it goes my way now

You weren’t hovering at Matt’s elbow like you thought he’d trip, you weren’t tugging him around obstacles or doing that careful, performative kindness people did in public to prove they were good, you were just walking with him, close and casual, and when Matt angled his shoulder to slip past a couple pushing a stroller, you adjusted with him like you’d done it a thousand times. The contact didn’t read like pity, and it didn’t read like you were babysitting him, it looked like you were comfortable.

Matt said something under his breath that made you snort. “You’re such a liar,” you told him, and your tone was light, the kind of light people used when they weren’t worried the other person would leave.

Matt’s mouth curved. “I’m not lying,” he replied.

“You are absolutely lying,” you said, and you bumped his shoulder with yours, small and quick, not enough to throw him off balance, just enough to make your point. “You just don’t like being called out.”

Matt’s head tilted toward you like he was listening to your expression as much as your words. “I’m fine with being called out,” he said.

You made a sound like you didn’t believe him for a second. “Sure,” you replied. “That’s why you get that face every time Foggy tells you you’re being stubborn.”

“I don’t have a face,” Matt said, deadpan.

Dex narrowed his eyes, not because he cared about the joke, but because the way you were talking to him was too easy and practiced, like you’d built this rhythm with him a long time ago. The cane clicked again, and Dex tracked how it never caught, never searched, and never betrayed the fact that it was theater.

You stopped at the curb, and a car rolled through the intersection with music loud enough to rattle the windows. Matt stepped forward first when the light changed, and you went with him without hesitation. You didn’t grip his arm tighter like you were bracing for him to stumble, you followed his lead like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Dex watched you glance up at a fire escape as you crossed, just a quick flick of your eyes, and then you looked forward again like you hadn’t done anything. That small glance shouldn’t have meant anything, but Dex’s attention sharpened anyway, because the average person didn’t scan upward like that unless they had a reason.

They reached a corner deli and slowed, and Dex shifted his position to keep the angle. Matt stopped outside the door without going in, and you leaned against the brick wall beside him, your tote bag bumping lightly against your hip. “We can grab something quick,” you said, already pushing off the wall like you were ready to go inside.

Matt shook his head. “I’m good,” he replied.

“You’re not good,” you said, and you sounded mildly annoyed in a way that felt familiar. “You’ve had, what, coffee and guilt today? That’s not food.”

Matt’s lips pressed together, and Dex watched that tell because it always meant Matt was choosing whether to argue. “I ate,” Matt said.

“You ate a piece of toast,” you countered immediately, and Matt’s pause was half a beat too long, which was how Dex knew you were right. You pointed at the deli door. “Go inside,” you said. “And get a sandwich. I’m not asking.”

Matt sighed like you were inconveniencing him by caring. “You can’t boss me around,” he said.

“I can, actually,” you replied. “I’ve been doing it since we were kids.”

That line hit different, and Dex could see it in Matt’s posture even if you couldn’t. Matt went still for a fraction of a second, then exhaled like he’d decided not to make it complicated. He shifted his cane, pushed the door open, and went inside.

Dex stayed outside with you, close enough now to catch the smaller sounds, the way you tapped your nails against your tote strap while you waited, the way your breathing stayed steady even when you weren’t doing anything. You didn’t look nervous or like you were checking behind you, but you did look like someone who had learned to be calm in public and didn’t waste energy pretending to be fragile.

A man walking past brushed too close to you, shoulder bumping yours, and he didn’t apologize, and Dex’s hand twitched in his pocket before he could stop it. You didn’t react the way most people did, either by snapping or shrinking, you simply shifted your stance a few inches away from the flow of foot traffic like you’d corrected for an inconvenience and moved on.

The deli door opened again, and Matt stepped back out with a paper bag in one hand; he held it casually, like it hadn’t been a negotiation. You raised your eyebrows. “See?” you said. “That wasn’t hard.”

Matt’s expression stayed neutral, but Dex heard the faint amusement in his voice. “You’re insufferable,” Matt replied.

“You love me,” you shot back, easy and immediate.

Matt didn’t answer the way a boyfriend would or the way a man flirting would, he just gave you a look that Dex couldn’t fully read from this distance, then he said, “come on,” like he wanted to keep moving before the conversation could go anywhere tender.

You fell into step with him again, arm linked, and you headed down the block toward a darker stretch of street that led toward the church. Dex followed at a distance, keeping to the opposite side where the parked cars gave him cover. He watched you keep talking, watched Matt respond, watched you both move like people who knew exactly how to exist beside each other without needing to explain it.

You cut past the church instead of going in, and Dex felt the familiar annoyance flicker again, because Matt used the church like a checkpoint; like a safe house.  You glanced toward the church door as you passed, and this time Dex saw it clearly, because the streetlight caught your eyes at the exact angle. It wasn’t curiosity, it was recognition.

Matt didn’t slow, but his head tilted slightly toward you, and he said something Dex couldn’t hear over a passing truck. You replied without looking surprised, and you didn’t glance around like you were worried someone might be watching, if anything, you looked like you were bored by whatever he’d said, like it was the kind of thing you’d heard before.

A few blocks later, Matt turned into a narrow side street that was quieter, darker, and emptier, the kind of street that made normal people speed up. Dex stayed back, using the shadow of a building entrance to keep sightlines while letting you get far enough ahead that he didn’t have to worry about Matt’s hearing catching his footsteps.

Matt stopped near a service door, the kind that led to a back stairwell. You paused with him and didn’t ask why he was stopping there, you simply shifted your tote bag higher on your shoulder and spoke like you’d already been in this position before. “So,” you said, “are you going to be stupid about this, or are you going to do what you’re supposed to do?”

Matt huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and controlled. “I’m not being stupid,” he replied.

“You are absolutely being stupid,” you said, and the words came out like a habit, like this argument had played out in different forms a hundred times. “Just… text me when you’re done.”

Dex’s attention snapped in tighter, because you didn’t say it like a guess or like you were hoping, you said it like you knew exactly what “done” meant.

Matt didn’t answer right away, he shifted the paper bag in his hand, then said, “I will,” and his voice was calm, but it carried something careful underneath it, like he was taking you seriously.

You nodded once, then said, “okay,” and you stepped back, giving him space without making a performance of it.

Matt moved toward the service door, and Dex expected you to look away, to turn, to start walking, but instead you kept your eyes on him until he disappeared inside. When the door clicked shut, you exhaled and glanced up again at the rooftops.

Dex stayed very still in the shadow, because that second upward glance confirmed what he’d been circling for days without letting himself name it. People didn’t look at rooftops like that unless rooftops mattered, and rooftops only mattered to a certain kind of person in this city. You waited a moment longer, then turned and started walking away in the opposite direction with a steady pace and no hesitation, like this was part of your normal night.

Dex didn’t follow Matt; Matt was behind the door and on the rooftops and moving in ways Dex couldn’t easily track without putting himself in a position to get noticed.

So instead, Dex followed you.

You walked two blocks, then three, and you pulled your phone out as you went. The screen lit your face briefly, and Dex watched your thumb move fast as you typed. You looked irritated, like you’d been forced to accept something you didn’t like but had accepted it anyway.

Dex stayed far enough back to keep your phone screen unreadable, but he didn’t need it. He didn’t need to see the words to know the shape of them, because there were only so many reasons a woman would tell Matt to text her “when he’s done,” and only so many reasons she’d watch him disappear into a back stairwell near a church and then look at the rooftops like she was checking whether the sky had teeth.

You kept walking, and Dex watched you blend into the city like you belonged to it. You didn’t run from what Matt was, and you didn’t act like it was shocking or romantic either. You treated it like a fact of life that had been in your hands for a long time, like something you’d known and chosen and carried without turning it into a confession.

Dex stayed in the shadows until you reached your building and went inside, until the lobby light swallowed you and the door locked behind you. He didn’t move for a moment after that, not because he was having some deep emotional revelation, but because his brain was doing what it always did when new information slid into place—it reorganized the map.

He walked away from your building with the same controlled pace he always used, and he didn’t go looking for Matt on the rooftops. He went to his place instead, because Monday morning you’d go along your regular routine, and he wanted to see whether you acted different after a night like this. He wanted to see whether you were the kind of person who pretended nothing happened, or the kind of person who folded danger into routine like it belonged there.

---

Dex started Monday near the corner where the coffee cart set up before the rush really hit, because people were easier to read when they thought they were still alone with their day. He kept his pace ordinary, kept his shoulders loose, and stood a few feet away from the cart like he was just another commuter deciding whether caffeine was worth the line. The vendor was the same guy Dex had seen you buy from many times, the kind who remembered faces but didn’t remember names unless you were loud about it.

“Morning,” the vendor called when Dex stepped closer, already reaching for a cup without asking. “Whaddya want?”

Dex took a second too long, like he was thinking, then said, “black.”

The vendor snorted. “Of course it’s black,” he muttered, pouring fast. “Everybody’s either black coffee or dessert-in-a-cup these days. No in-between.”

Dex paid, took the cup, and didn’t move away right away. He stood on the edge of the crowd, sipping slow, and watched the sidewalk instead of the cart. People passed in clusters, some glued to their phones, some talking too loud, and some moving like they were afraid of being late even if they weren’t.

You showed up on schedule, tote bag strap cutting a line across your shoulder, expression already set like you were halfway through a meeting in your head. You didn’t look around like you were searching for someone, and you didn’t look down like you were trying to disappear. You walked straight to the cart and nodded at the vendor like they’d already had this conversation a hundred times.

“Hey, Doc,” the vendor said, brightening immediately. “Same thing?”

“Yeah,” you replied, and you leaned forward slightly when he handed you the cup, like you were already shifting to leave. “And if you’ve got something that isn’t pure sugar, I’ll take it.”

The vendor rummaged and produced a wrapped egg-and-cheese sandwich with the kind of pride people got from being useful. “This’s the only thing I have that counts as real food,” he said. “Take it before I change my mind.”

You gave him a look that was half gratitude, half disbelief. “You’re going to guilt me into eating breakfast,” you said.

“I’m going to keep you alive,” the vendor corrected, dead serious. “Somebody has to.”

You snorted, tucked the sandwich under your arm, and moved on before the line could swallow you. Dex waited until you were a few steps ahead, then fell in behind the flow of commuters with the same casual timing he used to step into a firing lane unseen.

At the subway entrance you swiped your card and went through without hesitating. Dex followed with two bodies between you, keeping the same distance without matching you too perfectly, because perfect mirroring was the kind of thing people noticed even when they couldn’t explain why. The stairs down were crowded, the air thick with perfume and damp coats and stale heat, and the platform was already packed in the way it got when everyone had decided the same morning mattered.

You stood near a column, not pressed against it but close enough that nobody could come up behind you without you feeling it. Dex stayed two columns down, angled so he could see you through gaps in shoulders and backpacks, and he watched you unwrap the sandwich with practiced hands. You took a bite while staring down the tunnel like you were daring the train to be late.

A man beside you was talking into his phone, loud enough that half the platform could hear. “No, I told you, I can’t do nine,” he said, irritated. “I’m on the train, I’m like literally underground. How d’ya want me to—”

He cut himself off when someone jostled him, and you didn’t react or even glance at him like he was annoying. You stayed in your lane, eating, waiting, with your posture steady. The train arrived with the familiar shriek and rush of wind, and you stepped forward at the exact moment the doors opened, slipping into the same car you always took when it lined up right.

Dex stepped into that car too, not close enough to be beside you and not far enough to lose you. He chose a spot by the opposite door, one hand on the pole, head angled down like he was half-asleep, and kept you in the corner of his vision. You didn’t sit, even when someone got up, you stayed standing, shoulder turned slightly toward the door, sandwich gone now, coffee still in hand, and you stared at nothing like you were already organizing the day into boxes.

The train lurched forward, the crowd swayed, and a teenager nearly bumped into you hard enough to spill your drink. The kid caught himself at the last second and mumbled, “sorry,” without looking up.

“It’s fine,” you said, not sharp, not sweet, just neutral, and you adjusted your grip on the cup without missing a beat. Dex watched the kid relax like he’d expected to be snapped at, then watched you return to stillness like the interruption had never happened.

When the train reached your stop, you got off with the same timing you always used, not pushing or lingering. Dex got off too, letting the crowd between you widen and compress naturally, and followed up the stairs into the cold morning air. By the time you hit the sidewalk you already had your phone out, typing something fast, and you didn’t look at anyone’s face long enough to invite conversation.

Dex didn’t go onto campus with you that day, he let you disappear into the building and instead walked past, looped around, and cut through a different entrance like he’d never been tracking you at all. He liked knowing the building layout anyway, liked knowing what exits existed and which doors didn’t latch properly and where the cameras sat. His brain did that kind of work automatically, the way other people breathed.

He saw you again at noon, not because he hunted for you, but because your schedule put you where he could anticipate, and anticipation always felt cleaner than chasing. You came out of the same building, coffee replaced by a water bottle, tote bag still heavy, and you walked straight to a small café just off campus that had cramped tables and loud students and a line that moved too slowly. Dex was already inside, sitting with a paper cup of his own, looking like he was waiting on someone who might not show.

You got in line, scanned the menu without really reading it, and ordered quickly. “Turkey, no mayo,” you told the cashier. “And whatever’s fastest.”

The cashier blinked at you like she didn’t know if that was an order or a threat. “Uh, okay,” she said. “That’ll be—”

You slid your card across without looking impatient, but Dex could see the exact moment impatience wanted to surface and didn’t. You took your receipt, moved to the side, and stood with your back to the wall, out of the way of the line, where you could see the door and most of the room. Dex watched you do it like it was muscle memory, like you didn’t even think about it.

A student at the pickup counter was complaining loudly to anyone who would listen. “I’ve been waiting forever,” he said, voice high with outrage. “This is ridiculous!”

The barista, exhausted and unimpressed, said, “you ordered ten drinks.”

“It’s for my group,” the student insisted, like that was an excuse.

You didn’t look at him, but you did speak when the barista called your order and the student reached for it at the same time. “That’s mine,” you said, calm as a flat line.

The student froze, hand hovering. “Oh,” he said, defensive. “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t check,” you replied, still calm, and you took the bag from the counter without jerking it away from him. “It’s fine.”

Dex watched the student’s face do that thing people did when they realized someone wasn’t going to argue with them and they didn’t know what to do with it. The student muttered something and turned back to the counter while you went to a corner table, sat down for exactly long enough to eat without choking, and scrolled through your phone like you were cleaning up other people’s messes between bites.

Dex left before you did, because he didn’t want the overlap to become a scene, and because he didn’t want to risk a moment where you both reached for the same door handle at the same time. He walked a few blocks, circled back, and stood across the street near a newsstand until he saw you exit the café and head back toward campus. You moved like you had a destination every second, even when you were just crossing a street, and Dex started to recognize the difference between people who wandered and people who navigated.

That night he didn’t go home right away, he didn’t even pretend he was going home, because home was a word that implied comfort and he didn’t have that. He went to the late-night deli you’d visited with Matt, the one with the bright fluorescent lights and the bored cashier and the back wall of chipped candy bars that had been sitting there long enough to become stale.

Dex stood near the fridge doors, looking like he was deciding between drinks, and watched the front entrance reflected faintly in the glass. A man behind the counter glanced up and said, “you buyin’ somethin’?”

“In a second,” Dex replied, voice even, and the cashier lost interest immediately because in a second was close enough to yes for people who didn’t get paid enough to care.

You came in twenty minutes later, alone, with your shoulders tense like you’d been holding them up all day. You didn’t look around, you just went straight for the refrigerated case, grabbed a yogurt, then another, then set one back and took a different flavor like you’d reconsidered something silently. You picked up a plastic container of cut fruit, frowned at it, and put it back like you didn’t trust it.

The cashier looked up at you, and his tone changed in the way it did when someone had become familiar. “Hey,” he said, more awake now. “You’re late.”

You huffed a laugh. “I know,” you replied, and you sounded tired in a way you hadn’t sounded when you were with Matt. “It was one of those days.”

The cashier scanned your yogurt. “One of those weeks,” he corrected. “People come in here looking like they want to punch the lights.”

“I don’t want to punch the lights,” you said. “I want to crawl into a hole and sleep for twelve hours.”

“Same,” the cashier said, dead serious.

You slid your card across the counter, then added a pack of gum at the last second. “I’m being responsible,” you told him, and it sounded like a joke you were making at your own expense.

The cashier gave you a look. “That’s what you call this?” he asked.

“It counts,” you replied, and you took your bag.

Dex watched you leave, and he didn’t follow you out immediately. He waited until you were halfway down the block, then picked a drink at random, paid, and walked out into the night like he’d just been another customer. He kept to the opposite side of the street, matching your pace without matching it exactly, and watched you walk home without checking over your shoulder, as if the city couldn’t possibly be paying attention to you.

When you turned into your building, Dex stayed outside, leaning lightly against the brick like he was waiting for someone, and he watched the lobby light swallow you again. He didn’t move until the door locked behind you and the street returned to its usual noise, and then he walked away with the same calm he always wore, because calm was how you stayed invisible.

The next morning, he ended up in the same subway car as you again, not because he forced it, but because his feet had started taking him to the same places at the same times. He stood near the opposite door, hand on the pole, and watched you out of the corner of his eye. You didn’t look at him, and if you noticed that he was there again, you didn’t show it in any way that mattered.

A woman beside you sighed loudly and said to her friend, “I swear I see the same people on this train every day,” like she was annoyed by the idea of routine.

You didn’t respond to her, but Dex watched you shift your stance slightly when the train swayed, steadying without grabbing the pole, and he wondered how many people in this city didn’t realize how often they orbited the same strangers. He watched you get off at your stop, watched the crowd swallow you, and followed at a distance again, because that had become the shape of his days.

By the end of the week, he knew which mornings you stopped for coffee and which mornings you didn’t, and he knew which nights you ended up at the late deli and which nights you skipped it. He knew the bench you used on campus when you took a call and didn’t want students hovering, and he knew the bookstore you went into when you needed a break that still felt productive.

He never spoke to you, and he never made contact; he kept himself in the background like a shadow that learned how to blend into the wall.

Sometimes you looked straight ahead like the world didn’t contain him at all, and sometimes your eyes flicked in his direction without landing, like you were scanning the same way you always scanned. Dex couldn’t tell which was worse, because if you didn’t notice him, he couldn’t predict when you would, and if you did notice him, then the question became how long you’d known and why you hadn’t done anything about it.

---

Dex was across the street pretending to smoke a cigarette he didn’t actually light, because standing still in the open at night needed a reason, and a cigarette was a reason people understood. The campus had thinned out the way it always did after the last evening classes emptied, and the sidewalks went from crowded to scattered in waves, students peeling off into dorms and subways and whatever bars would take them.

You came out of the building later than usual, shoulders tight, tote bag slung high, phone in your hand while you scrolled with the kind of concentration that meant you were still working even though you were walking. You didn’t look lost or scared, and you didn’t look like someone who expected trouble, which was the part Dex had been noticing for weeks now. You moved like the city was yours, like the worst that could happen was stepping in a puddle.

A man came out behind you, and Dex noticed him because the man’s timing was wrong; most people leaving a building moved with purpose toward their own destination, but this guy came out too slowly, like he was checking whether you’d noticed him and didn’t want you to. He wasn’t dressed like a student, and he wasn’t dressed like faculty, and he didn’t move like campus security, either. His hands stayed in his jacket pockets, head angled down, shoulders slightly hunched, like he was trying to look smaller than he was.

Dex shifted his weight without moving his feet and watched the distance between you and the man stay the same across half a block. It didn’t widen the way it would if he was just walking in the same direction, and it didn’t shrink the way it would if he was trying to catch you quickly. It stayed steady, which meant the man knew what he was doing… or thought he did.

You crossed at the light without hesitating and the man crossed too, half a step after you, not close enough to be obvious, and not far enough to be accidental. Dex’s mouth pulled tight for a second, and he took two slow steps forward so he could keep the angle without standing too long in one place.

You kept walking toward the subway entrance, then veered off the usual route toward the street you took when you wanted to avoid the heavier crowd. Dex had already seen you do that, which meant the man should’ve hesitated if he was following at random, but he didn’t, he adjusted immediately, and Dex felt the irritation settle in his chest like a stone.

The man called out once, not loud, not aggressive, like he was trying to sound normal. “Hey,” he said.

You didn’t stop, but you did turn your head slightly, the way people did when they were deciding whether ignoring someone would make things worse. “Yeah?” you replied, tone neutral.

“I think you dropped something,” the man said, and he lifted his hand halfway out of his pocket like he might be holding an object, except he wasn’t holding anything.

You slowed just enough for Dex to see the choice happen in your body, that moment where you weighed politeness against caution. “I don’t think so,” you said, and you kept walking.

The man’s pace quickened by a fraction, “I’m pretty sure,” he insisted, and now he was a little closer than he’d been, pushing the distance down like he’d decided you’d given him an opening.

You stopped near a streetlight and turned fully this time, and Dex watched your posture shift, feet planted, tote strap held tighter, phone still in your hand but lowered. You didn’t look panicked, but you did look annoyed, like he was wasting your time, and Dex saw the same expression you gave students who tried to argue their way out of deadlines. “What did I drop?” you asked.

The man spread his hands slightly, empty. “I don’t know, I jus’ saw it fall,” he said, and he took another half-step forward, too casual and practiced.

Dex’s fingers tightened around the cigarette he wasn’t smoking, and he watched the man’s feet, because feet told the truth—the man wasn’t squared up like he planned to talk, and he was angled to close the distance fast.

You took a step back, not dramatic, but deliberate. “Okay,” you said, still calm. “Then I’ll find out when I get home.”

The man’s smile flickered, and Dex caught it, because it wasn’t a smile that belonged on a friendly face. “C’mon,” the man said, and his voice dropped. “I’m jus’ trying to help you.”

You didn’t raise your voice or start shouting for help, you simply said, “no” like it was the end of the conversation.

Dex didn’t wait for the next move, because he’d already seen enough to know where this went and he didn’t like the math of it. He stepped back into the deeper shadow beside a parked car, where the light didn’t hit his hands, and he reached into his pocket like he was adjusting his jacket. What he pulled out was small and ordinary, the kind of thing nobody noticed until it hit you, a cheap metal bottle opener he’d picked up from the deli days ago and never thrown away.

The man moved again, quicker now, closing in with a hand coming out of his pocket.

Dex flicked his wrist and the bottle opener left his fingers with a clean, flat spin, cutting through the air low and fast. It didn’t go toward the man’s head or chest, it went toward the joint that would stop him from moving forward, because Dex wasn’t trying to kill him, Dex was just trying to end it.

The man’s leg buckled so hard the sound carried, a sharp, ugly crack of impact and pain, and he went down with a shout that ripped into the quiet street. “Jesus—!” he screamed, clutching his knee as he hit the pavement hard enough to scrape skin through his jeans.

You froze for half a second, and Dex watched your face shift from irritation to startled alarm, the way anyone’s would when the world changed without warning. You didn’t look toward Dex, you just looked at the man on the ground, then scanned the street like you were searching for the source of what just happened. “What the hell?” you said, voice sharper now.

The man’s face twisted, sweat popping along his hairline as he tried to pull himself backward with his hands. “Help—help me,” he gasped, and the words didn’t sound sincere, they sounded like he wanted you closer.

You didn’t step toward him, instead you lifted your phone, thumb already moving. “I’m calling an ambulance,” you said, and you said it like a warning more than a kindness.

“No!” the man snapped, panic cutting through the pain. “Don’t—don’t call anyone!”

You narrowed your eyes, and Dex watched you take another step back, putting more space between you and the man. “Why?” you asked, and your tone was flat, like you already knew the answer and wanted him to admit it.

The man’s breathing went ragged, and he tried to scoot himself toward the curb, face contorting when his knee shifted. “I didn’t do anythin’!” he insisted, too fast, too defensive.

“You followed me,” you said, and Dex heard the anger now, controlled but real. “You lied about me dropping something and you told me not to call anyone. That’s not nothing.”

The man’s eyes darted, looking for an exit that didn’t involve getting up. “I was just trying to talk,” he said, voice cracking.

“You can talk from the sidewalk,” you replied, and you didn’t soften. “I’m calling.”

Dex stayed still behind the parked car, watching you do exactly what you should—refusing to step into range. You didn’t kneel beside him, nor did you hover, you didn’t even try to be the hero in a way that would get you hurt. You kept distance and used your phone, and Dex felt his shoulders ease by a fraction because he’d been bracing for you to do something stupid and kind.

You spoke into the phone a second later, voice clipped and professional. “Hi, yes, I need an ambulance,” you said. “There’s a man on the ground at—” You gave an address, clear and exact, and Dex noted that you didn’t stumble over it, you knew where you were at all times.

The dispatcher said something Dex couldn’t hear, but you answered smoothly. “He’s conscious,” you said. “He’s injured his knee, I think. No, I’m not touching him, I’m standing back.”

The man cursed under his breath, then cried out again when he tried to move. “You bitch!” he spat, the word slurring with pain and rage.

Your face hardened. “Say that again,” you told him, calm as ice.

The man stared at you, jaw clenched, and Dex watched him decide not to push his luck, because even on the ground he understood something about you: you weren’t soft, and you weren’t going to come closer just because he wanted you to.

You kept talking to the dispatcher, then glanced up and down the street again, scanning rooftops and doorways and dark windows. He watched the way your eyes moved and how they didn’t land on him, and he couldn’t tell whether that was because you didn’t see him or because you didn’t want to show that you did.

A car turned the corner in the distance, red-and-blue lights flashing against the wet pavement, and the man on the ground made a small, panicked sound like he’d just realized what consequences looked like. You stayed where you were, phone lowered now, posture steady.

When the ambulance pulled up, you stepped farther back, hands visible, and spoke to the EMTs as they approached. “He was following me,” you said, and your voice stayed even, not pleading or dramatic. “He said I dropped something, then he went down like that. I didn’t touch him.”

One of the EMTs gave you a brief look, assessment quick and practiced. “You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” you replied, and Dex could hear the lie because everyone said that, but you didn’t look like you were about to fall apart. You looked like you wanted to go home and shut the door and pretend the street hadn’t tried to take a bite out of you.

The EMT nodded and turned to the man, and the man started babbling about nothing, about how it was an accident, about how he didn’t know what happened. You weren’t listening, but you kept your eyes on the scene with a detached focus that made Dex think of the way you watched students in lab when you were waiting for them to do something unsafe.

A police car arrived next, slower, and Dex saw two officers step out, hands on their belts like they were already bored. One of them looked at you and asked, “you the one who called?”

“Yes,” you replied.

“What happened?” the officer asked.

You repeated it again, concise and clear, no extra emotion. “He followed me, tried to get me to stop, then he went down. I didn’t see what happened to his leg.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed, not at you but the man, who was now sweating and grimacing as the EMTs examined him. “You didn’t see what happened,” the officer repeated.

“No,” you said. “I wasn’t looking at his knee.”

Dex stayed behind the parked car until you were done talking, until the EMTs loaded the man into the ambulance, until the officers took your statement and let you go. You walked away without looking back, shoulders still tense, steps quick but controlled, and you didn’t run, because running made you feel hunted, and you weren’t going to give the city that satisfaction.

Dex followed from across the street, far enough that he wasn’t part of your story, close enough that if something else happened he could end it before it touched you. You kept your phone in your hand the whole way home, and Dex watched you glance down at it twice, like you were debating texting someone and deciding against it.

When you reached your building, you paused at the door long enough to punch in the code, then slipped inside and let it lock behind you. Dex stayed outside for another minute, watching the lobby through the glass until he saw you disappear down the hall and out of sight.

When Dex finally walked off into the night, he kept his face blank and his pace steady, because there wasn’t anyone around to see the difference anyway, and because he didn’t have any words that fit what had happened. He only had the fact that you’d made it home, and that he’d made sure of it without giving himself time to argue about why.

---

Dex didn’t go back to campus the next night, and he didn’t go back to your block either, because he didn’t like being close to the place where he’d done something he couldn’t take back. He took the long way through the city instead, drifting through streets that stayed loud enough to cover his footsteps and bright enough to keep him from feeling cornered, and he kept telling himself he was just keeping his routine steady. He ended up in Hell’s Kitchen anyway, not because he meant to, but because that was where Matt’s life sat like a knot in the map, and Dex always found himself circling it when he didn’t know where else to go.

Foggy’s building was easy to spot from a distance, mostly because Foggy didn’t do subtle, and neither did the places he chose. Dex stayed on the opposite side of the street, half-hidden behind a delivery van that had been left idling too long, and he watched the windows the way you watched a lab sample, patient and focused. The curtains were open just enough that he could see movement, silhouettes crossing, light shifting, the occasional burst of gesture that could only be Foggy.

Inside, the night sounded normal, like they were all pretending normal still existed. Foggy’s voice rose first, spilling through the open window. “No, I’m telling you, I saw him do it,” Foggy insisted. “He did that thing with his face and he said, ‘I’m fine,’ and then he did the other thing with his face where he’s not fine.”

Karen’s voice was sharper than it had been the last time Dex listened in. “Foggy,” she warned, like she wanted him to stop poking at something.

You answered before Foggy could keep going, and Dex’s attention locked in immediately because your voice sounded steadier than it had on the street the night before, like you’d decided you were done being shaken by anything. “He’s allowed to be not fine,” you said. “You don’t fix that by yelling at him about it.”

Foggy scoffed. “I’m not yelling,” he protested.

Karen cut in, dry and tired. “You’re always yelling.”

“That’s not yelling,” Foggy argued, louder, proving her point.

Matt’s voice came through next, calm but tight around the edges, like he’d been sitting with his jaw clenched for a while. “I’m fine,” he said.

Foggy made a sound of immediate outrage. “You’re doing it again,” he declared. “You’re doing the thing. Stop doing the thing!”

Matt replied, and Dex could hear the restraint in it, the way Matt was trying to keep control over his temper the way he kept control over everything else. “Foggy, drop it,” Matt said.

You didn’t raise your voice, but you didn’t back off either. “Hey,” you said, and Dex heard the slight shift in your tone, the way it snapped Matt’s attention without turning it into a fight. “Don’t start.”

There was a brief pause, and Dex watched the shadow of Matt’s head turn as if he’d angled toward you. He couldn’t see facial expressions clearly through the gap, but he didn’t need to, the room’s energy changed in the way it always did when you spoke to Matt like that.

Matt answered you, and the tightness in his voice eased just enough to notice. “I’m not starting,” he said.

“You are,” you replied, and you sounded unimpressed. “You’re doing that thing where you act like you’re the only one allowed to be stressed. It’s annoying.”

Foggy made a delighted noise, like he was watching a show. “Thank you,” he said. “Finally, someone else says it!”

Karen sighed. “God, I missed having you in the room,” she muttered, and Dex heard her words more clearly than he expected to, because she’d said them like she hadn’t meant to.

You answered Karen immediately, not joking this time. “You look tired,” you said. “Are you sleeping at all, or are you doing that thing where you pretend you’re okay and then you get mad at people for noticing you’re not?”

Karen huffed a short laugh that didn’t sound amused. “I’m fine,” she said, echoing Matt on purpose.

You didn’t laugh. “Yeah,” you replied. “That’s not an answer.”

Foggy shifted into a quieter tone, but with Foggy quieter was still loud enough to carry. “She’s been doing that all week,” he admitted. “And Matt’s been doing… whatever this is.”

“I’m right here,” Matt said, mildly, but Dex caught the warning in it.

“You’re right here being irritating,” you told him, and your voice stayed steady. “Eat something and drink some water. Stop acting like it’s noble to feel like garbage.”

“I did eat,” Matt replied, and Dex could hear him bracing for you not to believe him.

You didn’t make it dramatic. “What did you eat?” you asked.

Matt paused and Foggy burst out laughing like he’d just won. “Oh my God,” Foggy said, delighted. “He did not eat.”

Matt’s voice sharpened. “Foggy,” he warned.

You ignored Foggy completely and kept your focus on Matt. “Matt,” you said, and it wasn’t soft. It also wasn’t cruel. “What did you eat?”

Another pause, then Matt admitted, grudging, “a sandwich.”

You didn’t sound impressed. “When?” you asked.

Matt replied, “earlier.”

You made a quiet sound of dissatisfaction. “That’s not an answer either,” you said. “You’re going to give yourself a migraine and then pretend it’s some kind of moral failing to take Tylenol.”

Karen murmured something Dex didn’t catch, and then you spoke again, voice lowering a fraction, like you were trying to keep the room from turning into a shouting match. “Look,” you said, “I’m not trying to lecture you, I’m just saying this is all going to feel worse if you don’t do basic human stuff.”

Matt didn’t respond immediately. When he did, the edge was gone. “I know,” he said, quieter, and Dex hated how quickly you could pull him back from that place where his anger went sharp and dangerous.

Foggy went for humor again because Foggy always went for humor. “Also, if we’re being honest, you are the worst at basic human stuff,” he told Matt, and then he added, “and she’s the second worst.”

You snorted. “I’m not the second worst,” you said.

Karen’s voice warmed, even if just a little. “You’re the second worst,” she agreed.

You pointedly ignored them both, and Dex heard the rustle of movement like you were getting up. “I’m getting water,” you announced. “You’re all dehydrated. I can hear it.”

Foggy gasped. “You can hear dehydration?” he asked, scandalized.

“No,” you replied. “But I can hear you being annoying, and that’s usually a sign you need water.”

Foggy laughed again, big and easy, and Dex felt his stomach twist at it for reasons that didn’t make sense. You sounded like you belonged in that apartment, like you’d always belonged; like you could walk into their lives and take control of the temperature in the room without anyone fighting you about it.

Matt’s voice followed you, calmer now. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, and Dex didn’t like the softness there because it was too intimate in a way that wasn’t romantic.

You answered him with the same bluntness you used on everyone. “I know I don’t,” you said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Dex stayed outside long enough to hear Foggy complain about how you were bossy, long enough to hear Karen laugh quietly like she’d needed it, long enough to hear Matt speak less like a loaded weapon and more like a person. He walked away before the night ended, because he didn’t like standing there listening to you make Matt easier to live with, and he didn’t like the way that fact sat in his head.

Two days later you were with Matt again, this time in public, and Dex caught you outside the church. It wasn’t Sunday, it was just a regular day with regular traffic, and the sidewalk was crowded enough that you and Matt had to slow down. Your arm was linked through his again, and you were talking fast, like you were trying to squeeze conversation into the walk before you had to split off for work. “I’m not going to dinner tomorrow,” you said. “I’m on lab prep until late and if I sit down I’m not getting back up.”

Matt replied, “Foggy’s going to take it personally.”

“Foggy takes everything personally,” you said, and Dex heard the smile in it. “Tell him I’ll make it up to him next week.”

Matt’s mouth tightened slightly, and Dex caught it even from across the street, because Dex had learned to watch for the exact moment Matt’s emotions threatened to show. “You don’t have to ‘make it up’ to anyone,” Matt said, and the words sounded like they were about more than dinner.

You didn’t stop walking, but you did squeeze his arm once, a quick pressure that looked casual to anyone else. “I know,” you replied. “But I’m still going to.”

Matt muttered something under his breath that Dex couldn’t hear, and you laughed, low and quick, like whatever he said had been rude in the way that made you amused instead of offended.

Dex followed at a distance, keeping to the opposite side, letting pedestrians cross between them whenever they could. He watched the way you moved with Matt, the way you didn’t guide him, the way you didn’t treat him like he was breakable. You kept pace, you joked, you argued, and you didn’t act like the cane meant anything beyond what Matt wanted it to mean.

You stopped near a crosswalk, and Matt’s jaw tightened again as he listened to something the crowd was doing, and Dex felt that familiar recognition of the anger Matt kept under his skin. Matt spoke, quieter than you, and Dex caught only pieces through the traffic noise. “—doesn’t matter,” Matt said, clipped. “—fine.”

You answered immediately, and Dex could hear you clearly. “No,” you said. “That’s not fine.”

Matt’s head angled toward you, and his voice sharpened just enough to sound like he was trying not to snap. “It’s not—”

You cut him off without raising your own voice. “I’m not doing this with you on the sidewalk,” you said. “Walk.”

The light changed and Matt stepped forward, and you stepped with him, arms still linked. Your tone stayed even, and Dex watched Matt’s shoulders ease a fraction as he moved, like the act of walking with you pulled him back into his body.

A few blocks later you peeled off toward the subway, and Matt stopped at the top of the stairs and didn’t go down with you. He stood there for a second with that stillness he got when he was listening for something farther away than the street.

You looked up at him, “text me later,” you said, matter-of-fact.

Matt didn’t answer right away, and then he said, “I will,” and his voice was quiet enough to sound like a promise.

You nodded once and headed down the stairs, disappearing into the underground crowd.

Dex stayed on the far side of the street, watching Matt turn away from the subway, watching him angle his body toward the darker stretch of buildings like he was already planning where he needed to be. Dex waited until Matt moved, until the cane became irrelevant, until the walk turned sharper and quieter and more purposeful.

Then Dex turned his attention back to the subway entrance you’d just gone into, because he didn’t care where Matt was going in that moment. He cared about the fact that you’d said text me later like it was normal, like you’d folded whatever Matt did into the shape of your day without flinching.

Dex followed you underground, keeping the distance, letting the crowd hide him the way it always did, and he watched you stand on the platform like nothing had happened at all. In fact, you looked like someone who trusted that a dangerous man would come back when he said he would, and Dex couldn’t stop the thought that came with it, sharp and unwanted and persistent, because it wasn’t about Matt’s ability to keep promises, it was about yours, about how easily you held space for him without trying to own him.

Dex stayed in the same train car again, across from you, not looking like he was watching, and when you got off at your stop, he got off too, and he kept doing that because the overlap had become habit. He watched you disappear into your building, then walked away with the city noise in his ears, and he kept circling the same question without letting himself say it out loud to anyone, because saying it out loud would make it real.

He didn’t need you to like him. He didn’t need you to forgive him. He didn’t even need you to understand him.

He just wanted to know what you would do if you saw him, fully, the way you saw Matt, and he hated that he wanted that at all.

notes: hehehehe i love dex being possessive before even meeting you and taking down a guy because he didn't listen to you when you said "no" (which should've been the end of the conversation!)

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes @macbaetwo @demiebarnes @angel113431 @gojoswaterbottle @chelzaa

dex poindexter: @ultimatewolverine @nightmerzer @hexedangelx@avidreader73 @satorusbbymomma@skollinghunter @magicataxes @star-yawnznn @10ava01 @clowninavan

The hallway is narrow and familiar, and you’ve walked it a thousand times, but tonight it feels like a corridor in someone else’s life. You keep the gun up, not waving it around, not shaking, just steady, and you listen with everything you’ve got. There’s no heavy breathing, no footsteps scuffing. That’s what makes your stomach tighten, because a drunk would stumble, a thief would rush, and a normal person would knock at your door.

The living room opens up around you, a patchwork of darker shadows where your furniture sits. The window by the fire escape is cracked open by a few inches, the curtain pushed aside like a hand slid it back and held it there. The air coming in is colder than the air in your apartment, and it carries the faint scent of city grime and rain. You take one more step in, muzzle tracking toward the window, and then you see him in the corner where the light from the street doesn’t quite reach.

He’s standing with his back close to the wall, like he chose a spot that gives him the whole room and keeps him out of the line of sight from anyone walking past outside. He’s dressed dark, of course, and he’s not moving like he’s trying to spook you. He’s still in that unsettling way that makes it feel like the apartment belongs to him now, like he’s been there longer than you have and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

“Step into the light,” you say, and your voice comes out flat, the way it does when you’re forcing yourself not to feel something first.

He exhales, slow, and the sound is quiet but familiar enough to pull at something inside your chest. Then he shifts, and you get a glimpse of his face as he moves just enough that the streetlight catches the curve of his cheek and the pale line of his mouth. The light shows the tension in his jaw before it fades again as he settles back into shadow.

A pause, and then a voice from the darkest part of your living room, low and steady like he’s been standing there listening to you breathe. “You still sleep with it that close.”

Your grip tightens before you can help it. Your aim doesn’t wobble, but everything in you goes hot and cold at the same time, because you know that voice, you know the cadence, you know the way he makes the simplest sentence sound like he’s filing it into place. You take another step forward without meaning to, then stop yourself before you get too close. “What are you doing in my apartment, Dex?”

He says your name, and he says it like he’s allowed to, like he hasn’t earned the right to have it in his mouth. It hits you anyway, because your body is stupid and memory is worse, and there’s something about hearing him say it that makes your grip tighten on the gun until your knuckles ache. “I needed to see you,” he says.

“That’s not an answer.”

His shoulders lift a fraction, not quite a shrug. “It’s the only one I have.”

You keep the muzzle steady, aimed center mass, the way you were taught, the way you taught yourself when no one else was around to correct your stance. “How did you get in?”

He glances at the window. “You already know.”

“I want to hear you say it,” you tell him.

He shifts again, and this time he steps out far enough that you can actually see him. The light catches more of him now: the shape of his shoulders under the jacket, the tired set to his eyes, the faint shadow of bruising that’s either healing or never fully fades when a body’s been through too much. He looks leaner than you remember, like prison carved away whatever softness he had left, and he looks too controlled for someone who just climbed up to your window in the middle of the night.

“I came up the fire escape,” he says, and then his eyes flick down for a second, to the gun, and back to your face. “You didn’t change the latch.”

Your pulse jumps, not because he’s wrong, but because you hate that he knows. You hate that he’s cataloging details like he’s always done, like he can’t help it, like your life is a pattern and he’s already traced the lines. “You could’ve knocked,” you say.

He gives you a look that’s almost dry, almost amused, and it doesn’t belong on his face after everything. “Would you have opened the door?”

You don’t answer that, because the truth is complicated and ugly and it doesn’t deserve to be spoken out loud with a gun between you. “What happened?” you ask instead, because something had to have pushed him here. “Did someone follow you? Is this some kind of—” You cut yourself off before you say trap, because saying it gives it more shape than you want to hold in your head.

He shakes his head. “No one followed me.”

“Then why are you here?” you repeat, and you keep your voice sharp enough to cut. “Why now?”

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, then closes again. For a second he looks almost… careful, like he’s choosing words in the same way someone chooses where to step on thin ice.

“I got out,” he says finally, and his voice stays quiet, but there’s a roughness under it that wasn’t there before. “And the first night I was out, I didn’t come here. I didn’t come anywhere near you. I went somewhere else and I sat there until morning, because I told myself if I made it through one night, I could make it through the next.”

You don’t let yourself soften at the sound of him trying. You keep the gun up, because you remember the things he’s done and you remember how quickly trying can turn into something else when it’s Dex Poindexter doing it.

“How many nights did you make it through?” you ask.

His gaze holds yours, steady as the muzzle pointed at him. “Not enough.”

Your breath comes out harsh. “So you decided to break into my apartment.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I decided to see you.”

“You don’t get to decide things for me anymore.”

His expression shifts at that, something tightening behind his eyes like he’s swallowing down a reaction. “I’m not asking for permission,” he says, and then he adds, almost softer, “I’m here. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” you snap, and the gun wavers a fraction before you force it steady again. “You don’t show up like this and pretend it’s nothing. You don’t get to stand in my living room like you didn’t—”

The words knot in your throat and refuse to come out, and Dex watches you with that awful focus that makes you feel seen in a way you never asked for.

He takes one step closer.

“Stop,” you say immediately.

He stops, but the fact that he moved at all sends heat crawling under your skin. He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the faint scar on his cheek you don’t remember from before, close enough that you can see how his pupils look too wide in the low light. His hands hang at his sides, relaxed but not casual, and he keeps them visible like he knows you’ll put a bullet in him if you have to.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“I’m not,” you lie, and it’s stupid because he’s right. The tremor is small, but it’s there.

His mouth twitches. “You used to shake when you were angry.”

“Don’t,” you warn him.

He doesn’t stop, because Dex has never been good at stopping once he’s latched onto a thread. “And you used to hate it when I noticed,” he continues, and his voice is almost gentle now, like he’s trying to smooth something over with tone alone. “But you always let me.”

“I don’t let you do anything,” you say, and you lift the gun a fraction higher, aiming for his head this time because you want him to understand you mean it. “Take one more step and I’ll put you down.”

He looks at the gun, then back at you, and then he does the most infuriating thing he could do: he steps forward anyway, slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching an altar instead of a weapon. You don’t move, because you refuse to give ground in your own home, and the next second the barrel meets his forehead with a soft, undeniable bump.

He doesn’t jerk away, he doesn’t blink fast, he just leans in until the pressure is firm, and you feel it through the gun, through your arm,, straight into your chest. “There,” he says, voice low. “That’s better.”

Your stomach flips, half disgust and half something you don’t want to name. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He breathes out through his nose, and you can feel it in the space between you. “A lot.”

“Back up,” you order, but he doesn’t move an inch. Your grip tightens again. “Dex.”

His eyes stay on yours, and there’s something in them that’s so naked it makes your throat go tight. It’s not a plea, not exactly, and it’s not a threat. It’s need in its purest form, stripped of all the lies he usually wraps around it.

You hold the gun steady even though your arm is starting to ache, and you hate that he can stand there with the barrel pressed into his skin like it’s a point of contact instead of a warning. He stays close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline, close enough that you can feel his breath when he exhales, and he doesn’t do the decent thing and back away.

“On your knees,” you say, and you make your voice mean it.

For a beat he doesn’t move, not because he’s refusing, but because he’s watching you like he’s memorizing the exact set of your mouth, the angle of your wrist, the way you’re not stepping back. Then he nods once, slow, and he lowers himself like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal. His knees touch the floor with a quiet sound that makes your stomach twist, because the sight of him down there is wrong in a way that feels too right, and his hands lift up beside his head with his palms open.

“Like this?” he asks, and the question comes out calm, almost polite.

“Don’t talk to me like you’re doing me a favor,” you say, and you keep the muzzle angled down at him, not because you’re easing up, but because the geometry changes when he kneels. “You don’t get to play nice now.”

His eyes flicker, and something tight pulls at the corner of his mouth like he wants to smile and doesn’t trust himself to. “I’m not playing,” he says. “I’m doing what you said.”

“Good,” you tell him, because you need something solid to hang onto. “Stay there.”

He stays there, hands still up, shoulders squared even on his knees like posture is another kind of armor. The streetlight catches his face better now, carving shadows under his cheekbones and making his eyes look even darker, and you hate how familiar he still is. He looks at the gun, then at you, and he doesn’t look away from either like he’s proving he can take it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say. “You shouldn’t even know where I live anymore.”

“I didn’t forget,” he answers, and he says it like it’s a simple fact instead of a confession. “I missed you.”

You swallow and your throat aches, because you can hear the old softness threaded through the words and you don’t want it. You don’t want the version of him that sounded like that when he was in your bed, when he’d tuck himself behind you and pretend the world couldn’t touch him if he had you in his arms.

“Don’t,” you say again, and this time it comes out quieter than you meant it to.

His gaze lifts to your face and he holds it like he’s holding onto a ledge. “I missed you, baby,” he repeats, and he doesn’t push the nickname like a knife. He says it the way he used to say it when you’d fall asleep mid-sentence, the way he’d say it when he was trying to be gentle.

Your breathing shifts, shallow for a second before you force it back into something steadier, and the gun stays in your hand even though your fingers tighten around it like you’re afraid it will disappear if you loosen your grip. “You don’t get to just show up,” you tell him. “Not after everything.”

He doesn’t argue, and the lack of fight is almost worse than if he’d tried. His shoulders rise and fall with one slow breath, and his hands stay up where you can see them. “I know.”

“You don’t get to stand in my living room and look at me like that,” you add, because anger is easier than the other thing pressing up behind your ribs. “You don’t get to say you missed me like it means something.”

His throat works like he’s swallowing down something sharp. “It means something to me,” he says, and he says it like he hates himself for it. “I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

“You should be,” you say. “If you had any sense left, you’d be begging.”

His mouth opens, then closes, and for a second he looks almost like he wants to laugh and can’t find the sound. “Do you want me to beg?” he asks, and his voice stays even, but there’s a tremor under it that makes your teeth clench. “If you tell me to beg, I will.”

Your hand trembles just enough that you feel it in your wrist, and you hate that he notices because he always notices. His eyes flick to your hand, then back to your face, and the intensity in his stare doesn’t change, but his posture does. It’s small, careful, and it makes your skin prickle, because his hands lower a little from beside his head to hover closer to his shoulders like he’s testing whether you’ll stop him.

“Hands up,” you order immediately.

He freezes with his hands halfway down, and he lifts them again without complaint. “Okay,” he says, soft.

You take a breath that scrapes, and you try to keep your voice sharp enough to protect you. “You think you can come back and act like this,” you say. “You think you can walk right into my life and—what? Remind me of how it felt? That’s your plan?”

“I don’t have a plan,” he says, and his eyes flicker with something that looks like frustration, not at you, but at himself. “If I had a plan, I wouldn’t be here.”

“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all night,” you mutter.

He shifts his weight slightly on his knees, the motion controlled, and the gun tracks him on instinct. He notices that too, of course, and his gaze drops to the muzzle for half a second like he’s checking where it is, like he’s measuring distance in his head the way he measures everything. When his eyes lift again, they’re too steady, too direct. “You’re still holding it like you mean it,” he says.

“I do mean it.”

“I know,” he replies, and he sounds almost relieved by that. “That’s why I came.”

Your jaw tightens. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t move his hands, but his fingers flex once like he’s fighting the urge to reach. “You don’t lie to yourself,” he says. “You never did.”

“That’s not a compliment,” you tell him.

“I wasn’t trying to compliment you,” he says, and then he adds, quieter, like it costs him to say it out loud, “I needed something real.”

You stare at him, and the room feels too small for the two of you, because he’s taking up all the air with that gaze and you’re letting him. The gun is still there between you, still a line you can draw any time you want, but your arm is tired and your hand is shaking just a little, and you’re furious that he can make you feel anything other than disgust.

“Get up,” you say, and your voice is steady again because you force it to be. “Slow.”

He watches your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind, and then he rises in the same careful way he knelt, one measured movement at a time. His hands stay up for a moment even when he’s standing, palms open beside his head, and the sight is almost absurdly intimate, like you’re the one holding him in place with nothing but a word.

When he’s upright, you lower the gun just enough that it’s not pressed against him anymore, but you don’t put it down. It stays in your hand, pointed between you, not quite aimed at his heart now but still close enough that he understands what it means. He steps closer anyway, not quickly, not like he’s trying to take it from you, but like he’s following a gravity he can’t resist.

“Stop right there,” you say, even though you don’t move back.

He stops, so close that your breath hits him you exhale. His hands are still raised, and you notice the tension in his forearms, the way he’s holding himself back on purpose. His eyes flick to your mouth and back up, and the movement is so fast you almost miss it, but you don’t. You never used to miss it.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” you say, and it comes out harsh, like you can say it hard enough to make it true.

“I know,” he answers immediately, and the speed of it makes your throat tighten because he isn’t pretending. “I’m not here because I think it fixes it.”

“Then why are you here,” you demand, “if you’re not here to fix it?”

His voice drops, and it’s barely above a breath. “Because I couldn’t stand not knowing if you’d look at me.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the grip. “You’re looking at me right now.”

He shakes his head once, tiny. “You’re looking back,” he says.

You hate the way your body reacts to that, the way heat crawls under your skin like an old reflex waking up. You hate that you want to slap him and kiss him in the same breath, and you hate most of all that he’s watching you like he can see every ugly thought as it passes through you.

“Don’t,” you whisper, and you don’t even know what you mean by it, because it’s too late for a dozen different kinds of don’t.

He holds still like you’ve pinned him there with your voice, and then he leans forward just enough that his forehead almost brushes the gun again. He doesn’t touch it this time, like he’s learned the boundary you’re actually holding, and he stays in the thin space you allow. “Tell me no,” he says, and his voice is steady even when his eyes aren’t. “Tell me no and I’ll go.”

You stare at him, and the word sits in your mouth like a coin you can’t swallow. You could say it—you should say it, but you don’t.

Dex’s breath stutters once, like he felt your silence land. His hands are still above his head, still open, and for a moment the two of you just stand there with the gun between you and the air too thick to breathe. Then you step in, because you’re tired of being the only one pretending you aren’t about to do something you’ll regret.

You kiss him.

It isn’t gentle, and it isn’t sweet, and it isn’t anything like an apology. It’s hot and angry and familiar in the worst way, like your mouth already knows his and your body already remembers the shape of him. His hands stay up for one strangled second like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed, like he’s waiting for you to shove him away, and that pause makes your pulse kick hard.

“Don’t—” you start, pulling back just enough for the words to hit his mouth, but you can’t finish because he swallows the rest of it when you kiss him again.

“I’m not,” he murmurs against you, and it’s breath and sound, barely a sentence. “I’m not.”

His restraint breaks in slow motion. One hand lowers first, hovering near your waist without touching, and he waits like he’s asking permission without using words. When you don’t flinch, his palm settles against you, warm and firm, and the contact sends a sharp shiver through you that makes you hate yourself.

Your other hand is still holding the gun, angled down now, forgotten and not forgotten at the same time, because you can feel its weight even as you drag your free hand up his chest. Your fingers catch on his jacket, then slide up to his collar, and when you fist the fabric there his breath turns rough.

Dex makes a sound that he tries to swallow, and his other hand comes down to your side, then your back, pressing you closer. He doesn’t force you, he just follows the contact like he’s starving for it, like he’s been holding himself together with rules and silence and the idea of you, and now you’re here and his hands don’t know how to be anything except reverent and desperate at the same time.

You break the kiss long enough to glare at him, your mouth still close to his. “This isn’t—”

“I know,” he says again, and his eyes flick to your lips like he can’t stop himself. “I know.”

“Say it like you mean it,” you challenge, because you need something that hurts more than this does.

He nods once, and his voice comes out rougher. “It doesn’t fix anything,” he repeats, and there’s no argument in him, no illusion. “It just… makes it quiet.”

Your chest tightens at that, and you should step back, you should put the gun away, you should make him leave, you should do a hundred sensible things. Instead you kiss him again, slower this time, and he sinks into it like he’s been waiting for permission to breathe.

His hand slides up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with the kind of careful touch that makes your stomach flip because it’s so gentle it feels wrong coming from him. Your fingers tighten in his collar, and you feel the tremor in him when you do, like he’s trying to hold himself to a line he’s drawn and you’re daring him to cross it.

“Look at me,” you say, because you want to see if he’s still there in his own eyes.

He does, immediately, and he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. “I’m looking,” he says, and his voice is low, steady, too intimate for the middle of your living room with your gun still in your hand.

You don’t answer with words. You answer by pulling him back into your mouth, and his hand tightens at your waist like he’s anchoring himself, like you’re the only thing keeping him from floating apart.

When the kiss deepens again, it’s messy in the way you remember, not because it’s out of control but because it’s full of everything you haven’t said. His hands roam—your side, your back, up to the base of your neck where his fingers curl like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go—and he keeps checking you with tiny pauses, tiny hesitations, like he’s still waiting for you to push him away and he’s bracing for it even as he kisses you like he can’t live without it.

You don’t push him away; you keep him close, gun still hanging loose in your hand and angled toward the floor, because you haven’t decided what any of this means and you’re not going to lie and pretend you have.

Dex stays pressed to you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks, and when he kisses you again it’s slower, heavier, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead hovering near yours, and his eyes search your face like he’s bracing for the part where you tell him to leave. “Tell me to go,” he murmurs, voice rough, like it hurts to offer you the out.

You swallow, your grip on his collar tightening, and the words come out low and sharp like you’re daring him to believe you. “Don’t go.”

For a second he looks stunned in a way you almost never see on him, and then something in him gives with a quiet, relieved exhale. His hands tighten at your waist like he’s anchoring himself, and he kisses you again like he’s starving, like he’s been holding back for days and you just cut the last thread.

“Thank you, baby,” he breathes against your mouth, the nickname soft enough to make your chest ache. “I missed you.”

extra notes: one, i'm thinking of making a dex taglist, so if you want to be added, let me know! (here or on my taglist post). secondly, writing that last line made me realize that dex is the kind of guy that would ask to go down on you and say thank you when you let him... yeah

He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”

Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”

“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”

“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.

He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”

He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”

“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”

You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.

“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”

He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”

He winced. “When you say it like that—”

“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”

The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”

He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”

And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?

---

Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.

You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.

He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.

“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.

“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”

“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.

“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”

He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”

He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”

“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”

“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”

Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”

His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”

You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.

“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”

Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”

He frowned. “I don’t fold.”

“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”

He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”

“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.

You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”

“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”

Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”

“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”

His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”

“See? Believable and romantic.”

Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”

You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”

You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.

You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”

Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”

---

The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.

The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.

By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.

Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”

You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”

You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”

Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.

“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.

Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.

Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.

Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”

Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”

Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”

Oh God. Here it was—the test.

Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”

Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”

Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round

Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.

Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.

You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”

Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”

Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.

Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”

“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.

He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”

You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”

He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”

You grinned. “Can’t wait.”

Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”

“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”

His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.

The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.

Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.

The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”

“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.

Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”

You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”

Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.

“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”

Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.

Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”

“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”

Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”

You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”

Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”

But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”

Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”

“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”

Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”

By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”

Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”

But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.

Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”

You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”

Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”

When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.

Like he really was happy you were there.

And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.

---

The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.

You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.

You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”

Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.

For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”

Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”

“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”

He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”

“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”

Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”

“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”

“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.

“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”

He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.

The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.

“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”

He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”

Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.

Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”

His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.

The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”

Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”

When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”

Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”

“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”

He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”

You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”

Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”

But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.

And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.

---

Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”

You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”

His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”

You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”

Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”

“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”

He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.

Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.

The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.

Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”

Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”

Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”

It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”

By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”

Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”

“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”

The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.

“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.

“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.

The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”

Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”

“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”

“I don’t,” he protested weakly.

“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”

Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”

“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.

Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.

When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”

“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”

He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.

By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.

After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.

The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.

It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.

You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”

A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”

Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”

Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”

Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”

You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”

Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.

As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”

“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”

Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”

You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.

At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”

Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”

The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”

You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”

Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.

He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.

By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”

Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”

You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.

---

The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.

Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.

You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.

The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”

“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”

“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”

The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”

You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.

Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.

The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”

Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.

“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.

You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”

The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.

The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.

You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”

“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.

Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.

But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.

“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.

“You’re doing fine.”

The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.

Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.

Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.

The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.

You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.

Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.

He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”

“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”

His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”

Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”

“She’s married,” Clark protested.

“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”

“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”

His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”

The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”

He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”

You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.

Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”

You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”

When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.

At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.

---

The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”

Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”

“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”

You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”

After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.

The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.

“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”

Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”

You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”

He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”

“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”

Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”

“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”

Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”

You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”

“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”

Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”

“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.

“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”

You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”

Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”

He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”

He glanced back at you. “What?”

“It’s coming this way.”

“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”

The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”

“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”

“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”

By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.

The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”

Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”

His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”

That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”

Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”

He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.

The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”

Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.

Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”

Clark winced. “The cows.”

“The cows?”

“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.

You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”

Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”

“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”

“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.

Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”

You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.

Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.

“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”

He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”

“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”

“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.

“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.

His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”

Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”

---

Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.

Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”

And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.

Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”

“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”

He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”

“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”

“About all of it,” he said simply.

Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”

Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”

Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”

Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”

Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”

The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.

“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.

The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.

By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”

When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.

The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.

Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”

Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”

“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”

That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”

“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.

The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.

Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.

The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.

Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.

The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.

You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”

When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”

Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”

You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.

Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”

Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”

“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”

His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”

You blinked. “What?”

Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”

The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”

But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”

For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.

You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”

The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.

As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.

Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”

“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”

The women descended like hawks.

“Oh, isn’t she lovely.” “Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?” “Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”

You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.

Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”

“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.

“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”

Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.

The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”

A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.

He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”

The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”

Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”

The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”

Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.

“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”

Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”

The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.

“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.

You swallowed hard. “So we…?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”

“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.

And then he kissed you.

It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.

Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.

Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.

The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”

You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”

But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.

It hadn’t felt fake at all.

---

The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.

You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”

His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”

You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”

For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”

“Right.”

You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.

You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.

Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.

And maybe… thrilling.

---

Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.

You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.

Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”

“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.

Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.

Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.

When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”

Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”

Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”

Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”

The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”

Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”

You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”

He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”

You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.

---

The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.

But you had.

You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.

You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.

Normal.

Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.

The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”

Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”

“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”

Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”

You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”

His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.

You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.

Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.

The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.

But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.

And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.

“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.

And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”

Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”

Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.

You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.

The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.

By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”

You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.

---

It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.

You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.

When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.

“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”

“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”

He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”

“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”

He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.

“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.

“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”

Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”

Your heart thudded. “Clark…”

He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”

Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”

The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.

“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”

His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”

And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.

This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.

“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”

You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”