★

So, of course, for him, letting you go was like dying while still breathing in the putrid smell of a place he could no longer call home.

And even though in your mind there was no memory that Peter Parker ever belonged to your chaotic life, the body remembers.

Sooner or later, all memories suppressed by Stephen Strange's spell would cease, and perhaps your path and his would cross once again in an attempt to make up for the lost time…at least that’s what he still hoped for, even though four years had passed since the multiverse had opened and closed with the promise of leaving a ghost of Spiderman’s true identity in everyone’s lives.

Now, all he knew about you was through the news reports that showed you alongside the rest of your new team, the New Avengers. Despite all the years that had passed, he still wasn't strong enough to approach you and confess everything he had written on that crumpled piece of paper, stained with the faded traces of the tears he shed on his nights of utter solitude. For the time being, that paper was hidden in the coffee cup he once ordered just to be close to his friends one last time. It was the only evidence of who that boy was, at least, it was the only one he allowed himself to have.

For the moment, it was still just him against some criminal trying to disrupt the peace on the streets of New York, and thanks to the new settings he'd created on his phone, he could instantly know when the city was in danger and be ready to come to the rescue like the admired and respected Spiderman. Fortunately, there wasn't nearly as much crime as before, thanks to him and his work alongside the police and detective DeWolff.

But the peace the city was trying to get used to did not last that much longer.

Damage control was under attack again, for the fourth time in a month, and things were spiraling out of control. Peter couldn't stop feeling those strange sensations in his body, like it was bracing for something. His headaches were only getting worse, and no amount of aspirin would do the trick to make them go away.

And what happened in the last attack, when people like the old lady who had driven the tank and that guard who let the Scorpion go, seemed to be mind-controlled by someone else in the shadows, which only made the situation worse. It made him realize that he needed help from someone, someone who knew how to search for a person, who had more access to information he couldn't.

That person? Yelena Belova, the new Black Widow.

Peter knew she could help him, just like on previous occasions when he’d needed her services, or all those other times when he just needed to talk to someone and Yelena would ask stories involving her sister Natasha.

Seeing her meant hearing about you, which was a bonus, and something that sent his heart racing.

Just thinking about the possibility of knowing something beyond what the news, magazines, or interviews said about you and the new Avengers made him ecstatic, eager to learn about this new mind-controlling threat and, if the universe allowed it, knowing about you.

What Peter Parker didn’t expect when he arrived at the place where Yelena had summoned him to —which seemed to be a Russian spa rather than an actual office— was that, first, Black Widow was in a heated pool completely naked, asking him to take off his clothes, and second, she wasn’t alone.

Because next to Yelena, there was you, a little embarrassed by Yelena's lack of filter but at the same time ashamed of having to be naked in front of a total stranger, at least, that's what your mind was telling you.

This wasn't what Yelena promised you for a "girls' day out."

It seemed as if the world had stopped for an eternity for Peter, who looked at you with a gaze filled with all the emotions that flooded over him every time he thought of you or saw you, until the russian spy caught his attention.

“Helloo? Earth to Spiderboy,” called Black Widow after he didn’t answer her, and snapped off his daydream.

Filled with a flurry of nerves, he took off his suit, leaving only his mask on, and went into the water, trying to keep his body from tensing up and forgetting the real reason he was there now that you were here.

“I hope you don’t mind her being here. I tricked her into coming but i think she can help with your little problem,” Yelena said, pointing her thumb at you.

You waved to the masked hero with an awkward smile, not really knowing what was going on. Yelena hadn't mentioned anything about a meeting with Spiderman; you were supposed to go out so you wouldn't be stuck with Alexei and John competing over who was better than Captain America again.

While Spiderman and Lena were exchanging theories about what was happening with the Damage Control buildings and the attacks they were receiving, you just watched them, listening carefully to what they were saying and drawing your own conclusions.

“You said that the person who was controlling the workers and the old lady who was driving spoke directly at you, right?” you asked, trying to prove a theory you had.

“Uhm– Well– Yeah, it was like they were trying to see right through me,” Spiderman explained, feeling the heat rise to his ears and cheeks when he heard your voice.

He was lucky to have the mask on because hearing you, speaking directly to him after everything that had happened four years ago, was like falling in love with you all over again, just like when you spoke for the first time at the airport in Germany.

His heart was about to burst out of his chest and his stomach was churning, just like that time. He was lucky that the two women in front of him couldn't see his face.

The only difference between then and now was that both of you had grown up, your features making you look older, wiser and more mature. Your eyes carrying the burden of loss, sadness and new beginnings, a life he could no longer be a part of.

At that moment, the only thought running through his mind was simply being able to take off the stupid mask he was wearing and kiss you with that sweet gentleness that used to bring you so much comfort and security.

“Are you even listening to what Puppy here is saying?” Yelena interrupted his reverie yet again.

“S-sorry, what?/I told you to stop calling me that,” you and Spiderman said at the same time.

“She’s telling you something that could help you and you’re in another world, Spidey. It's rude,” Yelena pointed out, and you didn’t know where to hide.

It was true that the hero in front of you seemed not to have heard anything you'd said in the last minute, as if he'd been momentarily disconnected from himself. You couldn't help but feel something strange in your chest when you looked at him again, even without seeing his face, your heart started pounding faster than usual.

It must be the nerves, you thought as you tried to explain everything again.

“I was saying that maybe that person–”

“Leshy,” Yelena interrupted.

“Yes, Leshy,” you corrected, rolling your eyes before continuing, “He probably knows you, or at least know you have arachnid powers. Maybe he sees you as someone who's like him? Criminals often gravitate towards those they see similar to themselves…”

“Good one, Puppy,” Yelena praised.

“Thank you,” you smiled, ignoring the nickname for now.

"Wow, that's– that's a good theory, seriously. Thank you. You’ve alwa– I mean, I hadn't considered that," Spiderman said, impressed and hoping you hadn't caught his near slip-up.

You did, but you tried to not overthink it.

After a few more minutes, Yelena started rambling about small potatoes and big potatoes, apparently a topic she was far too passionate about to explain what you guys did compared to what Spiderman did in New York City.

“You should hurry and find out who that person is. I remember someone who was close to me had similar powers to those you mentioned, and believe me, things can get worse way too fast,” you warned before the masked man began to emerge from the pool, remembering when Wanda had mentally controlled you and the rest of the Avengers during the fight against Ultron years ago, a memory you were not to be very fond of.

“I’ll go to Damage Control and ask them myself,” the hero concluded, finally emerging from the water.

It was at that moment that you caught a familiar scent in the air coming from him, a very familiar one that didn't remind you of anyone in particular but at the same time made your heart beat a thousand miles an hour, heat rising to your cheeks without you being able to control it. When the hero was ready to leave, you spoke before it was too late. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Spiderman”

“T–thank you, it was the same for me,” he replied nervously before leaving the room.

Little did you know that seeing you again reopened a wound that hadn't yet healed, but it’d also given him even greater motivation to find the person behind all the attacks on Damage Control. 

Meanwhile, Yelena looked at you with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous smile.

"What?"

“Do you have a crush on Spiderman?” she asked with the same smile.

“Of course not! It’s just that…I don’t know, talking to him felt like I’d already met him and his scent–”

“Ew!  I don’t want to hear it anymore,” Yelena cut you off, submerging herself in the water while you were left thinking about the interaction you’d just had.

And if Spiderman was a complete stranger to you, why did you feel this pressure in your chest that told you otherwise? It was impossible that you knew who he really was; you remembered working with him, but he never took off his mask, just like now, when he hadn't either.

Weird, you thought, with the feeling in your chest giving you a headache that lasted even when you arrived at the old Avengers tower that now belonged to you and the rest of the losers that Valentina called the New Avengers.

Bob had prepared you some herbal tea for you to soothe the pain you were feeling, and Bucky tried to talk to you about what was happening, being the only one who had known you for a long time, but you declined his offer with a tired smile, promising to tell him everything soon.

When you were in your room, you decided to investigate what the arachnid had said, as well as search the internet for what you were feeling and also started reading the old files that were written about the friendly neighborhood spiderman.

A day had passed since your conversation with Spiderman in Yelena's office, and that feeling you had when you were talking to him and smelled his scent still lingered within you, except now something new was part of the equation.

Inevitably, during your research last night, you had fallen asleep. Apparently, you had searched enough for your brain to activate and started dreaming about someone you didn't remember meeting, but that was the thing about dreams, they could create a whole relationship with someone you saw passing by on the streets.

Even so, when you woke up in the morning, dried tears remained on your face, evidence of something much bigger than you could remember.

Your chest tightened when you thought of that someone, that boy from your dream who held you tightly in his arms and promised that everything would be okay, even though all you heard in his voice was agony alongside your desperate cries to stop what was happening.

Again, your heart wouldn't stop beating with a force you’d never felt before, as if you were missing someone you couldn't quite recall, longing for a warmth like the sun being close to you.

And despite never having seen his face in your dream, for some strange reason, all you could think about was how the only person who could possibly have  the answer was the friendly Spiderman, which was totally ridiculous and and beyond insane. You didn't even know his identity, and you didn't remember him being close to you during the time when you both belonged to the Avengers.

Were you going crazy?

“Are you alright, kid? You’ve been staring at that plate of pancakes for almost an hour,” Bucky Barnes said, who was sitting next to you. He was the only one who got up so early in the morning and the only one who knew you well enough to know that you were acting differently.

You looked at him for a second before nodding, unsure how to explain what was happening to you, but you knew that if anyone could understand, he would be the one. You took a deep breath before telling him absolutely everything that had happened in the last 24 hours.

“I know it sounds far-fetched, I know…but there’s something about that guy that reminds me of someone, someone i loved very much but can’t remember who he was,” you explained, your voice trembling and afraid that everything you were saying sounded completely crazy.

“I understand,” Bucky replied, with a nostalgic smile that expressed much more than he let on, “Kid, you know my head has been a minefield for a long time, and when i couldn’t even remember Steve, something inside me told me i knew him anyway…”

"Yeah?"

“Of course i did, what I’m trying to say is that– it seems like your body, your heart, remembers something that was altered in your memory and is trying to break free,” he explained softly, and clarity began to dawn on you after his confession.

“I think…I think you’re right, Buck. Maybe it’s best to look for the answer, isn’t it?” you asked, even though you already knew what you would do it.

“I looked for one when i felt like that, you should too,” he encouraged you.

With a smile and a quick side hug, you said goodbye to Bucky, grateful for his words and quickly leaving the tower. 

You opened the app that Spiderman fans used to track his location. It had been created by a guy named Ned Leeds, whom you somehow knew, but you couldn't quite put your finger on why you did. That same feeling from before resurfaced, a gnawing pressure, awakened by not knowing exactly what you were forgetting.

But while you were waiting to see the masked hero's location, a notification from an unknown contact lit up your screen.

Hi! Ms. Black Widow gave me your number :)

I hope you don't mind – S

Meeting at the top of the Empire State Building at night was private and beyond intimate; no one would be eavesdropping on your conversation with Spiderman. On the other hand, your nerves were on edge, your heart pounding in your chest again at the thought of being alone with New York's local hero, who hadn't said much more in his message than the meeting place and that it was urgent, which only made you more nervous.

When you reached the top, Spiderman was already there, holding something in his hands as he paced back and forth as if he were feeling the same way you were.

“Hey…You wanted to see me?” You asked timidly, your right hand holding your left forearm, trying to pretend that you weren’t on edge and your heart wasn’t about to jump out of your mouth.

Spiderman turned towards you at that moment, abruptly stopping whatever he’d been thinking before you arrived and approaching you. The air carried back that scent you had smelled in the Russian spa, the same one you had felt in your dream— a comforting, clean, soft musk aroma that reminded you of a hug from someone you’d loved in the past. He smelled like home, warm and safe.

“Hi…yeah, Uh– sorry, I didn’t want to say much over the phone, i was afraid you wouldn’t come or wouldn’t want help with what Yelena said about the small potatoes and–”

“Don’t worry,” you smiled at him, “I can help you with whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” he replied softly, his voice echoing in your head again.

You both sat on the floor near the building's optical towers, and it was when the arachnid started asking you if you could help him find a teenager who apparently seemed to be the threat that had been attacking Damage Control to look for this «V-max» thing. You felt a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that you had once helped him with a similar situation to the one he was going through right now, but again, that mental block  in your mind prevented you from going beyond what your memories allowed.

It was when his hand raised an old, used paper cup towards you that a chill ran through your body, a violent reaction that took the air out of your lungs and made you quickly stand up from where you were.

Your skin prickled, and it wasn't from the cold of the city at night, it was from the electric sensation that ran through your body, as if a switch that had been off for a long time had been abruptly flipped.

The person next to you wasn't just a former colleague you'd crossed paths with in the past, he wasn't a stranger. You knew him, and quite well it seemed, but the reason you couldn't recall his name or face was unknown to you, though perhaps not to him.

“Excuse me, but…do we know each other?” you asked Spiderman in a whisper, who, while you were lost in your thoughts, had also gotten up, worried about your reaction to his gesture.

“What did you just say?” he asked, his voice strained and tense. You could smell the levels of cortisol his brain had begun producing after hearing what you’d said, confirming his theory that this person in front of you had something to do with what was happening to you since yesterday.

“It’s true, isn’t it? Were we– were we friends? Something more? Please, ever since i saw you yesterday, i’ve been feeling like a thread is pulling me towards you, and my heart keeps racing every time i think about your scent, your voice, your face, which is still a mystery to me,” you blurted out quickly, trying to recall everything that was happening to you so that he could understand. “I swear i won’t tell anyone, but please…let me see your face…” you begged.

At that moment, it was his turn to stop breathing, not knowing what to do. This was the scenario he had dreamed of for all these years, and though part of him said it wasn't a good idea to succumb to your pleas, the other, much larger part allowed your hands —those hands he missed so much— to grasp the edges of his mask and beginning to slowly lift it, gradually revealing his face until the mask fell delicately to the ground.

His eyes, which he had unconsciously closed, opened slowly, and your gasp was the first thing he heard before noticing your eyes filling with tears that streamed freely down your face.

Your chest tightened again with a new feeling; memories lost in a locked cage began to flood your head. Silences that spoke louder than a thousand words, conversations that lasted until dawn, shared laughter over jokes that only you and him knew the meaning of, soft whispers murmuring those three words that many were afraid to promise.

A name came to mind as the face of the person in front of you filled those spaces where you thought you had been alone. That name was Peter Parker.

Peter, the boy you’d met thanks to Tony in Germany.

Peter, the boy who, despite not having known you for very long, was already more of a friend than all of the people who had surrounded you for years.

Peter, the boy to whom your heart belonged to, the love of your life that you’d lost thanks to the stupid spell of the stupid Sorcerer Supreme.

Peter Parker, who stood before you with that look that even with a spell cast upon you, you could never forget. Those eyes, full of sweetness and melancholy, watched you as if you were about to disappear at any moment, his hand extended towards you, waiting for you to take it as proof that you were real, and that you weren't going anywhere.

“Peter!” You exclaimed, hugging him with a force capable of knocking you both to the ground, and he immediately returned the embrace, tears welling in his eyes and a relieved laugh escaping his throat as he heard you say his name after so long n of not hearing it.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered against your ear after kissing the top of your head, and you smiled, unwilling to let go of him.

“I love you, I’ll love you forever, baby, I promise,” you whispered as your hands gently cupped his face and your lips met in a kiss that unleashed a torrent of ​​emotions within you.

Your breaths mingled and Peter's hands wrapped around your waist to get as close to you as possible, a muffled moan escaping your mouth as your hands played with his hair, recalling the countless times you had been in the same position.

It was a kiss filled with love, longing, and the memory of something you thought you'd never had.

And the thing about memories is that, despite being repressed, they will always find a way out. Thoughts of the past may not reside in our memory, as if a wall were blocking their escape, but the truth is that memories don't only exist in the mind.

The body remembers an unavoidable truth, whether it's a scent, a melody, or the voice of the love of your life yearning for you even after so much time apart.

For Peter Parker, meeting you had been his salvation, and for you, remembering him was like learning to breathe again. And if you had overcome a spell that wasn't supposed to be broken, you could handle that little bugger that was threatening New York City again, and this time, you would fight as you always had before,

You would do it together, for the rest of your life.

author's note. my first peter parker shot! i saw Brand New Day on wednesday and needed to write something about the movie. I cried so much watching it and loved the interactions between Peter and Yelena. Did anyone else miss Happy's absence? Cuz i did ):

btw, i used google translate for this, i proofread it and i think it’s okay but im sorry if there's any mistake!

P.S. i hope someone noticed that when I wrote Peter from reader's pov, he was just spiderman, but when i wrote about Peter, he was just himself and nothing else T-T

First, he was wearing his Superman costume to school. That ended after one very dramatic slide into home base on the playground that left it beyond repair. I thought that was the end of it, but no. His new solution? Wearing his underwear outside his clothes. And not just sometimes — every day. Over jeans, sweatpants, even his church clothes if I let him.

I’ve tried talking to him. I’ve tried reasoning, bargaining, and even bribery—something I’m not proud to admit. But Isaac is adamant. “If Superman can wear his underwear outside, then so can I.” What am I supposed to say to that?

We’re now flying through laundry at a record pace, and my poor washing machine is one load away from staging a rebellion. My wallet is begging for mercy. And yet, when I see him marching into class, chin up, convinced he’s doing you proud, I can’t bring myself to shut it down completely.

So, I’m writing to you. Not to tell him to stop being your fan, never that. But maybe, if you could send a note or a message encouraging him to wear his clothes in the typical order, it might save our detergent budget. And maybe save him from having to explain to every adult why his underwear is neon and on full display.

Thank you — not just for considering this ridiculous request, but for being someone my son believes in so fiercely. You’ve given him hope, courage, and someone to look up to. That’s worth more than all the ruined laundry in the world.

Sincerely,

Isaac’s Mom

(P.S. I’m having second thoughts about even mailing this, but I’m desperate.)

ᯓ★

​​The letter had been tucked into a slim stack marked “Personal Touch” — the pile his League aides knew to flag when something went beyond a quick, generic reply. Clark hadn’t wanted this system at first; it felt wrong to hand off something so personal. But the mail had multiplied until it became impossible to keep up, no matter how much of himself he poured into both his cape and his pen. So he compromised: let the aides screen, but make sure he saw the ones that mattered.

This one mattered.

Clark read it once, twice, three times. By the end, his grin was stretching helplessly across his face, and a laugh rumbled out of him before he could stop it. “Underwear outside his pants…” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He could practically see little Isaac, chin tipped up with stubborn pride, marching into class like it was the most natural choice in the world.

The image tugged at something in him. He remembered the years he’d driven Ma Kent up the wall — refusing to wear anything but his blanket as a cape, sneaking into church dressed as a cowboy, the endless costume phases that ruined more than a few shirts and pairs of jeans. The memory softened his smile into something more wistful. Poor Ma. She’d endured it with patience and love, and from the tone of this letter, Isaac’s mom was doing the same.

Clark tapped the edge of the page against his desk. He could write back. A note would be easy, reassuring, kind, quick, exactly what you expected. But something about the way you signed it made him pause. It wasn’t just laundry that you were worried about. You wanted your son to feel seen, to feel proud without carrying ridicule. And what was the point of being Superman if he couldn’t show up when it actually mattered?

He pulled out his phone, thumb already scrolling to the secure line. When the gruff voice answered, Clark didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Bruce, I need you to find me a school.”

There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end. “…What kind of school?”

Clark glanced back down at the letter, warmth tugging in his chest. “Kindergarten. Kid named Isaac. And hurry — I’ve got lunch plans.”

ᯓ★

Meanwhile, across town, you nearly ran two red lights and definitely sped through a yellow. Your phone was still clutched in your hand, the words from the school looping in your head: “We think it’s best you come in… it’s a bit of a predicament.” Which, with Isaac, could mean anything. A fire alarm pulled. A scuffle over action figures. Maybe another grand declaration about the greatness of Superman.

Ashley, one of your teacher friends, jogged beside you down the hall. “Listen, don’t freak out,” she tried, brushing hair from her face.

Your stomach dropped. “Ashley, that’s literally the worst way to start a sentence.”

“I know, I know! It’s just… you’re going to want to see it for yourself.”

You turned the last corner into the cafeteria and froze.

There, sitting at one of the long tables like it was the most natural thing in the world, was Superman. The Superman. Cape draped, shoulders impossibly broad even while hunched to fit on the bench, laughing softly as he chewed a PB&J from the cafeteria tray. Next to him, your son leaned in close, chattering a mile a minute while sliding over his apple slices like they were diplomatic offerings.

The room was buzzing, but Superman’s attention was fixed entirely on Isaac. He nodded along to whatever Very Important Story your son was telling, blue eyes warm with focus like there was no one else in the room. And then, as if he knew — or maybe because he really did due to superhearing — Superman’s head lifted, and his gaze met yours across the cafeteria.

A smile spread across his face, and he raised a hand in an easy wave, like you were all old friends and this was a common occurrence.

You blinked, stunned, but your lips curved into a smile of your own; a real one, soft and bright, the kind you hadn’t worn in too long. Isaac’s joy had been dulled lately by the teasing, but here it was again, shining back at you in full. And for that alone, you couldn’t help but smile. You started walking towards the duo, wanting to see your son’s happiness up close.

Something in Clark’s chest stuttered. It startled him, the way your smile hit like sunlight. He straightened unconsciously, rolling his shoulders back, posture tipping toward impressing you before he could stop himself. Embarrassing, maybe — but dammit, he did not expect you to be so beautiful. From your letter and his time with Isaac, he could tell that you’re an incredible and dedicated mother. Still, nothing could prepare him for the sheer impact your beauty had on him, especially when you wore a loving smile on your face, even though it was meant for your son; it still made a lasting impression on him.

Isaac spotted you next, his grin splitting wide. “Mom!” he shouted, scrambling up from the bench to launch himself into your arms. His words tumbled out between breaths: “Mom, Mom, this is Superman! He’s my new friend! He’s so cool, he ate my apple slices, and he says the cape is awesome, and he’s here, Mom, he’s really here!”

You laughed, the sound shaky with disbelief. “Yeah, baby, I see him.”

And when you looked up again, Superman was still watching you, still smiling like he was glad you’d come.

Isaac tugged insistently at your sleeve until you sat down on the cafeteria bench beside him. The table was too small, the seat too cramped, and then there was him — Superman, already there, leaning comfortably like this was the most natural thing in the world. Isaac beamed between you both, his small hand sliding into yours as if to say: see, this is my friend.

Up close, he was… bigger than you imagined. Not just tall, though he was that, but solid, as if every inch of him had been carved for impossible strength. And yet, when he smiled at you, there was a softness that completely disarmed you.

“Hi,” you managed, breath catching despite your best effort. “Thanks for, uh… this.” You gestured vaguely toward your son, who was glowing brighter than you’d seen in weeks.

Superman smiled, that warm, steady kind of smile that made you understand why the world trusted him. “Of course. I’ve always believed in showing up for friends in need.” He popped one of the grapes Isaac had pressed into his palm, chewing thoughtfully before adding, “Besides, I heard I’ve been called a ‘stupid-head in underwear.’ Couldn’t let that go unaddressed.”

You blinked, then laughed — a real, startled laugh that had you covering your mouth. “I can’t believe he told you that.”

“He did,” Superman admitted, his eyes flicking toward you, and he stayed there a beat longer than polite. That was when he noticed the absence of a ring on your finger. A quiet note to himself, tucked away: single. His chest eased, almost imperceptibly. “And for the record, I happen to think it takes a lot of confidence to wear a cape and still save the day.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Confidence or questionable fashion sense.”

“Maybe both,” he admitted, leaning an elbow casually on the too-small table, looking every bit like he wasn’t one of the most powerful beings in the world but just… a man trying to charm you.

For a while, Isaac filled every silence with stories of kickball victories and playground injustices. You listened, chiming in here and there, but it was impossible not to notice the way Superman listened too — intent, focused, like Isaac’s every word was the most critical thing in the world. And every so often, he’d glance at you across the table, sharing some private smile as if the two of you were in on the same secret. Each glance lingered longer than it should have — your lips twitching when he mouthed wow at one of Isaac’s more elaborate embellishments, his chest tightening when you gently corrected your son’s math mid-story with a kind patience he found downright beautiful.

When the bell signaled lunch was nearly over, you leaned down to kiss Isaac’s hair before rising. “I’ve got to get back to work, bug. Be good, okay?”

“Always,” he promised, though his eyes darted back to Superman as if looking for confirmation.

“He’s been perfect,” Superman assured, that sincerity again tugging at something in your chest.

You hesitated, turning back to him. “Really. Thank you. You didn’t have to come, but… this? You’ve given him more than I ever could’ve hoped for.”

His eyes held yours, steady and warm. “You’d be surprised,” he murmured. “Sometimes all it takes is one person believing in you. Looks to me like he already has that in spades.”

The words wrapped around you, unexpectedly tender, and for a moment, you forgot you were standing in a noisy cafeteria with dozens of kids filing past. It felt… intimate, like a secret tucked between the two of you.

Then Isaac, ever the wildcard, piped up. “Hey, Mom, can Superman come over for dinner?”

Both you and Superman froze, then started speaking at the same time.

“Isaac, I—”

“Sure!” The word slipped out of the hero’s mouth too fast. His brows jumped as he scrambled to recover. “I mean, if that’s okay with you. I didn’t mean to assume anything!”

Your brain went into overdrive. Dinner. In your apartment. With Superman. Would he even fit through the doorway? The absurd image of him stuck in the frame made your pulse spike for entirely the wrong reason.

But Isaac’s eyes were shining, hopeful, and Superman looked like he wanted to take the words back and couldn’t.

So you swallowed, smiled, and felt it land all the way in your chest. “Well… if you don’t mind crayons on the table and a very opinionated seven-year-old, then I suppose we could make it work.”

His answering grin was boyish and bright, a flash of something almost giddy. “That sounds perfect.”

And in that instant, with your son grinning between you both, it almost was.

ᯓ★

You weren’t sure how you ended up here — dragging the vacuum across the living room with one hand, Isaac balancing on a step stool with the feather duster like it was a sword in the other. “Mom, is this enough dusting? What if he can still see some? Superman probably has laser eyes that can see everything.”

“Sweetheart, please don’t call it laser eyes at dinner,” you groaned, tugging the duster down before he accidentally knocked the lamp over. “And yes, it’s fine. He’s not here to check for dust bunnies.”

You’d asked him earlier, nerves bubbling, “How will you even know which house is ours?” And he’d just smiled, devastatingly sure of himself, before saying, “Just call my name. I’ll be there in a jiffy.” A line that had no business sounding as charming as it did.

Now you were practically sprinting between rooms. Living room: vacuum lines visible? Check. Dining table: mismatched placemats hidden under the nicer runner? Check. Kitchen: candlelit, prayer whispered that it would disguise the faint smell of crayon wax and Isaac’s abandoned science experiment. Bathroom: clean towels swapped in, door left cracked just enough to look welcoming but not too much.

The bedrooms were another story. Yours looked like a war zone. Isaac’s resembled one of his LEGO cities after a Godzilla reenactment. So you did the only sensible thing: shut both doors firmly and hoped Superman’s X-ray vision came with some manners.

Dinner was a solved problem, at least. You’d phoned your favorite little family-owned restaurant, the one where the owner always slipped Isaac an extra dumpling “for being a good boy.” Comfort food, warm and homemade — it felt right. More you than anything, you could whip together last-minute.

“Okay, quick refresher,” you said, crouching in front of your son as he tugged at the hem of his cleanest Superman tee. “What are the rules?”

Isaac puffed up proudly, ticking them off on his fingers. “Don’t ask about his underwear. Don’t ask how fast he can fly while he’s eating. And… don’t tackle him with hugs, even if I really want to.”

“Perfect.” You kissed the top of his head, smoothing down his hair. “And polite questions are good, remember? He’s our guest.”

Isaac grinned, gap-toothed and sparkling with excitement. “Mom… do you think he’ll sit in my chair? Next to me?”

Your stomach flipped. Oh god, he’s really coming. Superman. In your little apartment. Sitting at your wobbly table with its crayon marks in the corners.

You gave the living room one last sweep, hands on your hips, and muttered to yourself: “Well, if he can fight Lex Luthor, he can survive dinner here.”

And then, before you could think twice, you whispered his name.

The knock came quick after you’d whispered his name, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him filling the doorway. Superman — broad-shouldered, smile so bright it could outshine the candle you’d lit, a neat bouquet of flowers cradled in his hand.

“These are for you,” he said simply, holding them out. His voice was warm, earnest, like this was just what you did when you were invited to dinner.

Your brain short-circuited for half a second. Flowers. Superman brought flowers to your apartment. Somehow, you managed a stunned but genuine “Thank you,” accepting them before realizing he was ducking — actually ducking — to fit through the doorway. To your immense relief, he cleared it without incident. No broken doorframe, no headlines about Superman stuck in someone’s front door.

He unfastened his cape without fuss and hung it neatly by the hooks near the entryway, like it was just another jacket. The domesticity of it nearly made you laugh. Before you could recover, Isaac had latched onto his hand, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Come on, come on! I gotta show you something!” your son tugged, already dragging him toward the living room.

“Lead the way,” Superman said, following with perfect patience.

You lingered for just a moment, lifting the bouquet to your nose, the scent of fresh blooms grounding you. A small, helpless smile broke across your face before you slipped into the kitchen to find a vase.

By the time you returned, Isaac had pulled Superman down onto the couch beside him, the two bent close together over a stack of crayon-scrawled papers.

“And this is where you beat Green Lantern,” Isaac explained with the seriousness of a war general, pointing at his drawing. “I gave you cooler hair here, too.”

“Very sharp,” Superman agreed gravely, blue eyes twinkling as he caught sight of you in the doorway. He shifted automatically, patting the space next to him. “Plenty of room.”

It was shockingly easy, settling in beside them, Isaac holding up each page like it was priceless art while Superman listened with the kind of focus that made you feel seen. The conversation slipped into an easy rhythm — Isaac’s narration, Superman’s questions, your gentle interjections to keep your son from talking too fast.

Dinner reheated quietly in the background, filling the apartment with the smell of spices and warm bread. After a good fifteen minutes, you stood reluctantly, brushing your hands on your thighs. “Okay, papers away and hands washed, bud. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Isaac leapt up without protest, already gathering his comic pages and bolting for the bathroom.

That left you with Superman, who rose to his feet, too. “Can I help?”

“Oh, that’s sweet, but—” you started, only for him to shake his head, stepping lightly into the kitchen after you.

“I insist,” he said, voice dropping into something playful. “Even superheroes know it’s bad manners to sit while someone else does all the work.”

He rolled his sleeves higher, revealing more of those unfairly sculpted forearms, and reached for the stack of plates before you could protest. “I’ll handle these,” he said, almost too casually.

You blinked at him, hands still hovering over the drawer. “Do they not have kitchens in the Fortress of Solitude?”

That earned a laugh, rich and low, one that vibrated through the tiny space. “Not exactly. But Ma made sure I knew how to set a table properly.” He shot you a sidelong look, as though he was waiting to see if that landed.

It did. Your lips twitched. “So you’re saying Superman can fly at Mach speeds, bench-press a mountain, and… plate dinner?”

“Multitalented,” he said gravely, but the sparkle in his eyes gave him away. He brushed by you, the heat of his body trailing after him, and it was only when your breath stuttered that you realized how close he’d leaned to reach for the serving spoons.

“Excuse me,” he murmured. But instead of stepping back, he stayed just long enough that his chest grazed your back, the solid wall of him radiating warmth. You froze, caught in the awareness of strength and restraint pressed into one body, into yours.

By the time you swallowed, he’d already lifted the serving dish from your hands, setting it gently on the counter like nothing had happened.

“Teamwork,” he said, flashing that devastating smile again.

You narrowed your eyes, though your cheeks burned. “I’m starting to think you’re more dangerous in a kitchen than on the battlefield.”

He chuckled, a soft sound just for you. “Don’t spread that around. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

Somehow, the two of you managed to plate everything without burning it or dropping a dish, though the tension was so thick it was almost comical. Every brush of his hand against yours, every glance traded as you passed bowls across the narrow space, was its own tiny spark.

When you finally carried the dishes to the table, he moved ahead of you, pulling out a chair with an easy, old-fashioned courtesy that sent your stomach flipping.

“Please,” he said, gesturing for you to sit.

You arched a brow as you set down the breadbasket. “Flowers, plating, and manners? If you’re trying to set the bar too high for the rest of Metropolis, congratulations.”

He grinned, sitting down beside you instead of across, his broad frame taking up more space than the chair seemed to allow. “Just trying to make a good impression on my new friend’s mom.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, light and warm, and when you glanced sideways, he was already watching you, like he was memorizing the sound.

And suddenly, between Isaac’s excited chatter and the flickering candlelight, dinner didn’t feel like a favor Superman was doing for your son. It felt like something else entirely.

Dinner unfolded like a quiet surprise, laughter mingling with Isaac’s excited chatter about school, superheroes, and the comic pages he had yet to finish. Superman listened with the same patience he’d shown earlier, but you couldn’t help noticing the way his gaze flicked back to you, lingering just a little too long whenever you smiled.

The touches were small but enough to light sparks: his fingers brushing yours when he passed the salad bowl, the casual weight of his knee nudging against yours under the table, his arm briefly spanning the back of your chair when Isaac leaned too far over the table and nearly toppled his juice. Every move carried intention, wrapped in the excuse of a crowded dinner table, but the heat curling in your chest told you Superman was no stranger to this game.

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, you found yourself playing back. Leaning in when you laughed, letting your hand graze his as you reached for the breadbasket, not looking away when your eyes caught his.

Afterward, the three of you squeezed into the kitchen. “All hands on deck,” Superman declared, rolling up his sleeves. He crouched a little to whisper to Isaac with mock solemnity: “This is one of the most important tasks for a hero: dish duty.” Isaac giggled like he’d been handed a secret mission.

So the assembly line began with you washing, Superman drying, and Isaac stacking with the focus of a soldier in training. The clatter of dishes gave way to laughter, and for one dizzying moment, it felt so startlingly natural, so domestic, that your heart ached with how much you hadn’t realized you missed this.

By the time the clock nudged toward eight, Isaac was drooping at the counter, yawning between giggles. You brushed his hair from his forehead. “Alright, champ. Bedtime. Go get ready.”

He shuffled toward the hall but turned at the last second, eyes wide with sleep and boldness. “Superman, do you wanna sleep over?”

The laugh that tore out of him was so free and genuine it startled you, filling the room like sunlight. “Careful, mister, don’t push it,” you said, shaking your head at your son’s antics.

“Maybe another time,” Superman said warmly, leaning down to squeeze Isaac into a hug. “It’s late, and I’ve still got to keep Metropolis safe tonight.” He whispered something into Isaac’s ear that made your son beam before he padded off to the bathroom.

That left the two of you alone in the soft hum of your little apartment. Superman followed you to the entryway, his presence filling the narrow space. For the first time all evening, his confident ease faltered just a little.

“That was…” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, then met your gaze with surprising honesty. “One of the nicest nights I’ve had in a long time. Filled with great company as well.”

The confession tugged at something deep in you. You leaned against the wall, softening. “I agree. I’d forgotten what it’s like to have another adult around. Just… company. It was nice. Really nice.”

Something shifted in his expression, his jaw tightening like he’d made a decision. “I don’t usually do this,” he admitted, voice lower, more earnest. “But I want to be honest with you. I’m attracted to you. And I’d like to see you again. Romantically. If you’d be open to that.”

The words tumbled out with a flush climbing up his neck, but the determination in his eyes was steady. You blinked, breath caught, before nodding. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Relief bloomed across his face, and something boyish flickered there; joy, unguarded and bright. You were about to say more when Isaac’s voice echoed down the hall: “Mom! I need help!”

You laughed softly at the timing, then leaned up on your toes and pressed a quick kiss to Superman’s cheek. His skin was warm under your lips, his smile dazzling when you stepped back.

“Goodnight, Superman.”

He gave you one last look, something tender and full of promise, before the soft whoosh of his departure swept through the air as he disappeared into the night.

You exhaled, heart racing, then turned to help your son — though the echo of that smile and the warmth of his cheek lingered long after the door closed.

a/n2: there it is! don’t know what’s with me and writing kids, but they add a lil something to a fic!

jason’s story will be posted either tn or tomorrow, and then my cute fluffy series for september is done! i hope you’ve all enjoyed it!

as always, like, comment and reblogs are always appreciated! 💗 my asks are open, even if it takes me a bit to get to them!

before we part, a big smooch and hug to you, i hope you know you’re loved! 💋💞

till next time!

taglist: @veryberryjelly @spiderstyles04 @thel0v3hashira143 @notsochillnerd @souperbat @sekidekiboombeki @Babypink224221 @sapphichotmess @Itszarinaig @socialmess-jery @stargirl-mayaa

"Well, I don't," Perry snips, tapping the ashes off his cigar into the little souvenir tray Lois got him from Nebraska. To this day, he still doesn't know what she was doing there, other than partaking in the general mischief that comes with embodying her brand of investigative journalism.

He decides that he quite likes simpering as you and Kent eye each other with begrudging disappointment diffusing across your faces. "Now, let's move on to the op-ed."

The pages pass by without much interjection from you or Kent. A new fusion bakery opening in Queensland Park is elected for the main feature article, and the room is unanimously for Lois' new expose being sent to print.

Then comes the topic of the front page.

A nervous energy almost vibrates in the air as everyone grips the edges of their laptops (and legal pads, but that's only Kent being old-fashioned) a little tighter.

At his core, Perry is a journalist. And what is a journalist without a little drama?

Which is to say: he loves to bring up page one during the morning conference. If Cat knew, she would call him a closet chismoso, but Perry knows himself well enough that he doesn't need to be told.

"Well," Perry waves his hand with an expectant look, "what's the main story?"

Arms shoot into the air, fingers twitching to get his attention. He almost chortles to himself in the same way he does every day. Really, he can't get enough.

It's his update on who hates who and which icy relationships have thawed over night. It's when Cat and Steve butt heads over the top spot in the paper despite being thicker than thieves last week. It's when Jimmy and Ron debate over which photographer is best for the cover photo.

Plus, it's ultimately beneficial to the staff. To establish a healthy workplace, people need to be honest with each other. It's communication without fear of judgement, because everyone is being judged.

So, the layout editors air their grievances in the chaos, snapping about lonely lines and uneven margins. So, the two representatives from the copy department get heated with the journalists over cleaning up their grammatical errors.

And when tomorrow comes, those things will be fixed up and the entire paper's work ethic will be uplifted. At least, that's sixty percent the reason why the front page pitch is so important.

The other forty percent is him genuinely enjoying the spectacle of a roomful of trained journalists savagely tripping each other for the sacred print space.

Lois wads up a wrapper, sticks a cotton-candy lollipop in her mouth, and throws the crumpled ball of wax paper at a ground reporter whose ears are practically expelling steam, much to Perry's delight. Then she jumps out of her chair and struts out the door, posture all smug with her article having a guaranteed print space.

She's turning out to be a wonderful journalist to work with, Perry thinks.

"Wayne Tech winging on flying cars—Clark Kent exclusive, six hundred words!"

The din is snuffed out by your pitch. Kent's breath seizes in a squeak, shoulders bunching up under his ears and eyes trained on the suddenly fascinating table.

Good lord, these two.

Perry really needs to set limits on you sitting next to each other during conferences. One way or another, either one of you never fails to cut short his daily dose of healthy drama.

"It's good," you say, keeping your hand high in the air. "Intriguing. Clark took the picture himself and it's wonderful. I think a second printing is very possible."

Kent sinks a little more into his chair, so deep that his secondhand suit looks like a bag and Perry's sharp eyes almost don't catch the blush creeping up to his curly bangs.

"Thinking is not certainty," Perry says, putting great care into gruffly talking around the cigar in his mouth. "Second prints are for the Meteors winning the Series. Or Batman revealing his identity. If people want to read about Wayne, they'll flip to the business page."

You twist your mouth and mutter to Kent, miffed, "Don't listen to the chief, you're better than the business page."

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Mr. White," you blurt, snapping back to the head of the table. A couple giggles float up from the other journalists.

Kent tentatively raises his hand. Great Caesar's ghost, they're trying again. "I'm giving away an interview opportunity with Superman."

The room explodes. Phones are wagged in Kent's face, people are crowding around the very tight corner where you sit. Kent presses closer to you, and Perry tries not to blow his own gasket at eleven in the morning.

He shouts, "Quiet!" just as Kent says, linking your elbows together, "To her. Superman said there's no other journalist with integrity and wit he'd rather have write about him."

Perry glares down the length of the conference table, working the end of his cigar between his molars with a vengeance. He would be dishonest if he said he wasn't interested. It's rare for Superman to accept interviews with anyone that isn't Kent, and Perry is all about the hero's true story.

You turn to Kent with wide eyes, hissing, "Since when?"

"...S'posed to be a surprise," he mumbles, scratching out something on his legal pad with faux sullenness. "But I agree..."

A grin blooms on your face, all fond and totally worth talking to HR about—but Perry isn't that strict of a boss. You look like you're about to jump onto Kent for an embrace before Steve, two chairs down, whisper-shouts: "Get a room."

Perry guesses that he'll have to chalk this up to Superman's will, and not you and Kent's exhausting—and frankly, charming, but nobody will hear that—tag-team of compliments. "Superman, top of the page."

Everybody groans, and twenty laptops snap shut in defeat.

"But chief" —protests an intern whose ambition far outpaces his mediocre talent.

"Now, get out, and don't call me chief!"

QUALITY TIME with lois lane

"No, Lois, you're seeing things."

"I'm seeing things? Says the one who can't even see that Clark is practically her boyfriend," Lois needles, squinting at you. She props her palm on her kitchen counter—well, to her best ability, because she...forgot to tidy up before the New Year's Eve party. She's a busy woman, okay?

"Yes!" you exclaim, shucking off the bottlecap on the apple cider. The pop of trapped gas sounds more like a mini firecracker with how much unnecessary force you use.

Someone calls—sounds like Jimmy—over the din of the countdown broadcast playing from her radio and everyone else's voices, "Uh, you guys okay?"

"It's nothing," you respond, then turn back to Lois with your knuckles lightening around the neck of the bottle. Hissed, "I mean—yes, you're seeing things, and no, we're just friends."

You punctuate your denial with a grouchy 'seriously' and a frown.

The derisive chuckle that leaves her mouth is nearly automatic. Really good friends, she thinks. My fuckin' ass.

For god's sake, she's Lois fucking Lane. She's damn right about every hunch, unless the Earth has suddenly flattened and turned upside down. Even then, she would get to the bottom of it and find the culprit to be Mxyzpltk.

"Oh, okay," she says, setting the trap for you to fall for her prying. "So I suppose that defending each other's pitches is nothing?"

"It's what good coworkers do."

"And what about the coffee incident? You basically kissed."

Well. That's an exaggeration.

A few weeks ago, Lois had been tapping her foot and tugging at the strap of her watch as she waited for Clark to dash into the bullpen with her order. She was getting antsy—you, she, Clark, and Jimmy typically take turns going on morning coffee runs, and since it wasn't her turn, she couldn't get her necessary dose of sugar early enough.

"He's not usually this late," you said, eyeing Lois' unnerved twitching with concern. Of course you know when he's on time, she thought. "I'm gonna look for him."

Of course you're going to look for him. It was fairly obvious that you knew him, were tuned to him a little too well to be just friends. You just...had a connection that was unlike any other.

Lois watched with irritation itching at her neck as you scurried toward the elevators. Just as you turned the corner, Clark rushed out with his specs askew, and she's pretty sure that he was the one who shrieked in shock.

You ended up with coffee and caramel whipped cream—Lois lamented the loss of her frappe—sticking the front of your blouse to his button-up shirt. It was pretty compromising, considering your faces kind of smashed into each other as you slipped on the floor.

Clark had broken your fall, an act so predictable that Lois' first instinct was to roll her eyes, and she did upon seeing how his face was two seconds away from whistling like a kettle.

But anyways. You definitely touched your lips to somewhere on his face, even if it wasn't intentional.

Your brows stretch upward with your heavy sigh, reluctant to dredge up the embarrassing memory. "It was an accident. Besides, we didn't basically kiss, it was more of an almost kiss..."

Lois almost leaps off the counter at that bone of a suggestion, but she schools herself so you don't catch on. "So did you kiss after?"

"No!" Your voice is pitched. You unstack six plastic cups and march to the freezer, yanking the door open and briskly shoveling ice into each cup. "Remember? We were in the office the whole time, we couldn't have kissed without everyone seeing."

You tack on with quick blinks, which does nothing to save face, "Hypothetically. Because we're not like that."

"Mhm." It's impossible to hide the fact that she's not convinced. At all. "But you were wiping each other down with Jitters napkins..."

"Shut up," you grumble, kicking the freezer shut.

"And tapping your shoes together during pitch meetings...and sharing sources...and watching shows when you have nothing to write. With less than six inches of space between you," Lois mulls, tapping her chin as she airs out your laundry list of couple activities.

You groan dramatically, tipping your face to the weathered ceiling as you divvy up the bottle of cider. Like everything, you have an excuse locked and loaded. "Clark has a small desk."

She blinks at you innocuously, like she just remembered you're here with her. Teasing, "Oh, I know. Your desk is so much bigger, but you never use it."

Clearly, you aren't buying her act.

"Fine." Lois throws her hands up and pushes off the edge of the counter. She scoops up two cups in each hand, holding them by the rims, as she struts out of the kitchen.

Then, two steps from the doorway and mutters loud enough for only you to hear, product-disclosure-in-commercials style, "But still, that's screaming attachment—"

You snatch up a battered dish towel and hurl it at her, but Lois has already sauntered out of range by the time the towel slaps against the wall.

Steve has dragged one of the armchairs closer to the coffee table, where the board game has been set up; his dilute torbie Persephone curls in his lap with her paws tucked under her fluffy belly. Clark is opposite of the couch, on the carpet, and Cat and Jimmy are making space between each other on the cushions.

She passes a cup to everyone but Clark, who says nothing. He's (probably) automatically assumed that you've got it, to which Lois mentally files into 'actions they can't deny without Freudian slips' for later.

She settles between Cat and Jimmy, whose questioning looks burn into the sides of her head. They have a conversation in microexpressions; Cat's meticulously maintained brows twitch in various areas; Jimmy tips his mouth here, then tilts it there, dips it down, and points his lips; and Lois rolls her eyes so much that Steve gives her a weird look.

She shakes her head at the sports editor, and he shrugs, apparently dropping it. Poor Steve, he's never deciphered their silent language of pointed looks and weird faces.

You pad out of the kitchen with annoyance still etched between your brows, but it softens when Clark pats the space to his left on the carpet. Really softens, to the point of being unrecognizable.

You stride over with all the light in the world. You sit with your legs criss-crossed and your knee bumps against his thigh, and a small, fond smile blooms on Clark's face.

Which obviously means nothing. But it surely has to mean something when you keep giving each other fucking tips during gameplay.

It’s throwing Lois off, honestly. She’s not even mad that you’ve practically turned a longstanding tradition in this little group into a cute quality-time moment with your not-boyfriend—she’s pissed about the not-boyfriend part.

Everyone would be so much happier and at peace if you just admitted your feelings.

Clark ends up winning, which—of course he does. Regardless of collusion, he’s fucking ruthless when it comes to board games.

(Notably, he doesn’t betray you. Lois nearly flips the board over.)

Later, after the countdown reaches zero and you and Clark keep each other at a bashful arm’s distance, Jimmy comes up with the brilliant idea of assigning you both to dish duty while everyone else cleans up the rest of her apartment.

As she’s passing by to throw something in the trash, Lois catches the two of you making quiet conversation by the sink.

It’s all soft laughs and sincere glances that stay, shoulder bumps and inside jokes with suds up to your elbows. Clark’s washing, and you’re drying, and the smoothness of how he passes the dishes to your hands with lingering fingers makes Lois unironically imagine your wedding invitations.

‘Mr. & Mrs. We’re-Just-Friends-Until-We-Weren’t — RSVP & Save the Date!’ Ugh, she can feel the texture of the goddamn cardstock and the silver embossing of the words already.

Next time, she’ll hurl a sprig of mistletoe at you and hope for the best.

GIFTS with cat grant

Cat is, like, a hundred—no, a hundred and twenty—percent sure that Clark is heads over heels in love with you.

Okay, literally everyone at the Daily Planet thinks so, except for you and Clark, because you're both either just clueless as hell or hiding it. If you are, you’re very good actors.

The latter as a concept stirred in her mind in the middle of a conversation she had with Clark last week, which went along the lines of: what kind of gift would a woman love for a very special fifth anniversary…of friendship?

Clark went over the fact that for your past four anniversaries, he’d scrounged up the money for some very thoughtful displays of affection, but Cat had already latched her claws into solving his plight faster than she could say ‘go Meteors.’

After all, she’s always had a few ideas on beating:

dinner at a nice Italian restaurant (year one)

the really nice sweater you wear to work on Fridays, your favorite day (year two)

three-day tickets to a coveted Meteors v. Griffins series—and the Meteors swept those Gothamite assholes (year three)

a perfume that spent nine months as a tab on your laptop, and he’d somehow discovered it even though you let no one else near your workstation (year four)

But now Clark wants to outdo himself this year. As Steve would say, he needs to knock it out of the ballpark, because your not-relationship has been going on for five years.

That’s literally half a decade, so she gets why Clark is so hung up on getting you a gift for the ages. She can’t imagine how he’ll fare when the years hit double digits, though.

But now they’re here, strolling through Metropolis’ famed luxury department store on a Saturday afternoon, and their hands are painfully empty.

Cat has dragged him through a real wringer from nine to twelve. They’ve been through Prada, Dolce, YSL, Dior, Chanel, Bottega, Hermès, McQueen, Miu Miu—it would probably take ten whole minutes to list all the stores they’ve hit.

Whatever. The point is, Cat’s jasmine matcha latte from a small business is in dire need of a refill, Clark’s hair is literally straightening out with misery, and they haven’t got a whiff of your perfect gift.

“I just” —Clark tongues the pocket of his cheek, brows scrunching as he considers the sleek tile floor, and fishes for the right words— “none of this stuff really works, you know? I feel like I’m buying friendship instead of celebrating it.”

Oh, yeah. Celebrating friendship for sure, Cat thinks. God, she should pitch this true story to a movie studio and start building her own media empire.

“Well, there’s still a few stores we haven’t seen,” she says, breezy. There has to be something sparkly enough for you—maybe a necklace, or a neat purse. “Gucci’s at the end of the mall, but we should take a little break, don’t you think?”

He’s beyond overjoyed, instantly melting at the prospect of some rest. “Please.”

They end up where they started: a quaint Japanese café on the outskirts of the food court, which is more like a pact of beige, higher-end establishments and Instagrammable shops.

Cat’s sipping on her fresh jasmine matcha latte with regular ice and less sugar and trying to post a picture of it to her story; Clark is glancing around the shop, likely feeling out of place with how he’s working his thumbs over his knuckles. He’s ignoring the black sesame milk tea with agar boba sweating rings onto the table space before him.

A pop song drifts from the sound system, and layered over it is the chaotic din of the blenders and whisks being firmly tapped against bowls, and there’s the faint sound of video game music coming from the cute, aesthetic claw machines in the corner, and—

He’s staring. He keeps staring, practically boring holes into games that are customized to fit the beige-green, zen color scheme of the café.

“Is…there something wrong?”

Cat half expects him to say something along the lines of a lamp looking weird. She doesn’t expect him to murmur: “Togepi.”

“Sorry?”

He snaps his attention back to her, suddenly lighter with a realization he hasn’t voiced. “We’ve…been watching Pokémon.”

Oh. Yeah. Another thing to add to her list of totally not weird or suspicious activities: you’ve been blatantly watching shows together at work. Lois complains about it incessantly.

“And that claw machine…” Clark trails off, almost in a trance as he shoots up while fumbling for his wallet.

“What about it?” Cat asks, dogging on his long strides to the little corner stuffed with machines. A glass box full of colorful plushies innocently sits before them.

Clark taps his finger against the pane, and she follows the invisible line to a small, cream-colored foot sticking out of the tangle of other Pokémon. “She loves Togepi.”

And before Cat can stop him, he feeds a five-dollar bill into the claw machine.

She has never seen him possessed like this.

“How do you even know that’s a—Topi? Togipi? There’s only a foot!”

“I just know,” comes the patient answer. Must be the journalist’s instinct. He wastes a turn trying to move one of the plushies out of the way. “Shucks…”

“Clark, it’s impossible,” she laments, shaking her drink to stir up any particles that have settled. “Even if you do manage to clear everything on top, it’s still rigged to make you lose.”

“Nothing’s impossible, Cat.” He says it in that same tone Superman would take if someone doubted his ability to save an entire country. But that’s a strange thought, because there’s no way Clark could be Superman.

To punctuate it, the plushie atop the supposed Togepi—it’s yellow, so it could be Pikachu, but Cat’s knowledge is ultimately limited—topples into the chute. Clark pumps his fist in celebration and mutters about psychic ducks and two more turns remaining.

That’s just about the only lucky occurrence they stumble upon. Half an hour later, he’s fed at least twenty dollars into the reader, Cat’s accompanied by what Clark calls Psyduck, Oddish, and Riolu—all of which you supposedly find adorable—and the Togepi is too round for the claw.

“Last one,” he swears, cheeks ruddy and blue eyes all earnest as the machine eats up a one-dollar bill. She made him stop using fivers a couple turns ago in an attempt to wean him off. “I know she’ll adore it.”

Indeed you would. Cat can’t wait to see the astonished look on your face once you find out how much effort he put into starting a collection of your favorite Pokémon plushies for you, and out of a claw machine too.

He twitches the joystick with the utmost care, positioning the claw over the Togepi that has revealed itself after a harrowing hundred-something attempts. Clark goes a little to the right, inspects, then a little backward, and just a jolt to the left.

He runs out of time in his adjustments. Of course he does. Another shucks almost falls off his lips, but he bites it off at the sh-uhhhh because the tines of the claw stick. They fucking stick and like a miracle, Togepi tumbles into the chute.

Cat nearly screams. Clark lets out a little squeak of satisfaction and squeezes that damn egg-looking thing so hard that he might as well be pretending it was you.

“You’re the best, Cat,” he grins, all lopsided and grateful and heart-eyed at the success of his endeavors to please you.

She loads the other plushies into his arms with an equally big smile, albeit a little exhausted. “It’s all you, genius.”

“Still, you helped me out a lot,” he breathes, shoulders slumping with relief. “If you need anything, I’ll do my best to help you too.”

Cat considers it and thinks of all the secret cataloguing she’d been doing as they searched for a luxury gift you didn’t need in the end.

“Well…I might need help with carrying a few shopping bags.”

ACTS OF SERVICE with steve lombard

“Woah,” Steve awes, gaze fixed on the rash of red-pen edits marking up the proof copy on your desk. He leans against the desk divider. “Who’s bitching ‘bout your article? Is it Marcus? I’ll beat his ass for you.”

You laugh a little, no doubt imagining Steve whaling on that pesky intern whose ego far outsizes his ability to actually write. For god’s sake, Marcus is one ‘snarky comment using the wrong context of a word’ away from being thrown off the top of the big bronze planet on the roof.

And he does that often. Steve’ll be the first to tow his ass up the staircase.

“It’s actually Clark’s,” you clarify, turning your head to reveal the red pen tucked behind your ear. You're petting a cream-colored pillow in your lap—never mind, that's Clark's nerd plushie. “And I’m helping him edit.”

Steve blinks. “Shit, really?”

“Yeah, really.” You flash him a weird look, like you think he’s lying to you about something. “Steve, we do this all the time.”

“We?” he presses, smoothing his fingers over his mustache—a nervous habit when he’s in disbelief.

“Yes, Clark and I edit each other’s articles,” you say, slowly. “Did—did you not know that?”

“N-ope.” Extra emphasis on the front of the word. Before, Steve didn't really notice things that aren't sports-related; he knows that you and Clark definitely have something going on, but it's exclusively informed by word-of-mouth from his other co-workers.

But now, courtesy of Lois' advice, he's treating this like a baseball game. Right now, you're at bat and Clark's on a base, and you're trying to advance him toward making a run; aka, you are performing an act of service to make your not-boyfriend's life a little easier.

See, he's pretty observant once he frames his surroundings in an athletic context.

Last month, the Daily Planet was shorthanded because you were out sick. Though they were facing a penalty kill (the Metropolis Herald had poached an exclusive scoop you were supposed to get, and the chief was not happy), Clark still clocked out of work a little earlier so he could bring you soup like any good teammate would.

And two weeks ago, you did the equivalent of a jersey swap for your five-year friendship anniversary. He'd given you the egg-looking plush you're squeezing right now—you'd gasped and squeezed it flush to your chest—and you'd surprised him with a double-sided cassette mixtape you spent days learning to make.

It's really sweet and romantic. He also wishes Lois hadn't given him that tip, because watching the two of you dance around your true feelings has been exceptionally excruciating.

"Anyways," you're saying, and Steve blinks back to the present, "he has mine on his desk right now—no, don't peek, I don't want to see how much work I have to get done."

Too late. He's already teetering on his tiptoes to catch a glance of your article proof on Clark's desk, which is noticeably missing its usual occupant. It is...on the side Steve knows is meant for the 'done' work, complete with a smiley face scribbled on a blue sticky note.

"He's done with it."

Your groan sounds tortured, especially when you tack on a hand dragging down your face. "Great."

Eyes heavy with resignation, you click through your computer to navigate back to your document, grousing under your breath about needing to use up your PTO, even though it's only April. Then, like a switch has been flipped, your frown breaks into a smile.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, still letting the grin linger. "Just—he didn't have to."

Steve cranes his neck around to stare at your screen. "Huh."

The document is already marked up with a hundred suggestions, all of which you only need to resolve with a tap of the mousepad. Editing made easier. Clark just went ahead and transferred the proofs, knowing you'd be reluctant to go through all the changes manually.

He even left little encouraging comments on what he really loved about your article. Awww.

"Fuck, he really didn't have to," you breathe again, settling into a pensive mood as you cover your mouth with a hand. You turn to Steve with your eyes shining brighter than they have the entire week. With plaintive admiration, "He's already got so much on his plate and he's doing this shit."

"Is...that bad?" Steve asks, smoothing the ends of his mustache.

"No, no." Shaking your head, you begin to double-check all the suggestions before you resolve them. "It's just—Clark's always helping me out and I wish I did more to help him."

He decides to take the leap—reservations against meddling be damned. "Well, maybe that's just how he loves you."

You flash him a dubious look, brows all cocked at skeptical angles and mouth flattened into a line.

"I mean, maybe he likes doing this for you, just like how you always speak up for him during pitch meetings." Steve speaks quickly, almost afraid that you're going to wave him off if he stops. It's only been a month since he started picking up on your attraction to each other, which is ironically unsubtle to everyone but you and Clark.

The torture is enough to make him break his pact against interfering with the game, for god's sake.

"Jeez, you got each other gifts for your friendship anniversaries. You—you're really close and spend your free time together watching shows. He looks at you like you're the reason the sun exists, kid. If Clark Kent does not love you, well," Steve pauses to thumb at the crease between his eyebrows with a sigh, "I'll have to drag him up to the roof and hold him over the edge until he realizes it."

Tucking your lips in, the heads of your brows tilt up to a fretful angle. Your gaze darts all around your desk, from the ridiculously round Pokémon egg sitting in your lap (you've taken to idly patting its head while you puzzle over your word choice), to the pile of Styrofoam cups Clark brings you tea and coffee in, which sit in the trash can under your desk.

You blow out a steady stream of air as you mull it over. "Wow, that's...a lot to process, but—"

"Hey." Clark cuts in like a ball driving into deep left field, practically croaking out the last vowel when he sees the worry lingering in your expression. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," you chirp, flashing a quick smile at him. "Just, I didn't expect you to finish so quickly."

He stumbles over his breath and returns the smile, albeit like some shy bastard and not a guy who's going after your heart. Scratch that, he already has your heart. "No, no—seriously, it's okay. I needed, uh, to get another cup of coffee so I got you one too."

Another Styrofoam cup is set next to your monitor, so gently that the steaming liquid inside doesn't make a single ripple. Very fancy schmancy of Clark Kent, Steve thinks to himself.

You beam at him with some bashful glow lighting up your eyes. "With sugar?"

"Half a packet, just the way you like it."

"Thanks," you whisper, and your eyes loiter on him even after he gives you two dorky thumbs up and walks back to his desk; he nearly gets leveled by a stray chair, and you chuckle softly when he rights himself and pretends nothing happened.

Steve gestures furiously at the cup and whisper-shouts, "I'm tellin' you!"

You let out a dreamy sigh and rub your knuckles against your face so hard that wrinkles form on your forehead. In half-disbelieving breathlessness, "Holy fuck."

PHYSICAL TOUCH with jimmy olsen

"Oh my god, I can't look," Jimmy squeaks, shoving his face in any direction that doesn't involve looking at you or Clark.

Rather, you and Clark, standing near the back wall and speaking to each other very seriously with your arms crossed and bottom lips practically fraying with how often the two of you are worrying them.

"Jesus Christ, Steve, why would you do that?" he says in a pitched voice. Steve rolls his eyes and continues yanking the lace into his Rawlings baseball glove, which is fresh out of the sporting goods store and probably won't see even a second of use.

"He set things in motion, Jimmy," chides Lois, voice low. She works her jaw back and forth, trying to get a feel for your far-off conversation. "Good man, Steve...wait, I think Clark's blushing."

Cat squeals in excitement, heels clicking lightly on the floor with the little shimmy that accompanies it.

Jimmy tries to make a point by staying turned around, but he hesitates for a second before really committing to the bit. After all, he's had to endure just as much anticipation as the rest of them.

"They're on the other side of the floor, Lois."

"Nonsense, they're definitely getting together today."

Cat blows an airy raspberry and inspects her fresh gel manicure. "Well, it's a good thing I got these babies done yesterday. This is an occasion that calls for a photoshoot."

Then, she slams her ridiculously strong hands onto his chair and wrests him around to watch with the others. "Turn around, Bartholomew Olsen, you're gonna miss everything!"

"Never should've told you my government name," he mumbles, dropping his cheek against his hand.

You tilt your head and nod slightly in understanding as Clark palms his nape—his skin is almost sunburnt with how red he's turning—and explains something to you. Hopefully his feelings, because who knows what Lois would do if you proved her wrong and didn't 'get together' by the end of the workday.

(Probably plan a party and lock the two of you in a supply closet.)

Jimmy groans and reaches back, fumbling for the pair of binoculars he keeps in his desk drawer for emergency purposes. You never know if you need to spot Superman in the midst of a battle with interdimensional beings of destruction.

"Good idea," Steve appreciates, and he darts away to get his own.

The corners of your lips tip up quietly, affectionately, the longer Clark speaks (he better be confessing, dear god), and soon enough, you're inching toward him with a knowing twinkle in your eyes. Clark leans closer to hear what you're saying, and with a cheeky smile, you whisper something that flushes him scarlet.

He buries a short laugh into his broad palm before taking the last step and squeezing you into his arms. You rock and sway slightly, to the rhythm of your own tune; your hands smooth over the back of his suit comfortingly.

Clark presses a sweet, fond kiss to the crown of your head and lays his cheek over it to seal the deal. One of his hands is splayed over the back of your shoulder, and his thumb rubs circles over the blade. It's tender enough to be a bruise, and he looks like he knows it with the stupid, uncontrollable, lovesick chuckling that's shaking his wide shoulders.

Cat gasps, perhaps a little too loud.

Enough to be incriminating, for sure, because you break apart with matching frowns. Steve, who's just come running back with his own binoculars, turns tail and skitters back to his desk.

Based on his poor skills at lip-reading, you might be saying something like, "Are those fucking binoculars?"

Clark is probably correcting you: "Fudging, and yeah, what the hay?"

You shake your head with a derisive snort before Lois roughly shoves the binoculars down and forces him to duck down.

"The fuck are you doing, this is a covert operation," she hisses.

"They spotted us—there's no point."

Lois pokes her head up and scowls. With a hint of grousing in her remark, "Shit, they ducked into the archive closet."

She turns to him with narrowed eyes and a quicksilver glint of revenge in her smirk.

"No, no, nononono—"

Ten tense seconds later, Jimmy presses his ear against the wooden door of the archive closet with great care. Lois forced him to toe off his shoes because they squeak on the floor, so now his socked toes are wriggling in an attempt to adjust to the unforgivingly cold tile.

Christ, this is a humiliation ritual in itself.

"Please, Clark," you're sighing. You giggle in time with Clark's low chuckle, and is that...?

He thinks you might be kissing passionately among other suspicious sounds that aren't muffled by the door, and Jimmy turns back to Lois with a pained, begging expression. Please, please, please give the signal to extricate himself. He's very sorry for not being discreet about spying on you.

He also did not know Clark Kent had that dog in him, but that's a conversation for another time.

With a frantic sort of enthusiasm, Lois flaps her hands in an effort to signal him back. He almost slips like a Looney Tunes character, complete with cartoonish sound effects, as he scurries across the marble floor in his socks.

(Fuck-ass athletic socks and their 70% polyester blend. Mark his words, he's switching to wool next winter.)

"Holy shit," he puffs, heart thundering in his chest from the near-death experience of running at work without shoes. Blood rushes to his face, making him feel gross and sweaty, "Oh my god, Lois, they're up to diabolical shit in there!"

"Keep it down!" she scoffs, fisting the back of his neckline and pulling him behind the desk.

They crouch there for a few minutes, peeking over the edge to watch the door; Jimmy mutters under his breath, recapping the (supposed) illicit consummation of your new romantic relationship in the archive closet.

When the coast is somewhat clear, the panel of wood cracks from the frame by an inch. It pauses for a moment, but soon enough, the hinges squeak and...

You and Clark emerge, hardly managing your not-so-secret glances without bursting into fits of giggles. The stupid thing is, you're both neat.

As in, probably-weren't-having-sex, fooling-the-whole-office, no-stray-hairs-or-wrinkled clothes neat.

Fingers interlocked—so tightly that Jimmy's half-afraid one of you would float away if you so much as loosened up—you tug Clark to his desk with a soft, contented smile. The man is blushing, an honest-to-god deep pink that disappears beneath his collar.

"Huh." Lois squints as Clark pulls a chair up next to you and logs into his computer. The familiar tune of the Pokémon intro wafts through the air quietly. With a tinge of disappointment, "Yeah, I think they were just pretending—you practically sauntered up like fe-fi-fo-fum."

"Shut up!" Jimmy presses his fingers against his eyelids and takes five seconds to breathe. "I did not saunter."

"Whatever, choir boy," she mutters wryly. Then she bites her lip, cheeks twitching in the way that tells him she's trying to strangle a smile before it blooms. "'Sides, I think they figured themselves out."

Jimmy snaps his gaze back to Clark's desk.

The corners of your mouth are quirked up with all the warm fondness in the world as he presses a sweet, reverent kiss to your knuckles, right over where your hands are still joined.

"Idiots," Lois grouses with a small but amused shake of her head.

Jimmy grunts in agreement. "Took them fuckin' long enough."

It’s not your fault. Really, it’s not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit you’d initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you aren’t too pleased with how you look today.

The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies.  There isn’t an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.

“Perry’s gonna kill you.” Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.

Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.

“Then we better hurry up, Kent.” you say back, earning a chuckle from him.

You walk through the rain, and you don’t notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you don’t veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.

You don’t even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clark’s curls are almost soaked and you’re bone-dry.

The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.

“How was your evening?”

“I ate ice cream for dinner,” you tell him absentmindedly, “And I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.”

His eyebrow quirks up, “Must have missed my invite.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?”

“How’d you know that?”

“I watch the news.”

Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. “I still would have come.”

You don’t say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, you’re the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.

Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that you’re late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.

Beside her, Jimmy grins. “What time do you call this?” he jokes.

“Got held up,” Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldn’t decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.

You’d told Clark to go on; I’ll be like, thirty more minutes. I’ll just see you there! You’d said, but of course he refused to listen.

Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clark’s. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Sorry, Perry.” You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.

Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.

“Close call.” he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.

It’s a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you can’t even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but you’re focused.

You’re a great journalist, and you’ve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.

It’s Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has it’s perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planet’s infamous grump. Over time, you’ve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and you’re good to go.

After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.

“How you holding up?” Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You can’t see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.

“Surviving. You?” you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.

“Counting down the seconds until lunch.”

“Are we going out today?” you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesn’t skip a beat before doing the same.

The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.

You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.

“You want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from the place ‘round the corner?”

“I can come with you,” you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.

“No need. I’ve got you.”

You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.

Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.

It’s not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, you’ve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.

No, you’re a little more pessimistic than that. And you’re a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the world’s most perfect boyfriend.

Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?

He’s kind. He’s patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesn’t even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like you’ve already done him the biggest favour by simply existing.

He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though it’s sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leon’s on Tuesdays but every other day, it’s Liberty’s or nothing.

Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.

He is also in love with someone else.

“Just waiting for her to realise, I guess.” he’d told you once, when you asked him why he hadn’t dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.

And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.

Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clark’s future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.

“What if she never does?” you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.

It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.

Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.

“She'll figure it out. She always does,” he’d said confidently, “One day.”

“What if she takes forever?”

Clark remained unfazed, “Then I’ll wait.” you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.

That, was six months ago.

And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you don’t even know what she looks like.

You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.

You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and it’s only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.

Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because it’s what everyone else does.

You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.

“The usual?” he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.

“Please. Take my card-“ you’re already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.

“No, it's alright. I’ll be back in ten.” He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.

And gives you a peck on the lips.

It’s quick. It’s over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.

“Text me if you think of anything else you want.” he says coolly, as if he didn’t just short-circuit your entire being.

And he’s gone.

Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.

You don’t move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.

Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.

“What was-“

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he-“

“I don’t know,” you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesn’t speak, silently begging you to.

But you can’t. You physically can’t. Because it may have been an accident- it’s not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if he’s feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?

Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, he’s on his way to Liberty’s trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didn’t before.

He knows, and he’s disgusted, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldn’t move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.

You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and it’s all because you couldn’t control yourself.

But you know you’re being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you won’t get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesn’t. If you were to turn your head, he’d know, and he’d stop.

So why didn’t he stop?

You’re still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and he’s flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.

He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.

Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as they’re on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.

He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmy’s jaw on the floor.

“Thanks,” Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.

He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.

“So,” he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. “What ice cream did you have last night?”

You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasn’t just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesn’t catch on.

He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. He’s an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesn’t bring up the kiss.

So, neither do you.

Clark keeps kissing you.

And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending you’re not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.

At first you assume it’s a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.

But then he does it again the next day.

It’s the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now there’s a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like you’re made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. It’s gotten deeper since the first, you realise.

And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.

Jimmy has stopped pretending he isn’t watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.

Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. You’re about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.

“Be right back,” he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.

This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.

By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.

But of course, you don’t. You don’t ask your best friend anything.

Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.

He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.

Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.

Nothing’s changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.

He just… kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.

Or better. Or whatever this is.

Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.

He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.

Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.

He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.

And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.

Tiny, sweet, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pecks. Like he’s testing you. Like he’s waiting; for what, you don’t know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.

By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;

do best friends kiss on lips??

signs of short term memory loss

am I hallucinating long-term?

long term hallucination symptoms

group long term hallucination

do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss

You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. You’re desperate; completely at your wits’ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.

But then, comes the moment everything changes.

It’s late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.

It’s just you and Clark, finishing up an article he’s been helping you with.

You’re buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasn’t really optional tonight.

You’re tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like you’re not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.

And then- like it’s the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.

Not a peck this time. Not a blink.

A kiss.

A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. It’s wonderful. It’s passionate. And above all, it is scary.

You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.

So, you do.

Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly you’re kissing him back.

Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.

And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.

Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.

One day.

You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.

You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you can’t even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.

Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment you’re both suspended in.

Clark doesn’t move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.

But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.

It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.

“I told you…” Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, “that you’d figure it out.”

Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.

Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.

The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.

The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.

This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.

You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.

As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.

Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.

You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.

At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.

And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.

Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.

The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.

On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:

For whenever you need a quiet place

— P.P

None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.

You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.

Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.

Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.

To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.

You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.

Your old high school.

There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.

You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.

You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.

The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.

You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.

You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.

You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.

You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.

You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.

Until the thread slacked.

In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.

In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.

Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.

You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.

That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.

“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”

You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”

You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?

You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.

You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.

You entered her mind a second later.

Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.

You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.

Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?

You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.

You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.

You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.

However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.

Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.

He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.

“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.

He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.

You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.

From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.

Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.

He looked up and answered.

It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.

Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.

It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.

That was why you had gone there. To find him.

Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.

He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.

He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.

You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.

Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.

He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.

A memory flashed into your mind.

The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.

“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.

“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.

“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”

“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”

“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”

You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.

“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.

“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.

“They'll say you're a distraction.”

At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.

“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.

“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”

Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.

“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”

“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”

“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”

“You worry too much about the future.”

“And you don't?”

“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”

The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.

The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.

You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.

Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.

You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.

And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.

Why on earth was this happening to you?

“Hey,” you suddenly heard.

You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.

“There you are,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”

“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.

Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.

He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”

“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.

An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.

“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”

“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”

“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”

“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”

He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.

You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.

“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”

You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.

He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.

“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.

Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.

“And for how long will it be?”

“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”

In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.

“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.

His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.

“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”

You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.

“If you want to go, of course.”

“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.

You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.

“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”

He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.

“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”

You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.

“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”

A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.

It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.

You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.

To him.

You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.

When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.

Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.

“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.

But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.

You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.

Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.

One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:

Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?

No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.

“You seem strange,” he said.

The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.

“Are you okay?”

“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”

“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”

But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.

“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.

“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.

His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.

“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”

“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”

“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”

His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.

Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.

“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.

“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.

“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”

“I know.”

He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.

Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.

Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.

Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?

Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.

With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.

You began erasing yourself.

You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.

You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.

Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.

Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.

You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

Peter. That was his name.

“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”

You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.

An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?

“Do you need me to call someone?”

You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.

He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.

From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.

“No,” you managed to reply.

Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.

Then you walked out. Without looking back.