finally fading to a dull rose.

You shifted your leg on the throw pillow beneath it and reached for your phone just as it buzzed again. Then again. Then again.

Three Instagram notifications stacked neatly across your lock screen.

You frowned, thumb hovering before you unlocked it.

Cat Grant: Hey, it'sClark’s coworker! You have good taste in shoes! I hope this isn’t weird!

Then, seconds later:

Cat Grant: Anyway, we didn’t get to really talk last month, and I want a do-over.

And another, before you could even blink:

Cat Grant: The Planet crew’s going out Friday night. This upscale bar that’s in right now. Just drinks, have fun. You should come if you’re free.

Then another set of messages popped up.

Jimmy Olsen: hey! Just watched Cat message you, so I’m jumping in too

Jimmy Olsen: that lunch last month was a mess. I don’t think we properly got a chance to say sorry. 

Jimmy Olsen: uhhh but you were super cool and handled it like a pro

Jimmy Olsen: so… drinks? With the gang. Friday?

You blinked at your phone.

Then you laughed out loud because of course Cat slid into your DMs like she was booking a client. And Jimmy would follow up with earnest, rambling apologies that somehow made you feel instantly at ease.

You set your folded shirt aside, fingers hovering above your phone. Your heart thudded a little harder than it should have.

You hadn’t seen any of them since that day. Since the falafel, the shove, the sting of concrete and embarrassment that clung to you for days after. You’d pulled back a little since then—not out of anger, but caution. Embarrassment, maybe. Letting things breathe. Hoping they forgot about you so you wouldn’t have to relive that day.

Metropolis hadn’t exactly given you a circle. You’d been on your own for so long that solitude became muscle memory. Self-sufficiency was a kind of armor. You were good at it.

Clark had done everything he could these past few weeks to show you that you mattered — dinners, texts, warmth in the smallest gestures. Listening, not out of pity, but presence. You felt it every time. And yet, some quiet, wounded part of you still wondered if you’d ever really belong in his orbit again.

Maybe this invitation was a start.

You typed before you could overthink it, responding to Cat first.

You: Hey, thanks! I’m off Friday. Where should I meet you?

Cat responded within seconds.

Cat Grant: YES.

Cat Grant: I booked us a table at @ohanleys. 7 PM. Dress cute. We’ll have drinks and mercilessly interrogate Clark about his middle school haircut.

Cat Grant: Don’t tell him you’re coming. Let’s surprise him!!

You laughed again, a small buzz of nerves fluttering in your chest. 

You then switched to Jimmy's chat.

You: Hey! Don't be sorry. I messaged Cat. I'll see you at O'Hanley's. 

You: Don't tell Clark. 

Within seconds, both Jimmy and Cat sent you their numbers, followed by an enthusiastic string of emojis.

You hadn’t planned to run into the Planet team again so soon — and certainly not on purpose. But this time felt different. Not ambushed. Not judged.

An actual invitation.

You clicked on the @ohanleys link Cat had sent. The bar’s Instagram page unfurled with warm light and moody charm — dark hardwood floors gleaming under amber sconces, deep emerald velvet curtains, leather booths, antique mirrors, and gold-rimmed glasses catching light like they’d been dusted with honey. The kind of place where laughter hummed low, where secrets were told softly over drinks that looked too beautiful to taste.

The drinks were pricey. But the reviews were glowing.

You sat back, scrolling through the photos — already imagining the sound of clinking glasses and Clark’s laugh threading through it all.

Your gaze drifted toward your closet down the hall. You started mentally piecing together an outfit — maybe the silk blouse you’d worn once to a hospital gala, tucked into black trousers and paired with your heeled boots. Maybe something softer, maybe not.

Maybe this time, with a real smile and your chin lifted, you’d get to introduce yourself the way you wanted to be seen — not the girl knocked down, literally and metaphorically, but you.

You closed the app and turned back to your laundry, that small flutter of anticipation humming in your chest like a secret you couldn’t wait to share.

Let them be surprised.

Let him be surprised.

For once, you were stepping into his world — on your terms.

And you were ready.

.

Wednesday night, you were on Clark's couch again.

Feet tucked under your legs, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table next to a bowl of homemade beef stew Clark flew in from Ma.

The TV murmured in the background — some old reruns of a police procedural show you liked, though neither of you were paying attention. The lighting was soft. The silence between you was even softer.

Clark sat beside you, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the glow of this laptop casting pale light over his face as he scrolled through a few work emails. His glasses were tucked away in his dress shirt pocket, the crease between his brows deepened every time he frowned at the screen. 

It was a routine you were falling into lately.

Domestic. Easy. Dangerous, in how much it already felt like yours.

You were giddy with what you were keeping tucked in your back pocket — Friday night, Cat’s surprise. You weren’t hiding it from Clark, exactly. Just saving it. One small win for yourself. Something lighthearted in a season where most things had felt heavy.

“Big day tomorrow?” you asked, sipping your tea. 

Clark hummed in response, not looking up yet. “Not too bad. Lois has a lead she’s chasing, and Perry’s breathing down my neck about the sanitation strike follow-up. I’ll probably be home late.”

You gave a nod, already knowing your own shift tomorrow was going to be a twelve-hour marathon. The hospital was short again. You felt it on Monday and yesterday. Thursdays always seemed to stretch, not quite the weekend but early enough. Your thoughts lingered back to the warmth radiating from Clark's thigh beside you.

Then, a pause.

Clark glanced up. “Oh, uh...and the team’s going out Friday.”

You blinked once — just enough to keep it natural. “Out?”

“Yeah,” he said, stretching a little. “O’Hanley’s. Some upscale bar. Jimmy’s idea, I think, but it’s probably more of a Cat Grant operation. She’s been on some kind of social tear lately.” He smiled faintly, but didn’t look particularly thrilled.

“That’s nice,” you said, keeping your tone light. “You going?”

Clark hesitated. “I… was thinking of skipping.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I dunno. Just—” he scratched the back of his neck, a tell he had even as a child, “—we’ve been so busy. I kind of wanted to just stay in this weekend. With you.”

Your stomach flipped a little, and you loved how sweet that sounded. 

You gave a small, playful scoff. “Clark Kent, are you bailing on your own coworkers because you want a night in with me?”

“Maybe,” he said, sheepishly. “But in my defense, that sounds better than watching Jimmy try to beatbox after three whiskey sours.”

You grinned, nudging his leg with your socked foot, but froze when he caught your ankle and rested it on his lap. “It’s just one night. Go. It's not a crime to have a little fun.”

He grimaced, gaze flicking to your mouth before he looked away. "Sounds like my version of fun is different from your version."

You chuckled and leaned your head against the couch, watching him. “Come on, you can’t give Cat the satisfaction of thinking you’ve gone reclusive.”

“I am reclusive," he said dryly. 

“Not with me.”

His gaze lingered on you, quiet and warm, and for a second, you almost lost your nerve. You wanted to tell him that you’d be there. That you were nervous and excited and so ready to belong in more parts of his life.

But then he smiled softly, thumb brushing over your ankle again like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and said, “I guess I’ll go. Cat would probably kill me if I didn't.”

“Good,” you said, heart skipping.

He turned back to his laptop, but his hand stayed where it was, fingers resting lightly against your skin. You didn’t move, didn't breathe too loudly, afraid the moment would vanish if you did. 

.

Thursday had come and gone, your shifts done, and the weekend was yours. You had your time with Clark when he wasn't patrolling or working, and you had to reassure him again and again that you were 'fine' and for him to 'have fun' and that you'll see him over the weekend. 

Now, you had no business overthinking this.

It was just a night out. 

Invited by Cat and Jimmy, who wanted a do-over first meeting, and the rest of the Daily Planet crew who probably already Googled you, stalked your LinkedIn, and decided exactly what kind of person you were based on your Instagram bio. And sure — Clark would be there too, blissfully unaware that you were about to crash his coworker hangout with perfectly executed surprise and a dress that absolutely was not about him.

Definitely not.

You stood in front of your closet, towel-drying your dark hair with one hand, staring at your options. 

Too casual. Too corporate. Too “nurse off duty and doesn’t know how to have fun.”

Your gaze fell on it.

A black dress. The black dress. 

Form-fitting, thigh-hugging, off-the-shoulder, with a neckline that walked a careful line between classy and oh. An impulsive birthday buy years ago, it still had the tag on, like it had been waiting

You bit your lip, held it up, and gave it a long, hard look.

“Okay,” you muttered. “We’re doing this.”

It clung in all the right places. Made your legs look longer. Your collarbones were more prominent. The slight dip at your chest demanded just enough attention to make someone look twice — maybe three times.

You added small gold hoops. Applied a full face of make-up- mascara, liner, blush, matte lipstick- and your favorite perfume. 

You told yourself, again, that this wasn’t just about Clark.

You were dressing for you. You were reclaiming that unfortunate lunch day. 

Your mouth curled into a quiet, satisfied smirk as you gave yourself one final look in the mirror, smoothing the dress over your hips, admiring how plump your ass looked.

“Just a fun night out,” you said to your reflection, voice cool, practiced, lying through your teeth.

You grabbed your jacket, your small purse, and your phone — ordering a rideshare and reading a text from Jimmy that said they've arrived and saved a seat for you next to Clark.

You rolled your eyes — but smiled.

Tonight, you were going to walk into his world — not as a tagalong, not as a what-if, not as a memory — but as a woman who knew exactly what she brought to the table.

And that woman?

She looked good.

.

By the time you arrived at O’Hanley’s, the upscale bar was buzzing — lowlights, music pulsing at the edges of conversation, the air rich with warmth and perfume, tables full of laughter and end-of-week energy. 

You hesitated just past the coat check, eyes scanning the crowd, breath catching slightly. The soft lightening painted everything gold and amber, and you almost turned back.

Then you saw them. The Planet crew sat in the back corner near the windows, with most already a few drinks in.

Ron was telling a story too loudly.

Jimmy was in hysterics, head on the table.

And Clark...

He was leaning back in his chair, one arm resting along the back of it, navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His tie was still knotted but loose, and he was mid-laugh, eyes crinkling, glasses slightly fogged from the warmth.

He looked unfairly handsome. For a second, you forgot how to move. 

You forced yourself to walk toward them, careful and casual.

Cat spotted you first. Her lips parted with a pleased little “ohhh.”

Jimmy’s head snapped up then. 

“You’re kidding me,” he whispered, eyes wide, a grin spreading like sunrise. He launched out of his chair and jogged over, already holding out his arms and guiding you to the table.

“You came! I was betting five bucks you’d ghost.”

“Only five?” you grinned, hugging him briefly. “I’m worth more than that.”

“Clearly,” Cat popped up beside Jimmy, welcoming you with her own hug and eyes raking over your outfit. “Wow. You clean up dangerously well.”

You flushed, “I just—wanted a proper meeting.”

You turned to the empty spot next to Clark. He was frozen. 

Literally. Just—stopped. Mid-movement. The impossible kind of full-bodied stillness only he could pull off without it looking awkward. Eyes wide behind his glasses. Thrown, completely and thoroughly.

You saw it: recognition, disbelief, warmth, and something deeper. Hunger, maybe? All of it flickering across his face in a second, and it made your skin prickle. 

“Hey, everyone!" you greeted, tucking hair behind your ear. Your eyes swept the rest of the table in acknowledgement, ending back at Clark. 

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. 

Cat giggled behind her cocktail glass, back at her seat, "Don't worry, we didn't tell him!"

“Hi,” he blinked, his voice lower than usual, breath catching a little. “You—you're here.”

“I am," you said lightly, finally sitting next to him. "Surprise!"

He leaned in close, the scent of his cologne hitting you. His voice dipped low, closer to a whisper, “Why didn’t you tell me?"

You tilted your head, lips curving, "Spoil the surprise? You already tried bailing. I figured this would be more fun.”

He laughed, soft and helpless, then flushed. A beautiful, visible flush. You saw Lois’s eyes narrow ever so slightly at that.

His eyes traced your face, lingering longer on your lips than they probably should have. “It’s more than okay. You look… really nice.”

Before you could think of what to say, Jimmy piped up, waggling his brows across the table. “Dude, you mean she looks insanely nice.”

“Alright, Jim, reel it in,” Ron drawled, taking a sip of his beer, "before Perry hears you three boroughs away."

Clark bumped your shoulder gently with his. “They’re like this all the time. I’m sorry in advance.”

But you weren’t sorry at all. It was oddly comforting — chaotic, yes, but welcoming. You weren’t just Clark’s plus-one tonight. You were…part of it. Orbiting a little closer to his world than before.

He leaned in once more, voice soft enough only for you, "You really surprised me."

"Good, that was the point."

.

The conversation picked up quickly— stories from the newsroom, wild source mishaps, Jimmy's impressions of city council members. They were a tight-knit bunch, but they never once made you feel like an outsider tonight.

You chimed in with your own ridiculous ER stories and oddest requests. Cat kept slipping you conspiratorial glances. Ron asked your opinions about headlines. Steve tried to guess your favorite beer based on “vibe alone". 

It was light, messy, alive.

Eventually, Lois leaned over the table toward you, snatching a couple of fries from the shared basket. “Wanna get some air?”

You blinked. “Now?”

“Now,” she said around a mouthful, already rising. “Come on, I don’t bite.”

She turned to the rest of the group, mumbling that you two were going to the restroom. No one questioned it, except for Clark, whose fingers brushed yours as you got up. A small, wordless question. You smiled in reassurance before following Lois out through the back and out the side door.

The autumn air was cool and crisp against your arms. You crossed them over your chest, leaning against the brick wall of the empty side patio. The muffled pulse of music and laughter bled through the door beside you.

“I don’t do this with most people,” she said, voice casual, eyes on the street. “Pull them aside. Talk like this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is this a warning?”

“It’s a disclaimer.” She stared at you, calculating, “You like him.”

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t respond at first — just looked out over the street, where headlights glowed on wet asphalt and distant laughter echoed from inside.

"That obvious?"

"To a reporter like me? Yeah. Mr. Clueless, not so much," Lois said dryly.

“Clark’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. Doesn’t always make him easy to understand. He’s private. He’s… burdened, in ways people don’t see.”

Your fingers tightened over your arms.

“I know. Believe me, I know,” you said quietly.

She glanced sideways at you, curiosity sparking. “You’ve known him a long time.”

“Since we were kids."

"So you know about him?" She stressed the last word, eyeing you. 

You tapped the center of your sternum and drew a small "S", "Yes."

Lois only nodded, her shoulders somehow sagging with relief. 

“You’re not like the people he’s met as an adult,” she said. “You don’t look at him like he owes you something. You don’t pull. You don’t chase. You… see him. It messes with him a little.”

You swallowed, heartbeat thudding in your throat. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” she said. “It’s a rare thing. He talks about you. Not a lot. But enough that I started wondering if you were the real reason he looked like someone punched him in the heart months ago. ”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks.

Lois smiled faintly, tapping her chin, “I like you, for what it’s worth. You’re grounded. Observant. Smart. And it’s pretty clear you care about him.”

“I do,” you said softly, playing with one of your gold hoop earrings, a nervous habit. “I just don’t want to mess it up. Or…” You hesitated. “Be something temporary.”

Lois studied you for a long moment, then exhaled with a genuine, unguarded smile. 

“You're not temporary." She gently placed a hand on yours and squeezed, "I’ve known Clark a long time. We’re ride-or-die. But he’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you.”

The words settled in your chest like a spark you didn't know what to do with. She let go and turned back to the door. 

Before she got farther, you placed a hand on her shoulder. 

"Wait!" You took a deep breath, "Thank you, Lois. I... This means a lot to me. I hope...we can be friends."

Lois looked at you over her shoulder and failed to hide her grin. She slung an arm around your shoulder, her taller frame leaning against you. 

“God, you and him... C'mon, let's go back in. I think Jimmy ordered lemon shots, and it's about to get messy.”

You laughed, breath catching a little. "Oh, I don't want to miss this."

You followed her in with a lighter heart and easier steps. 

When you both sat down again, Clark draped an arm against the back of your chair without missing a beat in his conversation with Jimmy. His fingers brushed the fabric of your dress once, like he needed to make sure you were here. 

The night stretched on in golden fragments.

Drinks and food arrived by the round — beers for Steve and Ron; cocktails for you, Cat, Lois; one outrageous flaming shot that Jimmy nearly set his sleeve on fire with. 

Trays of heavy carbs - fries, pretzels, chips, and dip scattered along the table. 

Cat snapped selfies of the group and herself sipping her cocktail or other candid shots of the busy bar to use for a future review.

Lois, with dry humor, rated every drink in front of her like it was a wine tasting in Bordeaux.

And Clark — Clark was still stealing glances.

At you.

He never really recovered from your entrance. He laughed when the group laughed, nodded when Ron shared a story, but every few minutes his gaze would wander, soft and heavy-lidded, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were here.

You, who looked like sin in that black dress.

You, who once shared peanut butter crackers with him in the third grade and patched up his scraped palms with your mom’s Hello Kitty band-aids.

Now your knees brushed under the table, and it was so easy, so dangerously easy, to pretend this was your life already. 

.

“You’re going down, Olsen.”

Jimmy grinned like a man with something to prove as he rolled up his sleeve, planting his elbow dramatically onto the polished bar table.

Across from him, Ron cracked his knuckles like a seasoned veteran of bar sports. “You forget I used to wrestle in high school?”

“Wrestle what?” Cat chimed, raising a brow. “Excuses?”

Lois cackled. You laughed too — a little freer now, the warmth of the bar’s low lights and the start of your third drink stretching everything soft and slow.

You weren’t drunk. Just pleasantly fuzzy.

Even Clark looked like he was relaxing more — though you knew it wasn’t alcohol. Tonight he only sipped something citrusy and politely non-alcoholic. Still, the slight flush in his ears and his bright-eyed, dimpled smile told you he was very affected by something.

You hoped, irrationally and selfishly, that it was because of you.

“Okay, okay,” Jimmy huffed, shaking out his hand. “One, two, three—”

The team exploded in cheers and heckling as Ron immediately slammed Jimmy’s arm to the table with a loud, satisfying thunk, earning a few head-turns from other patrons enjoying their Friday night out.

“Rematch!” Jimmy yelled, already nursing his bruised ego.

“Only if I get a turn,” Lois teased, finishing the last of her drink.

“Pfft. I could take you both,” Cat declared, reaching for a pretzel. 

You were still laughing when someone said it — you weren’t sure who, maybe Steve. 

“Bet she could beat half the table.”

And suddenly, all eyes turned to you.

You blinked. “Wait, me?”

“You’re a nurse,” Lois said, reaching over to extend your arm and flex it. “You probably have, like, super grip strength from dragging defibrillators and fighting back drunk people on nights like this."

You snorted, brushing Lois off, “You're not entirely wrong—”

“Come on, miss nurse,” Cat coaxed. “Flex on us.”

Jimmy was already clearing the table, looking way too eager. “I believe in you. Do it for science. And the underdogs.”

Clark leaned in close, smile soft. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you turned smiling up at him. You stretched your arms and flexed them with a smirk. “But I want to.”

The cheer that went up from the table was ridiculous. More patrons turned their heads to your table. Clark's lips parted like he might say something, but you were already rolling your shoulders and settling in.

The seat across from you became vacant, ready for challengers. 

You squared off against Jimmy first — and to everyone’s surprise, won. He immediately declared it was because he was “still recovering from his loss to Ron.” Then Cat hastily shoved Jimmy out of the seat and challenged you, lost quickly, and insisted your nails were a secret weapon.

“You’re lucky I’m not wearing rings,” you teased, flexing your fingers.

But it wasn’t until Ron offered you a good-natured shrug and motioned to the table again that someone else intervened.

“Wait, wait,” Lois said suddenly, grinning. “Let’s up the stakes.”

Her eyes sparkled, unmistakably gleeful, as they landed next to you, on Clark.

“You’re next.”

Clark, bless him, looked like someone had just dared him to play strip poker in a church. “What?”

“Oh, this is too good,” Cat egged on. “You’ve been sitting there smiling at her like a golden retriever in a tie all night. Time to show us what our Kansas farmboy can do.”

Ron laughed. “Yeah! Let’s see those country muscles, big guy.”

“I’m not—” Clark scratched his neck, avoiding your eyes. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Are you scared of losing?” you teased, chin tilted up, the challenge curling through your voice.

His gaze snapped to yours, and that soft, playful look from earlier was gone. Replaced with heat, that flicker behind the glasses, the weight of his attention sliding down your spine. 

“No,” he said, soft but firm. “I’m scared of you losing.”

“Damn,” Jimmy whispered. “That was kind of hot.”

The table burst out laughing again, but you held out your hand, steady and smug. “Come on, Clark. Let’s give them a show.”

Clark stared at your hand, sighed like a man walking into temptation itself, and finally relented — he got up and sat across from you, resting his much larger palm in yours.

Something clicked. 

His skin was warm. Calloused, but gentle. He moved his thumb along your knuckles and your breath stuttered. 

“Three,” Ron counted.

You met Clark’s eyes. His dimples ghosted, his smile apologetic.

“Two.”

You tightened your grip, just enough that you could feel the tendons in his wrist flex. His pulse thudded steadily against your palm.

You pressed forward, the neckline of your dress dipping, your breath catching. His gaze flicked down before he caught himself. You saw it, you felt it.

“One.”

It was like pushing against a brick wall made of velvet. No resistance, just… solid.

Clark didn’t budge. Not even a twitch.

Neither did you — not immediately — but you felt it, that gentle shift in pressure like he was testing just how far you’d go. He wasn’t even trying.

And still, your arm trembled.

You narrowed your eyes, taunting him, “You’re holding back.”

He smirked. “You’re imagining things.”

You leaned in, your voice a low hum meant for him alone.

“God, you’re strong, Clark,” you whispered, the words slipping out half-praise, half-challenge. “Bet you don’t even realize how hot that is.”

He inhaled sharply, a quiet, startled sound, and that was all the distraction you needed. You flashed him a look that was pure mischief, lashes low, a small victorious smile blooming on your lips as you pressed harder.

For one dizzy second, he faltered. His hand shifted, only slightly — but enough.

Your wrists tilted, momentum carrying the movement home until, with a soft thud, his knuckles met the tabletop.

Clark barely looked up. He was still watching you.

The room erupted around you. Cheers. Laughter. Someone chanting “Rematch!”

You grinned, triumphant, breathless. “Told you I’d win.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, dimples deepening. “You cheated.”

“Did I?” you asked, biting your lip, your knee brushing his beneath the table. “Or did you just get… distracted?”

His gaze caught on your mouth, then flicked lower for half a heartbeat before he smiled again, quieter this time. “Maybe both. I'll have to focus harder next time."

You stared a him, suddenly shy under the heat of his attention. "Are you planning a rematch?"

"Maybe," he mused playfully, brushing his knee against you this time. "If you play nice."

Oh God, you were in so much trouble.

.

The drinks had hit you in a slow, golden ripple.

You weren’t drunk, you swear — just soft around the edges. Light-limbed and giggly. You chewed on fries from the refilled basket every now and then. 

The low bar lights glinted off half-empty glasses, and Jimmy was halfway into a story about getting stuck in an elevator with Bruce Wayne (it was mostly just screaming and awkward silence, according to him).

You leaned a little against Clark, who returned to his seat, his shoulder solid next to yours, radiating heat like a furnace — you tried not to think about how good he smelled this close, how his laugh did something warm and curling in your chest and between your legs every time he aimed it your way.

Then, a tap on your shoulder. A stranger hovering at your side. Mid-thirties. Decent build. Dressed like a finance bro. A little too confident.

“Hey,” Finance Bro said, leaning a little closer than necessary and his green eyes dropping — clearly admiring the way your dress clung to your chest and thighs, "I'm Jason."

“Congratulations.” You deadpanned.

Lois snorted into Jimmy's shoulder, doing a poor job muffling her cackles. 

Jason grinned, undeterred. "Are you here with anyone?"

Clark’s posture shifted immediately. Not obvious — not to most people — but you felt it. The stillness in his spine. The way the muscle in his jaw flexed once before settling. The way his arm along the back of your chair tensed. The way his knee stopped bouncing. The way the conversation around the table slowed just slightly, like everyone had clocked it at once.

"I'm not interested," you said flatly. 

“Come on,” Jason coaxed in a sly voice. "Have a drink with me? It'll make it a good time."

Obviously, he didn't take the hint.

You blinked, trying to recalibrate and not respond with anger. His voice was too smooth. Smile too practiced. He didn’t look at your eyes when he spoke. You were caught in that cusp of disbelief and tispy boldness that made some ideas fun. You could feel Clark beside you, solid, steady, radiating restrained tension, and something reckless bloomed in your chest. 

Before anyone could speak — before Clark could even rise — your hand slid smoothly across Clark’s thigh, slow and deliberate, until it rested over the hard plane of his chest.

Then you shifted, twisting in your chair and settling right into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. His breath hitched.

You leaned in close, chest pressed against his, and played with his hair, peering up at him beneath your lashes in a voice dripping into a sultry, dramatic whisper that sent shivers down your own spine. 

“Baaaabe” you drawled into the crook of his neck in an airy voice, “Make the bad man go away…”

Clark went very still. His hands hovered, uncertain, one finding the curve of your waist but not quite gripping. He tensed as the bridge of your nose tickled the line of his jaw, more pronounced when you shifted closer, practically straddling one of his thighs. 

The table went silent.

Your fingers brushed along his shirt collar, then toyed with his tie, the movement so instinctive it surprised even you — but the warmth of him was grounding, and that mischievous bubble in your chest expanded when you felt the tremor in his breath.

Clark swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, voice low. “You sure?”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured, you gave your best puppy eyes, “He’s giving ‘talks over women in meetings’ energy. I'd rather sit right here all night.”

Lois and Cat nearly choked on their drinks.

Jason blinked, confused. “Wait, is this your—?”

“Yes,” Clark said immediately, recovering his composure — almost. He straightened just enough to have presence without being aggressive, and his smile was tight-lipped. “She’s with me.”

Jason raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, man. Message received.”

You didn’t miss the way Clark’s hand settled more firmly on your hip as the stranger walked off, his thumb tracing an absent-minded circle against your dress as if he couldn't quite help himself.

Or the way Cat leaned toward Ron and muttered, “Holy shit, that was hot."

Steve shook his head solemnly, "What did I say? Mild-mannered my ass."

Jimmy, wide-eyed, whispered, “Did she just purr at him?”

You felt Clark's his body heat seep into your skin, making your pulse jump when you smelled his cologne. You whispered before you could stop yourself, "you're warm" before peeling yourself off him slowly, cheeks flushed

"You're trouble," he murmured back. His eyes roamed your face, dropping briefly to your mouth, and then lower, lingering a beat too long where your dress dipped just above your cleavage. When he looked back up, he seemed… wrecked. In that boyish, sweet, utterly undone way that made you feel suddenly sober.

You could hear the others starting up another round of teasing and stories, but none of it touched the quiet space that formed between you and Clark.

His knees brushed yours again. Once, then deliberate this time.

“Sorry,” you whispered, biting your lip. “Was that too much?”

He shook his head, voice rough. “No! No, I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

“Not mad, right?”

“Mad?” he huffed a laugh, then leaned closer. “You could’ve said ‘please carry me out of here like a princess,’ and I would’ve apologized to that guy for the inconvenience.”

You laughed, higher and lighter, spilling out before you could stop it. You caught Lois's smirk across the table.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when you were halfway through another round of fries, that Clark leaned in again, unhurried timbre of his voice soft in your ear, making your skin prickle.

“For the record,” he murmured, “I’d make the bad man go away anytime you asked.”

Your breath caught.

“Even if I wasn’t tipsy?” you asked, quieter this time.

He tilted his head, eyes locking onto yours, soft, blue, burning. “Especially then.”

He pulled back with that earnest, crooked smile that you’d never quite recovered from — not when you were kids, and especially not now.

Not ever.

.

Clark hadn’t meant to watch you that closely.

He’d been doing fine all night. Content, even! Just sitting beside you felt like a blessing. After everything that had happened between you, the evidence of your slow rebuild finally had a chance to shine: the laughter, the light touch of your shoulder brushing his, the way you passed him fries without thinking.

All so natural, as if there was never a rift all of these years.

Until the man, Jason, showed up.

He was the type of guy Clark spent years pretending not to mind. Easy confidence, broad smile, with eyes that lingered too long. The kind of man who could make a room tilt toward him without even earning it.

But you didn’t even notice him. You were halfway through a giggle at one of Jimmy’s stories, your face turned toward Clark, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. The sound did something to him.

Then the man tapped your shoulder, and the shift in Clark was instant.

The tension crawled up his spine before he could disguise it. He told himself it was nothing. People talk at bars, an easy place to show interest. But when the man leaned closer, eyes dropping where they shouldn’t, Clark's hand curled into a fist beneath the table. He saw the way you blinked, confused and caught between irritation and disbelief.

"Are you here with anyone?”

That was when something primal slipped through. The smallest pulse in his jaw. A stillness so sharp it vibrated through his chest. His arm that draped along the back of your chair flexed involuntarily. 

It was irrational. Clark knew you could handle yourself. You didn’t need him to play protector, ever, but it didn’t stop the quiet, hot spark that flickered in his chest. He was one twitch away from moving, intervening, ending the conversation for you.

But you beat him to it.

One second you were sitting beside him, the next your hand slid across his thigh, and Clark almost forgot his name. The movement was deliberate, sure. The kind of deliberate that sent a warning and a question all at once. His entire body went rigid.

Then you were in his lap.

His brain short-circuited. His breath stuttered. Every sense flooded — the warmth of your body molding into his, the soft brush of your course hair at his jaw, the faint citrus scent of your shampoo.

You’d hugged him before, fallen asleep against him so many nights on the Kent farm. Even the month before, that night on your couch. All he’d felt was the fierce, protective ache to keep you safe.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

The press of your thighs around his, your black dress riding up. The whisper of your voice against his throat, breathy and playful, sugar-sweet and devastating. "Baaaabe… make the bad man go away…”

It sent tingling down his spine, like gravity had changed directions and pulled him straight down, no super strength or speed able to escape it. His pulse jumped hard enough he was sure you could feel it.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. One hovered, helpless, at the small of your back before finding your waist — tentative and terrified of meaning too much. You shifted again, the fabric of your dress sliding against his slacks further, and the world narrowed to feeling the heat between your legs atop leg.

He could hear Lois stifling a laugh somewhere, Jimmy choking on his drink, but all he could focus on was the sound of your voice — the same voice he’d grown up hearing across the cornfields, now dipped in something slow and teasing that made his lungs forget their purpose.

When Jason finally realized and asked, "Wait, is this your—?” Clark’s answer came faster than light.

“Yes,” he said. And for a split second, it wasn’t an act. "She's with me."

He could feel your shift beneath his palm, the shape of your waist fitting perfectly beneath his fingers, and he couldn't help but rub his thumb in circles against the fabric of your dress. It was dangerous how right all of this felt.

Eventually, the man left, and the world returned in fragments. Laughter, teasing, the scrape of a chair. Clark barely heard any of it. He was still trying to slow his breathing, still trying not to think about the way your voice had sounded when you called him babe like it wasn’t a game.

When you whispered, “You’re warm,” he nearly laughed because you had no idea how literal that was. His body was fighting itself, heart erratic, as if he were standing on top of the sun's surface.

He murmured, “You’re trouble,” because it was safer than saying the truth. That he couldn’t remember the last time something felt like that.

Then you pulled away, and the absence of you hit him like cold air after a hurricane. He tried to laugh it off, tried to breathe normally, but his gaze betrayed him. It dipped to your plush lips, your glistening collarbone, the soft skin stop your breasts when your neckline dipped, and then back up. Too slow. Too honest.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was adrenaline, proximity, a joke for the stranger, an escape route from discomfort. But the way you bit your lip when you whispered, “Was that too much?” — it didn’t feel like a joke at all.

“No,” he couldn't hide the rasp in his voice. “No, I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

When you smiled, so embarrassed and endearing, the knot in his chest tightened. You had no idea what you’d just done to him.

He managed to tease, to play along, to make you laugh again, but every breath he took still tasted faintly of your perfume. Every time your knee brushed his, he remembered the press of your body against his thigh, your heat searing into him. Every nerve screamed to pull you back on top of him.

Instead, he leaned in because he couldn't help himself, whispering, “I’d make the bad man go away anytime you asked." It wasn’t flirtation. It was the truth, soft and unguarded.

The truth that you weren’t the girl he used to know. You were the woman he was struggling to look at without wanting things he didn’t have the right to want.

"Even if I wasn't tipsy?" Gosh, he could only smile, helpless. "Especially then."

When you cried into his chest one month ago, he felt your rare moments of fragility and wanted to protect you. Tonight, he felt your laughter, your weight, your heat, and wanted desperately to fall apart beneath you.

And as you smiled at him, all warmth, mischief, and so you, Clark Kent realized he was in far deeper trouble than he’d thought.

.

The rest of the night blurred, laughter and glasses clinking and conversations that meandered - Jimmy challenging Steve to a round of darts, Steve stealing someone’s leftover pretzels, Cat glued to her phone, editing the night's photos for a future Instagram post. 

But the heat between you and Clark never faded.

Not after that.

And when the check came and you all stood to leave, Clark was already collecting your jacket from coat check and gently helping you slip into it. His hands lingered at your shoulders a little longer than necessary.

You didn’t say anything about it.

You didn’t have to.

The street outside the bar was quiet, save for the fading thrum of music through brick walls and the rustling of leaves overhead. The city felt softer at night — blurred edges, quieter footsteps, the low hum of Metropolis breathing.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Cat said, tossing a teasing wink your way as she clutched her purse and ordered a rideshare for her and Lois, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Jimmy snorted next to Steve. “That’s not exactly a limit, Cat.”

“Exactly.”

Lois pulled her coat tighter, eyeing you kindly like a protective sister, as she leaned into Clark. “Take care of her, Smallville.”

Clark chuckled, one hand already resting lightly on your lower back. “Always."

You said your goodbyes to them all, earning hugs from Cat, Jimmy, and, surprisingly, Steve, feeling all sorts of giddy with a successful "do-over". 

They peeled away into the night in their respective directions, leaving you and Clark alone under a streetlamp just outside the bar. 

You turned to him, your cheeks still warm from drinks and something else entirely. His hand hadn’t moved.

“I can catch a ride home, you know,” you murmured.

“I know you can,” he said, softer. “But I’d feel better flying you.”

You studied his face - tousled hair, jawline that could cut glass, and behind the glasses, icy blue eyes.

Your heart tremored.

“Alright, Kent. But if I puke midair, you’re doing my laundry.”

His lips curved into a grin. “Deal.”

Without another word, he stepped in close. His hands held your waist as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck. The motion was familiar. Done countless times over the past almost four months. Your breath caught as his chest brushed yours, and you felt the solid thrum of him, warm and steady beneath your fingertips.

Then, with barely a shift in the air, you were off the ground.

.

TBC!

Do you head back to your place alone or...👀