findin' comfort with all these ghosts

Clark Kent:

Next door (Part one) Part Two Part Three Part Four

Reader decides to move, and the last thing she expects is a charming neighbor with a kind smile.

Fall

Reader is a news reporter, on her way to cover a breaking story. She is kidnapped by Lex Luthor. Which pushes he to make a choice to protect the man she loves.

Steve Harrington:

Vegas Lights

Waking up married to Steve, your best friend sends you through a spiral. Steve, however, refuses to dismiss what happened as a mistake.

Mattheo Riddle:

Oblivious

Friends to lovers. Mattheo is in love with someone, and the reader navigates their way through it. Also Mattheo cant keep his hands to himself.

Unspoken

College A/U At a party Mattheo and reader flirt all night and a game of Truth or dare bring them together.

Forget me not Pt 1

Reader has lost her memories and Mattheo tries to help her get them back.

Stay

After a night together, reader goes on with her life thinking that’s what playboy Mattheo wants.  

Pretend part 1 Part 2

Readers friends (Rory and Lyra*) accuse her of secretly dating their longtime crush. So, she does what any desperate girl would do, she comes up with a fake dating scheme to make them believe her.  

Mattheo agrees to help, as long as she helps him.

James Potter:

Charming

This one is just a collection of scenes. Reader hates James, and James keeps showing up to annoy her.

Drabble 1

James and Reader spend some time together in between the crazy end of  the semester.

Sirius Black

Forever

A shitty ex is back and to hide her son Atlas away from him reader stays with her best friend and Rockstar Sirius Black. (there is a scene of domestic violence)

Druig (Eternals)

When we say goodbye Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Druig X LightBender!Eternal!Reader

Whispers of Regret

Druig says something he wishes he could take back.

Random ones:

Slice of Heaven Reader and Carmy are roommates with feelings for each other.

Miguel O'hara Drabble 1

“Honestly, Huckleberry, if there’s a fifty‑fifty chance of disaster, you’ll hit the disaster ninety‑nine percent of the time. It’s a real talent.” Trinity’s jab snapped your attentions back to the group.

Whitaker squinted at her, then nodded with the solemnity of a man accepting his fate.

A laugh escapes you, the kind that comes as naturally as breathing. “Trinity that cant be true.”  

“It is,” she insisted. “I’m pretty sure if he bought a lottery ticket and won, he’d still end up bankrupt.”

“Well don’t worry Whitaker I would help take care of you if that happened.” You pat his hand with a small smile.

Jack would have something to say about that. Probably some dry teasing comment about you wanting to take care of everyone. But you knew he would do it if you asked. He had a hard time saying no after you smiled at him.

And that thought, that soft truth, made the empty space where he should’ve been feel even heavier. Another five minutes passed before you excused yourself with a soft smile and slipped through the crowd, weaving between tables and tipsy strangers. You wanted to go back to Jacks place—curl up in his bed, breathe in the scent of his laundry detergent, and let the world quiet down.

The cool night air washed over you as soon as you pushed the door open. It was a welcome contrast to the suffocating warmth inside. You inhaled deeply, letting the quiet settle around you like a blanket.

Jack wasn’t on the patio like you expected. No familiar silhouette leaning against the railing. No soft glow from his phone screen. No low laugh shared with Robby.

They were at the end of the patio, a streetlight outlining their figures. They didn’t turn toward you. Didn’t notice you at all.

 You froze mid‑step.

Something in their posture told you the conversation wasn’t casual. That it wasn’t light joking. It wasn’t anything you were meant to walk into.

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You didn’t even think you could—until Jack’s voice cut through the air, sharp and tired in a way you’d never heard directed at you.

“I can’t do it any more Robby. She talks nonstop all the time.”

Your breath stilled. Completely.

Like your lungs forgot how to work.

Robby exhaled. “Have you tried to tell her?”

“Yes, but I can never get a word in.”

The words hit like a punch you weren’t braced for. They were Clean. Precise. Brutal.

They confirmed every fear you’d ever whispered to yourself at three in the morning, every insecurity you’d tried to smother with optimism, and the hope that love made your quirks endearing instead of exhausting.

You knew you talked a lot. God, you knew.

You’d even gone to therapy hoping someone could teach your brain how to slow down. To be able to survive in normal silence instead of fearing it might swallow you whole. Instead, they handed you an ADHD diagnosis and told you it was okay. A quirk. A part of you. Something that made you you.

But hearing Jack say it like that, like it drained him, felt like someone had taken all your insecurities and carved it into your ribs with deliberate, merciless precision.

Your eyes burned, and throat tightened. You swallowed hard, forcing a breath to stay quiet as you backed away, slipping inside before either of them could see you. Your body was moving on autopilot.  

You knew you couldn’t go back the table. If you sat down, Trinity would take one look at you and know something was wrong. Then Mel would smile at you with some encouraging words, and you would break. You would start crying right then and there. And then she would tell jack. It would become a whole thing.

So, you ducked into the bathroom, pushing the door open with trembling fingers. You leaned against the sink, palms flat on the cool granite, trying to breathe through the sudden ache in your chest. Jacks’ words echoed, and with slinking certainty you realize you were as easy to love as you had hoped.

A cruel laugh escapes you. Your father had warned you—Men don’t like when woman talk a lot. They will leave you. You thought he was cruel, and hated you. But he was right. You talked to much and now jack wanted to leave you.

Fuck. You thought everything was going well.  You had been together just over six months, it had been filled with laughter, feeding him all your baking experiments, of you rambling about everything. He always listened earnestly, whether it was about childhood movies, or the new recipe you were perfecting. Or, you thought he did.

Now you felt small and unwanted. Like every happy moment had been a misunderstanding you’d build a future on.

You wanted to go back to your home, and crawl into bed. Pretend this was all simply a nightmare you could wake up from. Pretend that the man you were irrevocably in love with didn’t secretly resent the way your brain worked.

Another cruel laugh escapes. When the thought occurs to you that he could have told you. That was the part that sung the most. He could have said something—anything—before it became a complaint whispered to his befriend on a street corner.

With a small pep talk and a promise that you could cry as soon as you got out of the building, your forced your legs to move. Each step you took felt like it belonged to someone braver than you.

You plastered on a smile when the group looked up, the expression stretching too tight across your face.

“Hey I can’t find Jack, can you let him know I walked home. I don’t want to take him away from his friends on his one night off.”  You rushed out, desperate to escape before anyone could ask anything that might crack you open.

Trinity’s eyes narrowed, sharp and preceptive. “Are you okay?”

You grabbed your coat, shrugging it on like a piece of armor. You needed to leave before Jack came back and saw the truth written all over your face. Because he would. That man could read you like a book. Every gesture, every shift in your voice, every tiny hesitation—he noticed all of it.

“Yeah,” you lied, voice light. “Just need some sleep, I’ve got to finish a massive order for an engagement party coming up.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look ok.” Mel cut in.

You took a second to breathe then forced your smile to widen. “I promise. I just need sleep or my deserts will suffer.”

“Are you making those triple berry macarons again?” Melissa asked, brightening at the mention of your baking.

Warmth flickered through your chest. Mel adored your treats, and half the time you made extra for her in particular. She was one of the few people who understood you without making you feel like you were too much. Maybe it was because of her sister, maybe it was just who she was, but you adored her even more for it.

“I am,” you said softly. “I’ll send some over.”

You waved, turned, and made your way outside. Purposefully avoiding the are you knew jack and Robby were standing.  

Five minutes in to the walk home, a sob finally rips out of you. It’s loud, ugly and impossible to swallow. A person passing on the street glances over, curious, but keeps walking. You pressed shaking fingers to your lips, trying to hold the next one in, trying to keep yourself from unraveling right there on the street.

God, you hated crying. It felt humiliating between the blotchy skin and the snot that built up slowly suffocating you.  

Your phone vibrated incessantly in your pocket. First two calls. Then a string of messages, one after another.

Jack: I would have driven you home love Let me know when you’re safe Love you  

Love you.  

Those words felt mocking to read. They made your chest cave in, because he didn’t mean them. They were just words coming from him. He tolerated you. He merely put up with you. He must have only been with you because he was lonely and he didn’t have to do much to entertain you. You did most of the work by talking all the time.

Part of you wanted to ignore him. Let him sit with the silence he wanted so much. But you knew Jack, if you didn’t respond, he’d show up at your door, and you couldn’t face him right now. Not with your nose red and your heart cracked open.

So, you typed the shortest message you’d ever sent him.

Got home don’t worry.

No warmth.

No rambling.

No I’m home, going to shower then head to bed. Early morning tomorrow, love you bunches.

If it bothered Jack, he didn’t say a word.

The bakery was already warm by seven a.m., the air was thick with the smell of sugar and butter, wrapping itself around you like a familiar hug. Normally you would fill the space with chatter; updates about your latest recipe experiments, stories about customers, random facts you’d learned at three in the morning. You were the heartbeat of the kitchen, the one who made the early shift feel less like work and more like a cozy, chaotic family.

But today you were silent.

You didn’t hum.

You didn’t ramble. You didn’t even comment on the new shipment of vanilla beans, which was practically a red flag in itself.

Brianna was the first to notice how the quiet clung to you. Like someone turned down the volume on your entire personality. She kept glancing at you at from the mixer, brows pinched waiting for you to speak.

Oliver caught on next, his eyes narrowing as he watched you pipe filling whipped ganache with mechanical precision. He shared a look with Bri.

“Hey,” Bri said finally, wiping her hands on a towel as she approached. “You good?”

You nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Just… focusing.”

It wasn’t convincing. Not in the slightest. The lie hung in the warm bakery air, thin and fragile, and everyone could see straight through it.

Oliver stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re never this quiet.”

You kept your eyes on the pastry bag, squeezing out perfect spirals like your life depended on it. “Just tired.”

Brianna exchanged another glance with Oliver, then gently nudged your elbow. “Sweetheart, you’re piping like you’re trying to win a Michelin star. What happened?”

Grant arrived, cheerful as always. “Morning!-“ The moment he saw you, his smile faltered. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

You forced a tiny smile. “Yep.”

You didn’t. But they didn’t need to know that.

Everyone in the kitchen shared a concerned look. The kind of look that meant they were about two seconds from staging an intervention.

“Babes do you want to take a break? You have been here since 5 a.m.” Oliver tried to grab the tray of macrons’ s from you.

“No.” you responded immediately. “I have to keep moving.”

“Okay…” Bri tried a different angle. “What’s the plan for the engagement party? I know the cake bases are prepped.”

You loved talking about recipes. Loved it. It brought you joy to share them with people.

“It’s on the clipboard by the stove.” You mumble.

You wanted to cry again, Jacks words were still at the front of your mind. But you were pretty sure one more tear would dehydrate you completely. Besides cookies with a side of salty tears were not professional. Nor delicious. And absolutely against your brand.

Jack had tried to call you that morning, and you ignored it. Facing him would make everything hit harder, and you weren’t ready for that. You would have to face him sooner or later.

While you weren’t looking, Grant quietly swiped the clipboard and tucked it behind a stack of sheet pans. “It’s not there, chef. So, you gotta tell us what the plan is.”

“It was literally just there.”

Brianna, Grant, Oliver all just stared at you waiting.

With a deep breath, you set the piping bag to the side.

“So the bride mentioned she likes tart flavors. We’re going to make a lemon‑raspberry cake filling and keep the decorating easy, clean.” You didn’t even realize it, but for a moment you felt… okay. “Then the macarons—we’re making strawberry, chocolate, and key lime. I wanted to do triple berry, but maybe it’s too sweet, and I don’t want it to be too much. Which reminds me, we should experiment with a pomegranate flavor in a—”

You stopped.

Mid‑sentence.

Mid‑you.

Your throat closed up. Your stomach dropped. Speaking suddenly felt dangerous. Like you were annoying everyone in the room without meaning too.

“Sorry,” you whispered, stepping back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… talk so much.”

The room went still.

Grant blinked. “Honey…What?”

But you were already moving. You set the tray down, wiped your hands on your apron, and headed straight for the walk‑in freezer.

You slipped inside, letting the heavy door seal shut behind you. The cold air grounding you. You leaned back against the metal shelving, pressing your palms to your eyes as the chill seeped into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the hurt, trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to Jack’s voice, Jack’s words, Jack’s exhaustion.

You’d always talked too much. You had warned him when you first started dating.

Just a minute, you told yourself. Just one minute to fall apart before you had to go back out there and pretend everything was fine.

Your phone vibrated. Jacks name flashing on your screen for what felt like the 50th time.

He knew you were up. You were always at your bakery ridiculously early.  

You hit a button declining it.

A message came through immediately.

Jack: Are you ok sweetheart? Call me back please.

You squeezed your eyes. You would not cry again. You would not let this effect you. Not here. Not in front of your team. Not when you were supposed to be the steady one, the cheerful one, the one who made mornings feel lighter.

You typed out a quick, clipped reply.

I’m ok, just busy making cakes.

No emojis.

No warmth.

You shoved your phone back into your apron pocket and stepped out of the freezer before you were taken to the ED for hypothermia. Then you would really have to face jack.

Midafternoon the bell over the door rang.

You didn’t look up too focused on smoothing frosting over a cake layer. Grant was hired to deal with the customers anyway. You trusted him to charm anyone who walked in.

“Is she in the kitchen? I brought her lunch.”

Your heart lurched. You froze mid‑swipe of your spatula.

Jack was there. With food and probably expecting to see you. Maybe he was here to finally break up with you, which really would be fucked. He knew this order was a big deal.

Oliver caught the panic on your face instantly. He didn’t hesitate to slip out to the front, cutting Grant off mid‑greeting.

“She’s not here.”

“She said you guys were busy?” Jack sounded confused, worried, trying to make sense of something he couldn’t see.

Grant jumped in with a smooth lie. “She came in early, but she wasn’t feeling great. Went home to sleep it off.”

A beat of silence.

You could picture Jack’s face, brows drawn, mouth tight, that worried crease forming between his eyes.

“She didn’t tell me,” Jacks voice softened.

Oliver’s tone softened too, but only slightly. “She probably didn’t want to bother you.”  

That line felt like a bruise being pressed on.

Because it was true.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be true.

“Did he do something?” Brianna whispered, suddenly appearing beside you.

You jumped back.

“It’s… a long story.” you murmured, marking off the delivery checklist with shaky hands.

Brianna didn’t push. She just stepped closer. “Well, We’ve got you whatever is happening, you aren’t alone.”

A burning rose behind your eyelids. This team you built had become a family. You all worked together so well. You loved them more than anything.

“Thank you, Bri,” you whispered. “I think I’m going to take a few days off. I know you three can run things.”

She nodded immediately, no hesitation, no doubt. “We’ve got it.”

You exhaled, shaky but relieved.

For the first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were drowning alone.

Jack texted you shortly after he left your bakery.

Jack: Sweetheart, are you doing ok? Grant just told me you went home sick. Do you need anything?

You didn’t respond just started at the messages, thumb hovering. You couldn’t come up with a response that didn’t feel like a lie or came across as snarky.

Another text came through after about ten minutes of just staring at it.

Jack: Please call me. I am starting to worry. I miss your voice.

You let out a scoff while your stomach twisted so hard you thought you were going to vomit. You knew those words weren’t true. Not after last night.

He doesn’t get to say that after complaining to Robby.

You started typing out a response but stopped deleting the message. It was to mean and you couldn’t bring yourself to be rude to him. He was still a really nice guy who brought lunch to work.

Your phone buzzed again, lighting up the dim kitchen.

Jack: Sweetheart? Please… just tell me you’re okay.

He was probably watching the text chain, waiting for those three little dots to pop up—waiting for proof you were alive, reachable, still his.

You did as he asked and typed:

I’m fine. Just trying to rest.

It wasn’t a complete lie. You were about to head home—Bri had left with the order, and Grant had practically shoved you out the door, telling you to “go find inner peace or whatever chefs do.”

Outside your front door there was a bag neatly placed. It was filled with medicine that would take care of any problem you could possibly have like cold and flu tablets, throat lozenges, electrolyte packets. A container of soup from your favorite café. And a bouquet of flowers soft pink peonies—your favorite.

Your throat tightened.

Because if he didn’t like you, and found you to be exhausting enough to gripe about behind your back then why was he being so nice? Why did he bring flowers?  Why did he bring your favorite soup?

You sank onto your couch. The flowers trembling in your hands as you traced your fingers over the petals. Part of you wanted to throw them straight in the trash and the other part wanted to selfishly hold on to him.

Your phone buzzed again.

Jack: Sweetheart, please call me. I’m really worried. I don’t understand what’s going on. Just… let me hear your voice.

The words blurred and you chewed on the skin by your fingernails. Because now he wanted to hear your voice, not he missed it. When not even twenty-four hours ago he said it never stopped.

You turned the phone face down on the cushion. You would eventually deal with this, but not tonight. You deserved better than another night of tears.

The phone began to go off again. You ignored it. Then it rang again, and again, and again.

You curled up on the couch, flowers pressed to your chest, trying to find a way to breathe through all the self-doubt.

Your phone vibrated once more letting you know he left a voice mail.

You didn’t listen. You couldn’t.

The first morning off felt strange.

There was no alarm dragging you out of bed before dawn. No rush to preheat ovens. No mental checklist of pastries and deliveries. You just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, replaying Jack’s words over and over until they blurred together. Like one of those catchy songs that got stuck in your head.

I can’t do it anymore. She talks nonstop.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Jack: Morning sweetheart, I hope you slept well. How are you feeling? Do you need anything else?

You stared at the message until the screen dimmed, the glow fading like your ability to pretend everything was fine.

Finally, you typed the smallest truth you could manage:

I just need some space. I will call you when I can.

The moment you hit send; you turned your phone off. Space felt like the only thing you could ask for and the only thing you could control.

You turned onto your side and pulled your comforter up to your chin. Hoping the quiet apartment would let you sleep some more. It didn’t.

Instead, more questions crept in, sharp and unwanted.

What other part of you was Jack choosing to endure? Was there anything to like about you?

The day stretched on, slow and heavy. Every passing second breathing felt like work. You stayed curled in bed, letting the silence settle around you, trying to figure out how to move forward when the person you trusted most had unknowingly broken something fragile inside you.

For the first time since that night, you didn’t cry. You simply were.

You just lay there, letting the space you asked for expand between you and Jack, hoping it would give you clarity.

Hoping the solution, you came up with wouldn’t hurt as much as it did.

You spent the next day off cleaning your apartment. Like aggressively cleaning your apartment. Scrubbing the counters like they had personally offended you. You moved everything off the shelves dusting and taking photos of Jack down. Anything to keep your hands busy while you tried not to spiral.  

This all started after you turned your phone on to make sure your bakery was still in one piece and not up in flames. Grant liked to “help” in kitchen sometimes. It was a whole thing.  

There was a set of messages from Jack.

Jack: Okay. I’ll give you space. But please tell me if you need anything. I’m here. Always.

So here you were attacking your tub with a scrub brush like it owed you money. And as you scrubbed you debated on the future of your relationship. It was the kind of debate that felt like you were pacing inside your own skull.

Should we take a break? Maybe we should end things. I could pretend nothing happened…. because maybe my dad was right, I was hard to love.

The thought felt like it was going to rip your heart out, and leave it right there on your bathroom floor. you paused your scrubbing, gripping the edge of the tub, breath shaking.

You knew you couldn’t avoid Jack forever. He would eventually show up at your door eventually trying to fix this. To fix something he unknowingly broke.

The toxic part of you wanted to ghost him. Pack up and move. Not tell him where you were. Change your number too. He would show up at the bakery though. You could use the whole mess as an excuse to expand your bakery like your team had been talking about—find a new place for you and Brianna to renovate. Start fresh somewhere else.

He would forget about you eventually. 

But you weren’t that person. You had to see things through. So you stood in your bathroom, sponge in hand, wondering how one trivial sentence could unravel you.

Day three you sat on the couch, blanket pulled around your shoulders, staring at the Soft pink peonies he’d left. They were opening beautifully, petals curling like they were reaching for you.

You wished you didn’t love them. You wished you didn’t love him.

It would make everything so much easier if you didn’t love him. Because at four a.m., after hours of tossing and turning, you came to the conclusion that it was time to break up. You just didn’t know how to do it. People usually dumped you. You didn’t have practice in being the one who walked away.

Jack tried to give you space. It took thirty‑six hours before you heard from him again.

Jack: Baby, please… I’m really worried. I don’t know what’s going on.

You stared at the message blinking.

You knew it was shitty to break up with someone over text. Someone had done it to you once with a voice note. A thirty‑second recording that shattered you for weeks.

But the idea of seeing Jack made your stomach burn.

Made your hands shake.

Made you furious.

And now you really wanted to punch him. To make him feel the pain you have been going through. You wouldn’t though, you weren’t a violent person. But the anger was still there, running hot through your veins.

And it wasn’t like he wanted to hear you talk anyway.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, breath shaking, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might bruise your ribs from the inside.

I think we should end things.

You weren’t what part hurt more—losing him, or realizing this was reaching an end for him way before you heard the words.

Your phone rang, and like every time before it, you declined it.

Jack: Can we talk about this please? I cant lose you. I can fix this I promise I can fix this. Sweetheart please let me fix this.

Then another call.

You closed your eyes, letting the tears fall.

Twenty minutes later there was frantic knocking at your door.

“Sweetheart?” His voice cracked on the word. “Please open the door.”

Your throat tightened painfully. But you didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

There was thump at the door—what you assumed was his forehead hitting it in defeat. “Please. I don’t— I don’t understand what’s happening. Just talk to me.”

You scoff at the word talk. Thought I did too much of that for you.

He knocked again, harder this time, panic bleeding into every movement. “Baby, please. I’m begging you. Just let me see you.”

Inside, you sat frozen on the couch, staring at the peonies like they might tell you what to do.

“I love you. I don’t know what I did, but please… please don’t shut me out.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Because you loved him too. He sounded so wrecked like he was breaking the same way you were.

His voice came again, barely audible. I’ll stay out here all night if I have to. I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”

He wasn’t yelling.

He wasn’t defensive.

He was scared.

And that made everything harder.

You stood slowly, legs trembling, blanket still around your shoulders. You walked toward the door, each step feeling like you were wading through wet cement.

Your hand hovered over the lock. I can do this, I can talk to him. 

You turned the lock. The click echoed through the apartment like a gunshot. You sucked in a breath, reminding yourself again that you could get through this, and then you opened the door.

Jack was only a few feet away. It was the first time you had seen him in days, and he looked like a mess. His curls looked like he’d been running his hands through them for days now.  There was a tenseness in his shoulders like he was being held together by sheer force.  

He stepped forward instinctively, then stopped himself, hands hovering like he wanted to touch you. But he remembered he couldn’t. Not right now.

The two of you stare at each other, wrecked and shaking, neither of you spoke.

Jack stepped forward again, and you took a step back keeping the space between you two. “Sweetheart, please—”

Something inside you snapped.

“Don’t call me that.” Your voice came out sharp, louder than you meant. “You don’t get to call me that.”

Jack flinched as if you slapped him. “Okay. Okay. I won’t. Just—please talk to me.”

“Oh, now you want me to talk?” Your laugh was bitter, broken. “Funny, considering you were bitching about it the other day.”

You started at the wall over his shoulder refusing to look at him.  

Jack moved so you were forced to look at him. His forehead creased, “What are you talking about?”

You scoffed, wiping angrily at your cheeks as tears started falling. “Don’t- don’t pretend you don’t know.”

Jacks hand twitched like he wanted to wipe your tears away and comfort you, but one look at your body language he knew you didn’t want that. You were still shut off to him.

“I don’t know!” Jack’s voice rose.

“You said you couldn’t do it anymore!” you yelled, chest tight, breath shaking. “You said I talk nonstop. You said I exhaust you.”

Jack’s mouth fell open. “I—what? No. No, sweetheart, no, I didn’t—”

There was that nickname again. The one you normally loved to hear but now it filled your stomach with acid.

“Don’t call me that!” you snapped again, voice cracking. “Just tell the truth. Tell me what you really think about me Jack!”

Jack ran his hands through his hair tugging at it hard, pacing the length of you entryway.

“I love you!”

You shook your head frantically, taking three more steps back that he mirrored. He wasn’t letting you escape.

“I heard you Jack,” A sob tore out of you. “I heard you say it!” 

“Whan?” Jack demanded voice cracking. “When did I say something so cruel?”

“The night at the bar. You were talking to Robby.”

Jack froze. Eyes widening, and his breathing stilled. It looked as if the ground had dropped out from under him.

Checkmate you thought bitterly.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God, no. No, no, no. Baby, that wasn’t about you.”

“You don’t have to lie to me Jack. I know I am a lot. I told you I talked a lot at our first date. So, I don’t get why you have to be so cruel about it. You could have told me!” You wipe more tears from your face, your bottom lip trembling. “That’s what’s killing me you could have told me. Instead, you have made me feel pathetic. Like I was a burden.”

You collapsed on to your couch, pulling your knees up to your chest.

“You made my dad right. ‘I can’t do it any more Robby. She talks nonstop all the time.’ That’s what you said. And every insecurity I ever had of myself became the only thing I saw Jack. That’s what you did to me. So, we need to break up.”

Jack was kneeling on the floor in front of you now. And because you still cared for him, you worried about his leg.

“I need you to listen to me, please. If you still hate me, I’ll leave. I promise.” Jack’s voice was even despite the tears falling.

Maybe because you needed to hear Jack say he hated you out loud, or because a part of you hoped you two could save this, you nodded.  

“There’s a new resident,” Jack said quietly. “She was switched from day shift for insubordination.” He held up a hand when you opened your mouth. “They ignore everything I try to teach them. They talk over me. They think they know better than everyone. I was venting to Robby about them. I didn’t want to get HR involved.”

You pressed your lips together, shaking your head. You didn’t know what to believe. It seemed too convenient. But then again… you had heard about a know‑it‑all resident from Trinity.

Jack kept going,” I would never say that about you. Never. You’re—God you are my favorite person to talk to. You are the one I want to talk to the one I want to listen to. I love your voice sweetheart. And not hearing it has killed me.”

You shook your head, tears falling harder. “But you said—”

“I said it about them.” Jack’s voice cracked. “I swear to you. I swear on everything. I wasn’t talking about you.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, sobbing. “I thought— Jack I thought you hated me,  that you were just putting up with me.”

“No, never. I love you. I love you so much. I was ready to have Trinity and Whitacker come barge in to get answers.”  

You cried harder, shoulders shaking. “I’m a lot I know. My brain works different than most peoples, so I would get it if you told me to stop.”

Jack reached forward, placing a shaking hand on your knee. Silently begging you to look at him. “You’re not too much. You are never too much. I want to marry you one day. I love everything about you.”

You let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. “I want to forgive you. But I hurt so much. You may have not meant me, but my brain was convinced you meant me.”

“Then don’t forgive me,” Jack said softly. “Let me grovel. Let me take care of you the way you’re meant to be taken care of, let me buy you a bouquet of flowers every day.”

A tiny smile tugged at your lips

“Theres my pretty girl.” Jack teases. “I will spend every day making sure you know you are not too much, and honestly? You don’t talk enough if I am being honest.”

You snort. “Yeah right.”

“You don’t. I still have time to talk so-“

You grabbed his shirt, pulling him forward, and snot‑nosed, tear‑streaked, you kissed him. It was quick, messy, but enough to tell both of you that you were okay. That you were going to make it through this.

“Shut up and hold me.” You whispered.

And jack didn’t have to be told twice. He got up on the couch and pulled you in to his lap, holding you like he’d been drowning for days and finally reached air. You sighed burying your face in his shirt. You could feel quiet, shaking breaths against your hair.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry you thought that. I’m so sorry you were hurting alone.”

You shook your head against him. “I should’ve asked. I should’ve talked to you.”

“New rule,” Jack murmured, tightening his arms around you. “We always talk about our problems. No regressing. Both our therapists would be upset with us right now.”

You laugh breathing him in.

His lips press to the top of your head.

You held onto him harder, the weight of the last three days finally breaking open. “I love you, Jack.”

36 hours after he managed to convince his heart that it was all a lie, and that he shouldn’t believe in mere gossip you showed up with Tony. The two of you walked through the ambulance doors with your arm looped through his, smiling up at Tony like you walked off the set of a real-life romantic comedy.  

Not his own horror movie.

Another soft giggle escapes you, and he closes his eyes as his heart twists. When he dared to look back at you, he found you looking up at tony with a starry-eyed expression. The same one that you used to give him—back when he would ask you about the book you were reading or the plant you were trying not to kill. Like those things mattered to him, because knowing you mattered to him.

But he’d been too busy acting like friendship was all you needed from him.

He wanted to ask you out; more than he wanted oxygen. But you were so far out of his league it was almost comical of him to think you’d liked him back. The fact that you talked to him outside of work still shocked him.  

So really, he had no one to blame but himself.

Robby had warned him. “Someone’s going to step in the second she looks their way, Jack. You know that. Hell, all she has to do is blink in their direction and he’ll think its fate.”

Now he had to stand at the charting station sulking like any functioning adult male would.

Wishing he had listened to Robby’s advice—Not that he would admit that out loud.

Wishing you hadn’t said yes to Tony. That you would have given him time to ‘man up’ and get his shit together.   

Wishing that you weren’t so Damn perfect. That everyone wanted to be you or be with you.

“You good over here Abbot?” Shen popped up beside him, with a cup of coffee that looked like it was full of straight sugar and a hint of coffee.

“I’m fantastic.” He gritted out, watching you lean in to whisper something in Tony’s ear.

Tony laughed. You laughed. Jack clenched his back molars so hard he swore he heard a crack.  

“You look like you want to possibly stab someone with a dirty needle.”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose counting in threes just like his therapist taught him. “I just need people to do their actual jobs and stop lollygagging around.”

He sent a glare your way. Not that he meant it.  You could kill a patient, and he would find a way to cover it up for you—and that terrified him.

“Aren’t they cute together?”  Shen asked, a knowing smile gracing his lips.

Suddenly the chart in front of Jack was the most fascinating thing to ever have existed. It wasn’t. The patient had sprained their wrist. He had seen thousands.

“So cute.” Jack pushed the words out trying to make them sound cheerful.

“You totally don’t mean that.”   

“I totally do.”

Shen laughed in to his coffee. “You really don’t know do you?”

“What is that I don’t know?” Jack raises an eyebrow and stares his coworker down waiting for an answer.  

Shen’s smile widened to something that would rival the cheshire cat.  

And because Jack liked to torture himself, he glanced back in your direction, and you were now smiling—That Smile— the one that showed up in his dreams and made his stomach flip. The one he wanted to kiss more than he would ever admit.

You were happy, and that was supposed to be enough for him.

It wasn’t.  

He slammed a few keys on the keyboard harder than necessary.  

“I think you need to figure this out on your own.” Shen cut through his rising frustration.

So helpful.  

“Don’t you have a patient to check on?” Jack points to a random room hoping his coworker got the message to disappear.

“You are deflecting.” Shen called over his shoulder while backing away.

Well into your shift, you found yourself staring at Jack from across the room, a long heavy sigh slipping out before you could stop it. He was too attractive for his own good—all broad shoulders under dark scrubs, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that should’ve been illegal, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it during stressful cases.

And the way he moved… God. The gentle way he adjusted a patient’s blanket, the soft tone he used with scared kids, the steady confidence in his voice when he was giving instructions; it all made your stomach flutter embarrassingly hard.  

Your chin dropped into your palm as you watched him, eyes tracing the faint stubble along his jaw. He was focused, brows drawn together, lips pursed in concentration. You could practically feel the warmth radiating off him from all the way across the room.

Tony would be so disappointed in you. But to be fair, he had stared at huckleberry the entire time you two walked in earlier, so he couldn’t say anything. You’d both been joking for weeks about the men you liked were so not in to you either of you.

It was infuriating.

“You keep staring like that…” Shen suddenly appeared beside you like he’d materialized from thin air.

You jumped nearly knocking over a tablet.

“Jesus, Shen.”  Grumbling under your breath about how you really needed to put a bell on the man.  

He smirked. “You’re going to burn a hole through the man.”

You crossed your arms defensively. “I’m not staring.”

“Oh, you are absolutely staring.”  

You groaned. You regretted your friendship with him right now. The two of you had been attached at the hip after your first day. Bonding over coffee and terrible taste in movies.

“Ok fine I was staring.” 

A victorious grin spread across his face.  “So, what’s the plan? You gonna talk to him? Confess? Cry? All three?”

You hesitated. Then blurted, “I got a Tinder.”

Shen gasped like you’d told him you were moving to Antarctica.

 “Why? Was this Tonys idea? I really don’t like his influence on you.”

“Because!” you cried dramatically, throwing your hands up. “No matter what I do, he won’t like me the way I like him. So, to accept the friendship he clearly wants, I am finding someone else.”

Shen stared at you.

Then stared at Jack.

Then stared back at you.

“Blind the both of you.” He mumbled, hitting his head on the desk.

“And I’m sorry what do you mean you don’t like Tony’s Influence? He is trying to help me. You tried to text Jack a love confession from my phone.”  

“It was not a love confession; it was merely a push to go for it.”

“You said and I quote; ‘I think I might be in love with you. I know you are off next Thursday lets go to dinner.’” You stare at him with a raised brow. “So pray tell how that is not a love confession?”  

“As your bestie—yes, I am claiming the title. No arguments will be allowed. Our last movie night solidified it.” He raises a hand to silence your protest he knew was coming.  “Tinder is the last place you should be.”  

“I think Tony is right. The best way to get over a man is to get under another.”

Shen blinked. Not quite believing what he heard.

“I am going to act like you did not just say that to me. You are a Doctor for Christ’s sake. STI’s For one, and I am so not ready to be an uncle.”  

You shuddered at the idea of children. That was not in your plans… like at all.  

“Ok well protection exists.”

“What if they are a serail killer?”

You shove your phone into his hands.

“Does Charles with a puppy look like he is going to chop me up and throw me in the Delaware river?”  

You watch as your proclaimed bestie flicks through Charles’ profile letting out a thoughtful hum.

“A puppy doesn’t mean they aren’t a killer on the side.” He counters as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.  

You stare him down. This conversation was going nowhere.

“Well, I am going on a date with Charles from tinder,” you announce, snatching your phone back and tucking it into your scrub pocket. “You are free to come chaperone slash cock block me, so you don’t become Uncle Shen.”

Shen’s eyes go wide and he scrunches his nose, nearly knocking his coffee over. “Ewww no. Absolutely not.”

You raise a brow. “Why not? You’re the one worried he’s a serial killer.”

Shen waves both hands like he’s trying to physically push the idea out of the air. “Because! I am not third‑wheeling your rebound date. I refuse. I have standards.”

“You do not,” you deadpan.

He ignores that. “Also, I am not cock‑blocking anyone. I am a healer. A nurturer. A bringer of peace.”

You snort.

 “You’re a menace.”

“Correct,” he says proudly. “Which is why I know this is a terrible idea.”

You cross your arms, shifting your weight as you glance back at Jack. He’s across the room, sleeves pushed up, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck, jaw tight as he charts. The overhead lights catch the faint sheen of sweat on his temple from the last trauma call, and your stomach does that stupid swoopy thing again.

He looks good.

Too good.

And he looks stressed. And he looks like he’s trying very, very hard not to look at you.

Your chest tightens. Of course he wouldn’t want you.

Shen follows your gaze and groans. “Oh my god. You two are hopeless. It’s like watching two golden retrievers pine for each other from opposite sides of a dog park.”

You glare. “I’m not pining.”

“You’re absolutely pining,” he says, sipping his coffee. “You’re practically fogging up the glass with how hard you’re staring.”

You shove his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He doesn’t budge. “I’m serious. You don’t need Tinder. You need to talk to him.”

You shake your head, voice dropping. “He doesn’t want me like that, Shen.”

Shen looks at you. Really looks. His expression softens, the teasing slipping away for a rare moment of sincerity.

“He is just emotionally constipated.” Shen nudges you with his elbow. “Look, I’m not saying don’t date Charles from tinder. I’m saying… don’t do it because you think Jack doesn’t care.”

You look down at your shoes, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air.

“I just want to stop feeling like an idiot, but I will think about that date with Charles from tinder more. If that makes you feel better.” you whisper.

Shen straightens suddenly, eyes widening as he looks past you.

“Oh no,” he mutters. “He’s coming this way.”

You whip around.

Jack is walking toward you—Jaw clenched, shoulders tense, eyes locked on you.

Shen inhales sharply. “Abort mission. Abort. I’m leaving. I was never here.”

He vanishes faster than a magician’s rabbit.

“So much for that bestie title.” You call out to him.  

Jack stops in front of you, a little closer than what was deemed professionally appropriate. His eyes flick briefly toward the direction Shen fled, then back to you.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice low, rough around the edges. He tries to sound casual, but there is a tightness in his shoulders.

“Peachy. Shen is just being…Well Shen.”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “That explains the panic in his eyes.”

“I am pretty sure that is from all the sugar coffee he consumes in a shift.”  You let out a small laugh, the fondness you have for Shen seeping through.

Jack laughs nodding in agreement. You flush at the sound.

You try and fail to ignore the gymnastics your pulse is doing.

A beat of silence falls between you. Not uncomfortable just charged.

“You look tired.”

You blink. “Wow. Thank you. Truly the compliment every woman dreams of.”

His mouth twitches; the beginning of a smile he tries to hide. “I didn’t mean like that.”

“I know,” you nudge his arm lightly. “I’m teasing.”

He looks down at where you touched him, like the warmth of your hand is still there. His throat bobs.

You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing to you. Close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne and the antiseptic smell that just clings to everything here. Close enough you can count the freckles on his face.

“You’re in a mood today,” you say gently. Trying to pry without pushing.

Jack lets out a slow exhale, eyes flicking away for a moment. “Long day.”

“Want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Have I told you, you look nice today?”

Your heart stutters. “I’m literally in scrubs.”

“Yeah, I know.”

You stare at him, warmth blooming in your chest. “You look nice too.”

He lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “I look like I got hit by a truck.”

“Still very handsome,” you say before your brain can stop you.

Jack freezes.

You freeze.

The air between you shifts to something warm, almost dangerous.

He opens his mouth, then closes it, jaw flexing like he’s fighting himself.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmurs.

“Why not?” you whisper.

His eyes flick to your lips for half a second.

“Because,” he says, voice barely above a breath, “I don’t have the patience for it today.”

Your pulse jumps. “For what?”

He steps back suddenly, like he’s afraid of what he’ll say if he stays too close. “I, uh… I should get back to the traumas and stuff.”

You fall back against the desk, exhaling shakily as he walks away. You pull out your phone and message Charles. It was time—time to find someone who liked your back. Someone who wouldn’t crush your heart every day.

This shift was quickly proving to be Jack’s personal hell.

Tony kept appearing out of thin air, making you giggle like a schoolgirl every time he opened his damn mouth. Shen kept sending Jack increasingly dramatic looks from across the room, like he was silently begging him to grow a brain cell. And Lena… Lena had taken up residence behind the med cart with her coffee, watching the chaos unfold like it was premium cable.

He heard you mention the word date to Tony. And that was it. His mood, already foul, settled into something darker.

Shen approached him slowly, like someone approaching a wild animal.

“So,” Shen said casually, leaning against the counter, “hypothetically… if someone were to ask you out, what would you say?”

Jacks eye twitched. “I’d say I’m working.”

“Okay,” Shen nodded. “And if that someone was… let’s say… someone you like?”

Jack’s fingers froze over the keyboard hesitating.

Then he typed harder.

“Still working.”

“The two of you are impossible.”

Jack finally looked up, eyes narrowed. “Do you need something, Shen? Or are you just here to test my patience?”

Shen continued anyway. “So, hypothetically, if someone you liked was… I don’t know… thinking about a man from tinder who has a really cute puppy—”

Jack snapped his pen in half.

“—would you maybe, possibly, consider telling them how you feel?”

“No.”

Shen blinked. “No?”

“No,” Jack repeated, jaw tight. “She is already in a committed relationship.”

Shen’s brows furrow.

“Who?”

“Tony.” Jack was now looking at Shen like he was the one who needed the braincell.

“She’s not dating Tony.” Shen stated

“Yeah, and I am incompetent.”  Jack deadpanned.

“I wouldn’t say incompetent Just a little stupid.”

Jack scoffed. “Do you have a point or just in the mood to torture me?”

“He is you know.” Shen’s wrist goes limp like that answered all of Jacks questions.

“What are you doing?”

“Shen is trying to tell you Tony is gay.” Lena chimes in from behind the med cart.

Jack blinks. “Gay?”

“You know,” Shen says dryly, “when guys like kissing other guys.”

“I know what gay is, you flibbertigibbet. So, then what about the date I heard her mention?”

Lena laughs at the insult Jack throws out.

His hopes were building up. Maybe he did have a chance to fix things.

Shen raises a brow; did you agree to the date with Charles from tinder, and not tell him? That was so against friend code. He was going to be conversing about that with you later.

“Tony told her to sign up for tinder, so she would stop moping about someone not liking her back.” He stares Jack down.

He can’t spell everything out for him.  

Just like that, Jack’s hope was squashed.

“I see,” he muttered. “Well, I think a trauma is incoming.

Lena and Shen shared a look before shaking their heads.

To say Shen was upset with you for breaking the friendship rules was an understatement. You told him everything; every disaster, every intrusive thought, every questionable amazon purchase you made while slightly drunk. But this date was the exception? He had spent the last hour storming through the Pitt like a man hunting a fugitive.

 He finally located you in the storeroom of all places, stocking gauze. That alone was suspicious. You never volunteered to restock anything. You claimed the room was haunted.

You were standing there with a box in your hands, pretending to look busy, but the far‑off look in your eyes instantly gave you away.

Shen crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe like a disappointed parent finding their child sneaking cookies before dinner.

“So,” he began dangerously calm, “You have anything important to tell me?”

You froze mid‑reach, a box of gauze in your hands. “No.”

“So, you are not going on a date with serial killer Charles from tinder? And I didn’t have to find out about this fact from ABBOT of all people?”  

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Shen stepped inside nudging the door shut with his foot, sealing you both in. He didn’t want the hospital gossips hearing this conversation.  

You sighed, placing the gauze down. “I was going to tell you.”

Shen snorted. He knows you better than that. He would hear about this date when the news reported a woman’s body being pulled out of the river, where he then would have to identify your remains.

“When?” Shen demanded. “At your wedding? On the news when you are murdered? When Charles and his puppy move in?”

“Shen you are being dramatic.”

“No, I care, and I want to make sure you are not making a hasty decision.”  

You rolled your eyes. “I promise this is for my happiness in the long run. Jack stopped texting me, and he only talks to me when he needs something. Its been killing me, I need to move on.”

“Can I convince you to talk to him?”

“Nope. I am meeting Charles from tinder.”

Shen could throttle you right now for your stubbornness. Usually that was his favorite trait of yours, but between you and Abbot it was grating on his last nerve. No amount of convincing would change your mind right now and he knew that.

“Fine. But I deserve answers. where, when and is he picking you up for the date?”

You hesitated “The diner down the road from my condo tomorrow at 7pm.”

“At the diner with the neon sign and the questionable meatloaf?” Shen’s disapproval was seeping through every word.

“They have good burgers.” A weak argument you both knew it.

“It’s a health code violation waiting to happen,” Shen shot back. “And you ignored me, how are you getting there?”

You shrugged trying to play it nonchalant. “Walking.”

Shen blinked and then went through about six different emotions before settling on distraught. “Walking? At night? Alone? To meet a man from the internet.”

“Yes.”

“No. Absolutely not. I refuse. I’m calling the police. Or Tony. Or Jack.”

He was pulling his phone out ready to start and intervention right there in the storeroom.

You stiffened. “Do not call Jack.”

Shen’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“Because,” you muttered, “he doesn’t care.”

Shen groaned loudly, dragging both hands down his face. “You are both so stupid it physically hurts me.”

“I am not stupid!” You crossed your arms. “I’m going on the date, Shen.”

“Fine,” he said, pacing now. “Fine. But I’m giving you grief for not telling me.”

“You already are.”

“Oh, I’m not done,” Shen promised.  

“You are so dramatic.”

He scoffs. “I am not dramatic.”

You raise a eyebrow at that.

“Okay maybe a little bit, but as your best friend I get to know these things.”

“I just…am so tired and I know you believe Jack and I are meant to be together. But I just don’t think the stars are aligned for that.”

“They are, I will make it so.”

“Shen, stop please.

He sighed dramatically backing toward the door. “Never mind. I’ll deal with him later.  I’m done. I’m emotionally exhausted. I need my coffee.”

He opened the door, then paused and stared at you for a moment.

“And for the record,” he added, pointing at you, “you’re telling me next time. I don’t care if it’s a date, a dentist’s appointment, or a new houseplant. I expect updates.”

Jack was supposed to be relaxing on his day. His therapist had recommended various hobbies for that like gardening, journaling, yoga, anything that didn’t include adrenaline. Instead, he was moping around his house like a ghost haunting his own living room.  

He dragged his mop across the floor like a man trying to mop away the consequences of his own cowardice. The radio hummed quietly in the background, but he barely heard it. His mind kept circling back to you, looping the same thoughts until they tangled together.

You voice echoed through his mind like It was taunting him.

The word date burning through his chest like acid.

He clenched his jaw and scrubbed harder, taking his frustration out on the floorboards. The mop squeaked in protest.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Jack glanced at it, expecting a spam alert or a reminder he’d ignore.

But it was Shen.

Jack considered ignoring it—he was in no mood for Shens chaos—but Shen never texted him without a reason. And Jack was a workaholic who would always be there when the team needed him.

He picked up the phone.

Shen:

Not saying you should show up but… 7pm at the diner down the road to meet Charles from tinder.

Jack froze mid breath.

Shen:

She plans to walk. You can catch her.

His pulse kicked up, thudding against his ribs.  

The mop handle slipped through his fingers and clattered to the floor.

You were walking to your date? At night? Alone? That irked him. You were going on a date with a man who wanted to take you to a shady diner and made you walk? His stomach twisted at the thought, hands curling into fists.  

He could treat you so much better.  

Jack knew he wasn’t a perfect man, far from it. But he was a gentleman. He’d pick you up. He’d open your door. He’d take you somewhere with real lighting and clean menus. He’d tell you how beautiful you looked, not just that night, but every day. He’d make sure you felt safe, wanted, cherished.

He swallowed hard, staring at Shen’s messages. Then looked at the time on his phone 6:30pm.

He could picture you—hair done, outfit chosen with care, that nervous little smile you got before doing something out of your comfort zone. He thought of you walking alone to meet some stranger from an app made something hot and protective flare in his chest.

He grabbed his keys.

He didn’t even realize he’d made the decision until he was locking his front door behind him.

You were running late. Painfully embarrassingly late.

All because no outfit you put on seemed right—everything screamed trying to hard, or made you think of Jack. You’d changed three times. Maybe four. Your bedroom looked like a clothing tornado had touched down and made your closet vomit.

Charles had texted you to let you know he was running early and to take your time.

That was ten minutes ago.

He was probably waiting and too kind to bother you.

He was probably already sitting in a booth, sipping water politely, checking the door every time it opened. He seemed like the type—kind, patient, maybe a little too gentle to ever admit he was being inconvenienced.

You sighed and checked the mirror again.

Your hair wouldn’t cooperate. Your shirt suddenly felt too tight. Your shoes felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

You smoothed your hands down your outfit, trying to convince yourself it was fine. It was just a date. A normal date. With a normal man. A man who wasn’t Jack. A man who didn’t make your pulse spike or your stomach flip or your brain short‑circuit.

You grabbed your phone and keys, stepping out into the warm evening air.

The whole way there you kept repeating the same mantra:

This is good, This is healthy. I need to move on. You didn’t need to hang on to a man who barely acknowledged your existence now.

You were halfway down the block when you heard a car slow behind you.

Ok so maybe Shen was right walking was going to get you killed. Only the murderer wasn’t Charles from tinder; it was random joe with a truck.

Then your name was called.

That stopped you dead in your tracks. You didn’t even have to turn to know it was him; your body recognized him.

Jack.

Jack was here.

Why was jack here?

The phone rang. Charles’ name flashing on your screen. You ignored It turning to look at the man who held your heart in his hands.

Jack stood there. His hands in his pockets trying to hide their shaking, trying to hide the fact that he was terrified he was too late. His eyes swept over you –your outfit, your hair, the way you clutched on to your phone –and something in his expression softened. You looked beautiful.  

You smiled at him automatically—then remembered you were supposed to be annoyed and scowled.

“What are you doing here?”

“Shen texted me, and I-“

Your phone rang again. Charles’ name flashed over the screen again.  You held up a finger, halting him.

Jack groaned, looking up at the sky like he was asking for strength. A new sense of resolve washed over him. You could see it settle in his shoulders.

“Jack!” you exclaimed when he reached you and promptly grabbed your phone right out of your hand. His warm fingers grazing over yours.

“Hey—!”

He declined the incoming call with a firm tap.

You stared at him. “Did you just—?”

“I did. We need to clear a few things up.” He pauses. “Tony is gay?”

“Yes, everyone knows that.” You looked at him like he had lost his mind.

“And you weren’t ever dating him?”

“He likes huckleberry. So, I am single. Very, very single. Which is why I am going to meet Charles from Tinder.”

He really had lost his mind. Was it his age? He wasn’t even that old, he was younger then your dad. And your dad was still sharp.  

“I am really confused.”

Jack stared for a long second, chest rising and falling too fast, while you murmured under your breath about how you wouldn’t have to go on this date if only someone else had feelings for you too.

Your phone lit up again.

“Can I have it back please? I am late.”

“No.”

“No?” you blink up at him.

“Yeah no.” he said matter of factly like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

Then he swiped the little green button. Answering the call.

“Hello,” he said calmly. “No, she won’t be making it tonight. In fact, ever. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, but I’m not missing my chance again.”

There was a pause as Jack listened to whatever Charles said on the other end.

“I really am sorry,” Jack added quietly, “but like I said I’m not missing this opportunity.” and there was something in his voice, something raw, like he’d been holding those words behind his teeth for months.

He slid your phone into your back pocket, a small cheeky smile tugging at his lips. You weren’t even sure when he’d gotten so close.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Your mind was still buffering.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The streetlight washed him in gold, and he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d been searching for.

“Did-Did you just…” You trailed off, trying to catch up.

“What did you just do?” You finally cry out catching up to the anger working tis way through you.

“I cancelled your date.”

“You can’t just do that!” you sputtered. “It took me time to look this good and now it’s wasted.”

Jack shook his head, stepping closer if that was even possible. “Honey, I’m taking you on a date right now.”

You must be having an aneurysm. That was the only logical explanation to all of this. Jack was here canceling your date and asking you out.   

You pinch your thigh, hard.

Jack was still there.

“Baby?” Jack’s voice softened, worried now. “You, okay?”

The name slipping past makes your knees weak.

“You…want to take me on a date?”  

“Yes.” Jack walked ahead and opened the passenger door of his car, waiting patiently like he’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times. “A real one.”

“Oh…” You blinked. “Wait- you like me?”

Jack’s expression softened, warm and steady. “Can you ask me about this over a glass of nice wine and better food than the diner down the street?”

“Hey I like a good hamburger and fries.”

Jack chuckled, shaking his head. “Not for a first date, baby. Now please get you cute self in the car.”

You smiled—that smile— the one that always made his chest tighten. The one he’d replayed in his mind more times than he’d ever admit. The one he now vowed he’d spend the rest of his life earning.

You stepped closer, invading his personal space this time. “You called me cute.”

He reached out, brushing his thumb gently along your bottom lip, his touch feather‑light, reverent. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he pressed too hard.

“Cute, beautiful, stunning… you’re all of them, sweetheart.”

A soft laugh escaped you and it nearly undid him. Jack leaned in a little, drawn to you like gravity, like he’d been fighting this pull for far too long.

For a moment, the world went quiet. Just you. Just him. Just the soft glow of the streetlights and the warm summer air.

Then Jack exhaled, steadying himself.

You leaned in slightly. Your breath mingling with his.

“If I kiss you now,” he murmured, voice low but gentle, “we’re never making it to dinner.”

Your breath caught.

“So,” he continued, stepping back just enough to open the car door wider, “let me take you out properly. Let me do this right.”

There was a beat before he whispered. “Please.”

You swallowed, butterflies invading your stomach. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” His smile was small, almost boyish.

“Yeah.”

Jack’s shoulders relaxed, relief washing over him like a tide. He held the door for you, waiting until you were settled before closing it carefully.

He jogged around to the driver’s side, slid in, and glanced over at you. Maybe being a patient man had paid off for him. You sat in his car looking like the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

“Best first date of my life already,” he said quietly.

Resting was not an option. Your niece was getting that damn cake. Even if you were dying, she was getting that cake.

“You expect me to just lay around and what do nothing for a week?” you sputtered, trying –and failing— to hide a wince when you moved your head to fast.  

Your mental to-do list was scrolling behind your eyes like some fucked-up mocking movie credits.  

With a huff you try and give him a bright smile to prove how ok you were. That he was in fact the dramatic one.

For a brief moment Jack found you adorable.

But then he remembered how you’d lost consciousness not even an hour ago. You’d had a seizure too. He carried you into the ER with shaking hands and his heart in his throat, convinced the universe was about to rip you away from him.

So no, he wasn’t in the mood for your “I’m fine” bullshit.

Jack’s eyes hardened as he folded his arms. There was a beat of silence before he spoke, his jaw ticking in that way it did when he was trying very hard not to lose his patience. “I think you stopped listening there. I said a minimum of one week, truthfully two weeks would be better.”

Maybe Jack was the one with the severe head injury if he thought you would comply with this demand. He wouldn’t even do it himself! That’s what was really getting to you right now. Mr. practice what I preach had never practiced a damn thing in his life.  Hypocrite.

“Absolutely not.” You swung your legs off the bed despite the heavy pounding in your skull.

Jack tipped his head back toward the ceiling, muttering out a small prayer for patience. You were going to be the death of him.

He put a hand on your shoulder, gentle, but firm enough to keep you from hurting yourself. The moment his skin touched yours, some of the panic in him eased. You always did that to him. Grounded him. Even when you were being impossible.

He guided you back into the bed with the kind of care that made your chest ache. He was always so careful with you. Even now, when all he wanted to do was lecture you about the risks of head injury, and lock you somewhere you had to take a break.

“Sweetheart.” Normally that word would melt you into a puddle. But right now, that word paired with the stern, disapproving look in his eyes, it made you cower like a scolded cat. “If you so much as try to get up again, I will keep your ass in a coma until you are healed.”

He wasn’t joking either. That was the worst part. And you were pretty sure Robby would just hand him the syringe.

“Jack, I have too much to do. Life does not just stop because I got a concussion.”

You looked up at him there was tired fire still burning in your eyes, and he felt a piece of his protective resolve crack. He came so close to losing you though, and that to him was more terrifying than being shot at. You didn’t understand that image of you unconscious on the floor was still burned into the backs of his eyelids and he would think about it often.

“It was not just a bump on the head.” His voice dropped, soft but razor sharp, the kind of tone that slid under your defenses. “You lost consciousness and had a small seizure. So, I am not asking as a doctor. I am telling you as a concerned boyfriend that wants you alive.”

The words hit you square in the chest. You didn’t mean to worry him. He had so much on his plate –two jobs, a best friend who needed him, and now you.

Maybe this was a sign from the universe that you needed to slow down. You had been working an insane amount of overtime at the office. You were a workaholic just as much as Jack was. And a raging insomniac just as much as he was. It was why you worked so well together.

“Okay.” It came out barely above a whisper, so quiet Jack almost missed it. Defeat and maybe a little relief settled across your face.

You held up a hand before Jack could celebrate.

“But I at least need to make the cake I will not lose the best auntie title over a head injury.”

He almost laughed. Almost. Because of course you were bargaining with him over a cake. Of course you were.

God he loved you. He loved you so much it scared him.

Jack’s lips twitched. “Deal. I’ll help you.”

Your nose scrunched up. “Jack, you burnt my brownies last time.”

“That was one time.”

“We are not ruining my cake. Mulan is supposed to be saving Spiderman, and my girl will not get anything less than perfection.”

He opened his mouth, and before he could make his argument you interrupted.

“You can watch” You patted his cheek. “If that makes you feel better.”  

His eyes softened, the corner of his mouth lifting. He leaned into your touch just slightly.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning in, letting his forehead brush yours, Letting the contact ground him. “Trust me I will be watching; I am always watching over you.”

And your heart did that thing where it skips a beat before fluttering rapidly behind your ribs. You don’t know what you did right in life to deserve him.

Jacks nose brushed against yours very lightly, his hazel eyes taking you in storing every detail to memory.

“I love you.” He murmured, his lips ghosting over yours as he spoke.

“I love you more.”

His smile widened, slow and devastating, placing a soft kiss to your lips. “I highly doubt that.”

You thought you loved him more.

You were wrong.

Always so pretty, it was unfair. I poked his cheek with a clumsy finger, a bubbly giggle escaping me as I did it. I missed him, even though it had only been a few hours. Clark rolled his eyes—fondly—and immediately launched into a lecture about how I was smart enough to know wandering off alone at night was a mistake.

I couldn’t stop my lips from tilting up in a warm helpless smile. My mind was deliriously happy, pleasantly floaty, and nothing was going to ruin that. Especially not a worried Clark Kent.

If anything, the worry made something warm unfurl in my chest. It curled beneath my ribs, humming with every step we took, every time his hand tightened around my waist like he was afraid I might slip away.

“Did you know that Giraffes are 30 times more likely to get hit by lightning than people?”  I announced, far too loudly for the quiet street.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he said gently. “You told me that the other week.”

“Oh.” I gnawed on my bottom lip, leaning forward a little too far before catching myself. “Did I tell you about how our eyes—well, human eyes—can see ten million different colors? You can probably see way more.”

I stumbled over my own two feet before he could answer, another giggle bubbling out of me. Clark’s hold tightened instantly, his fingers firm at my waist, keeping me upright with embarrassingly little effort

“I almost died,” I hiccupped, clutching his shirt like the ground might betray me again.

Clark rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

“It would have been a scrape at most. But I wouldn’t let that happen.” His voice was soft, threaded with something warm that made my chest flutter.

I leaned into him, letting my head rest briefly against his shoulder. He smelled of clean cotton. Like something familiar and safe, something I wanted to sink into. He was warm like clothes fresh from the dryer.

“You’re very warm,” I murmured against his chest.

He swallowed hard, eyes darting away for a heartbeat before he forced them back to mine.

“Last night you said I run cold.”  

I had said that. But that was after he’d come home from… well, whatever Superman thing he’d been doing. He’d sat beside me on the couch still carrying the chill of the night sky on his skin.

“You don’t usually,” I whispered, fingers curling into his shirt. “Not when you’re holding me, you make me feel like I’m wrapped in sunlight. I like it.”

Clark cleared his throat, tightening his hold just a little. “You’re very drunk.”

“hmmm yeah,” I hummed. “and you are very…everything.”

His fingers flexed at my waist, a tiny involuntary squeeze he pretended didn’t happen. “Thank you. I think.”

I pulled away from him, instantly missing his warmth the moment the air slipped between us. But I needed space, before I blurted out something reckless. Like I am in love with you.

Clark let me go, but only barely. He hovered close, his presence a steady heat at my side, ready to catch me if I so much as swayed.

My hand lifted before my brain could stop it, fingers brushing along the sharp line of his jaw. His skin was warm beneath my touch, smooth and solid, and the contact sent a shiver racing down my spine.

He looked at me for a moment. Like there was something he wanted to ask. The weight of his gaze made my stomach flutter, so I tore my eyes away and stared down at the pavement.

Which was a mistake.

The world tilted sharply, the sidewalk rolling like a wave beneath my feet, and I tripped over… something. Air? Gravity? My own poor life choices?

Clark let out a long, patient sigh as he caught me, pulling me flush against his chest. His heartbeat thudded against my cheek; it was steady and impossibly calm for someone holding a mess like me together.

“You tripped over a leaf,” he said. “A leaf, sweetheart.”

“It was a very aggressive leaf.”

“Mm‑hmm.” He adjusted his hold, lifting me a little closer. “You have lost walking privileges.”

I let out a squeal as the ground vanished beneath me. In one seamless motion, he scooped me up, cradling me in his arms bridal‑style, and kept walking like carrying a whole human was as effortless as breathing. Which for superman it was. Every step he took made his arms shift beneath me, muscles moving with quiet strength I could feel even through the haze of alcohol.

All I could feel was him.

My heart did a summersault; this felt better than any dream I had before.

He was so beautiful up close, so… achingly perfect. His jawline, the soft curl of his hair at his temple, the faint blush dusting his cheeks. I shouldn’t be staring like this. I shouldn’t be thinking about how good his arms felt around me, or how safe I felt with him, and definitely not hoping that he felt even a fraction of what I felt for him.

“You know,” I murmured, squinting at him like I was studying a rare artifact, “you’re very… symmetrical.”

Clark blinked. “Symmetrical.”

“Yes. Like. Perfectly.” I waved a hand vaguely in the air near his face. “It’s suspicious. No one should line up that evenly.”

“Suspiciously symmetrical. I’ll add that to my résumé.”

“You should. People like honesty.” I nodded. Honestly, I would hire him for that detail alone.

“I am honest.”

“Another annoyingly perfect trait. Probably why I have a crush on perfect you.” I mumbled.

Clark nearly tripped.

There was a flash of a raw unguarded look in his eyes, before he blinked it away.

He recovered instantly because of course the perfect man did. His grip on me tightened just a fraction, like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the words or if I’d actually said them out loud.

“You’re drunk,” he said, voice a little too tight. Like he was trying to remind both of us.

“I’m not.” I tried to sound matter‑of‑fact, authoritative even, but the words slurred out of me.

“You can’t even pronounce ‘not.’”

“I can,” I insisted, pointing a finger at his chest. “You’re just… hearing it wrong.”

His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile he absolutely did not want me to see. “Right. My mistake.”

“Not,not,not. See I said it.”

I don’t think I actually did. But I had a point to prove.

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re warm,” I said, snuggling closer. “Like a human space heater. A very handsome space heater.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice a little strained, “you’re going to regret all this in the morning.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Nope.” I popped the ‘p’ dramatically. “I’m very self‑aware. Like how warm you are. And how nice your arms feel. And how—”

My eyes widened and I slapped my hand over my mouth. I really didn’t know when to shut up.

 “You called a leaf aggressive.” Clark gave me a look.  

I silently thanked him for changing the topic. Another reason he was so perfect.

“It was aggressive.”

He stopped walking and stared at me a little baffled. “It was dead.”

“Dead things can still be aggressive.”

Like Frankenstein. Or would he really be alive?  

Clark opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. “I’m not having this argument.”

“Because you know I’m right.”

Clark’s jaw flexed, his arms tightening around me just a little. “Because you’re drunk.”

“Drunk,” I corrected, lifting a finger like I was making a legal argument, “not wrong.”

I was pretty sure he was ready to leave me on the side of the road. Because the look he gave me was somewhere between exasperation and please stop talking before I combust, and he was rapidly approaching his limit.

And honestly? Fair.

I was a lot right now.

I could be quiet while he carried me home like a princess that lost her fight with gravity.

He just adjusted his grip, muttered something under his breath, and kept walking like he was more than determined to get me home before I said anything even more dangerous.

While he walked, I went back to studying his features. It wasn’t every day I got to see him this close. I stared at him like he was my personal Monet.

Clark’s gaze flicked to my mouth for the briefest second before he dragged it back up, cheeks coloring like he hoped I hadn’t noticed.

“What?” he asked, his voice gentling, as if he were bracing himself for whatever unfiltered thought might tumble out next.

Patient. He was patient. Another reason he was so perfect.

“You are just… very pretty.”

He swallowed, the movement visible even in the dim streetlight, and shook his head. “Thank you.”

“And you have really nice arms.”

“Okay—”

“And a really nice everything.”

“Sweetheart—” He closed his eyes for a moment, whispering something too soft for me to catch, like he was trying to steady himself.

That damn nickname. I loved hearing him say it. It warmed me in places coffee never could—better than a perfect cup on a Monday morning, better than anything I should’ve been feeling right now.

“And I love you.” I blurted out. “Like I am in love with you.”  

There was a gasp. I wasn’t sure who it came from exactly. May have been from both of us. I was never going to drink again— I totally will.

Clark stopped abruptly and almost dropped me. But before I could so much as fall an inch, his arms were there protective and possessive.

A devastating silence fell between us. The echo of my confession hung there like something fragile. The night air suddenly felt colder against my skin sobering my mind up just a little, the city noise faded into a distant hum.

“Oh no.” I grumbled trying to wriggle free, which mostly resulted in me sliding sideways like a drunk seal.

I pushed against his chest, but Clark caught me before I could even get a foot on the ground. His arms tightening under my knees, lifting me back against his chest with effortless strength, like letting me go wasn’t even an option.

I wanted to run home now. Our building door was like seven feet away. But his hold stayed firm, not letting me go.

He blinked. “Oh no?”

Oh, now he wanted to talk.

“Let me go, please.” I wriggled uselessly.

“No,” he said, tightening his grip just enough to keep me from bolting. “I have something to say. And after listening to all your cute drunk ramblings—”

Much like a child, I slapped my hands over my ears. I didn’t want to hear his rejection drunk. That would be almost as embarrassing as the time in third grade when I confessed my feelings to a boy who then yelled them out to the entire playground. I was picked on for a week after that. I was not emotionally prepared for a sequel.

“Nope,” I said loudly, shaking my head. “I’m not listening. I refuse.”

“Sweetheart,” Clark sighed, “you can’t just—”

“La‑la‑la,” I added for good measure, because apparently, I had regressed to age seven.

He chuckled soft, disbelieving. “You’re impossible.

“I know,” I smiled up at him. “That’s why you should put me down so I can go home and pretend none of this happened.”

He stared at me for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes soft in a way that made me hesitate.

“Can you please,” he said slowly, “take your hands off your ears.

“No.”

“Please.”

“Nope. You’re going to reject me and I’m going to die.”

“I’m not going to reject you.” There was a promise spoken behind his words. His eyes searching mine with a vulnerability I’d never seen on him before

That made me freeze. My hands slipped down an inch.

“You’re… you’re not?” I raised a brow and blinked slowly.

Clark let out a shaky breath, the kind that sounded like he’d been holding it in for years.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not. I want you to tell me when you are sober though.

“I won’t have the courage,” I said miserably. “Sober me is a coward. She hides behind sarcasm and snacks. Drunk me is just… braver. She’s like my emotional stunt double.”

“Then I’ll remind you,” he said softly, voice trembling on the last word. You would barely notice though. Not unless you knew him the way I did.

I shut up. Completely.

Because Clark Kent—steady, patient, painfully handsome Clark—was looking at me like he to was in love with me… and had been waiting for me to catch up.

Then he shifted me in his arms, gentler than before, almost reverent.

Our friendship has been short—only a couple years— but somehow, he’d slipped into my life like he’d always belonged there. A very kind goofy person who cared a little too much about every detail in my life. It was easy to get lost in him

My black dress hit me in the face.

“Earth to lover girl.”

“What was that for?” I swatted it away, though my cheeks were already warming.

“You zoned out. Again. I said you should wear this if you want Steve to notice you.”

I rolled my eyes, but we both knew she was right.

“Rob, it’s not like that. He just wants to be friends.”

She let out that Robin hum, the one that translated to you’re a dingus and I’m laughing at you internally all at once.

“Just put on the dress. If not for him, then for every woman who’s ever experienced gay panic. Honestly, it would be charity work to look that hot.”

“You do realize this thing barely covers my ass.” The satin pooled through my fingers like liquid midnight.

She just sent me a wink. “I will meet you downstairs.”  

I huffed, but I gave in. She’d been my best friend since diapers; she’d earned the right to bully me into questionable fashion choices. Well—except for that one mall job where my uniform was worse than hers. But we don’t talk about that.

The party was already in full swing. Heat, sweat, perfume, and cheap beer clung to the air. Bodies pressed together, swaying, stumbling—some clearly having pregamed a little too hard.

I scanned the crowd for the dark-haired boy. Steve should’ve been here by now; he’d even called Robin earlier to make sure we were still coming. And to check if he needed to pick us up. I’d insisted I could drive. Being DD was an easy excuse to stop after one drink.

Then I saw him.

Leaning against a wall like he’d been carved there, blue jeans hugging his legs, a nicer shirt than usual stretched across his shoulders. It almost rivaled his yellow pullover. A red cup dangled carelessly from his fingers. He threw his head back laughing at something someone said, exposing the long line of his throat. My eyes lingered there longer than they should have—long enough that Robin would’ve elbowed me if she were still beside me. But she’d vanished in search of her girlfriend.

As if he felt my stare, Steve’s brown eyes snapped to mine.

The air punched out of my lungs.

His gaze dragged down my body, slow and stunned, and suddenly the dress felt too short, too tight, too everything. I tugged at the hem instinctively.

He pushed off the wall immediately, patting his friend’s shoulder before weaving through the crowd with that effortless confidence that always made my stomach flip. His smile grew with every step closer.

“Sweetheart you look… wow.” His eyes darkened as they swept over me again. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself from touching me.

“Thanks,” I managed. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”  

“You’re going to start fights looking like that.”

“Sounds like you will just need to defend my honor.” I teased.

“Oh, I will.” The way he said it, low, certain, like a promise sent a shiver down my spine.

His smile disappeared—right before someone behind me whistled and shouted something about my ass. Steve’s expression snapped into a scowl, jaw tightening hard enough to crack under the pressure.

I tugged at my dress again. “I need a drink if I’m going to survive this,” I yelled over the music, breathless and already overwhelmed.

It was true. My nerves were getting the better of me, and I was ready to bolt. But running in heels was not a skill I possessed.

Without a word he nodded, his hand grabbing mine as he led the way through the crowd towards the kitchen. A loud crash sounded upstairs, everyone looked in that direction for a small moment before going back to whatever they were doing.

I hopped onto the counter, letting the cool surface ground me. I watched as Steve—my friend—made me a drink. He didn’t have to think to much about it, because he had what I liked down to a science. More on the sweet side and less alcohol.  

Once he finished, he handed me the red cup, his fingers brushing mine and lingering just a heartbeat too long.

Silence stretched between us, thick and electric. He looked like he was holding something back, like the words were burning a hole in his throat. I licked my bottom lip without thinking, and his gaze dropped instantly, tracking the movement like it was magnetic.

My breathing hitched.

“Thank you,” I murmured, lifting the cup to my lips. The burn of the alcohol was instant, but it did nothing to distract me from the way he was watching me.

“Anything for you pretty girl.” he said with a half laugh.

He was laying it on thick tonight. We’d flirted before, but this—this was different.

He leaned in slightly, as if gravity itself were pulling him closer, narrowing the space between us. His hands rested on the edge of the counter, fingers brushing my bare thighs. Heat radiated off him in waves.

Steve’s scent was overwhelming, flooding my senses.

He wasn’t even touching me, not really, but my whole body felt like it was on fire. It always did around him. Like my skin recognized him before my brain did.

His jaw tightened, breath uneven, as if being this close to me cost him something.

I wanted him to touch me. God, I wanted it so badly it hurt.

But I wouldn’t say that out loud. Saying It out loud would mean I would have to admit we weren’t just friends, and the edge we were teetering on may be my downfall.

I took another sip to keep my mouth busy. The drink really was perfect like always. I let out a hum in approval.

Steve froze.

His grip tightened on the counter, knuckles whitening, as if he was holding back from closing the last inch between us.

And God, the way he looked—like my tiny sound had undone him—made heat curl through my chest, slow and dangerous.

“C’mon. It’s almost midnight,” Steve mumbled, voice rougher than before.

His hands slid to my waist as he helped me down from the counter, steadying me like he wasn’t entirely sure my legs would work. Honestly, neither was I. His fingers lingered a second too long, warm and careful, before he let go

We stepped back into the living room, swallowed by the glow of string lights and the thrum of music vibrating through the floorboards. People were laughing, shouting, already counting down too early because they were drunk and impatient.

A few girls tried to get his attention—touching his arm, calling his name, leaning in too close.

Steve didn’t look at any of them.         

Then he held out his hand.

“Dance with me?” he asked, voice low enough that only I could hear it.

“You don’t dance.” I eyed him carefully, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumped.

“I do if it gets you in my arms.”

A strangled noise clawed up my throat, and I coughed to hide it. “Smooth, pretty boy.”

“I try.” He extended his hand again, palm open, waiting.

My heart stuttered. I slipped my hand into his, and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

He pulled me in gently, one hand settling at the small of my back, the other holding mine against his chest. We swayed, barely moving, our bodies close enough that I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

My skin was on fire.

His thumb brushed my waist in a slow, absent-minded stroke that sent a shiver up my spine. I rested my free hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, the tension coiled beneath his skin.

The music faded into the background as the countdown began somewhere behind us.

“TEN!”

It felt like the entire room dissolved around us—like the lights dimmed, the music softened, and every person blurred into nothing.

It was just him.

Just us.  

“NINE!”

His hand tightened at my waist, fingers flexing like he needed the anchor.

The pressure was gentle, but it sent a shockwave through me; a silent claim, a question, a warning.

My breath hitched, and his eyes flicked down to my lips for the briefest, devastating moment.

“EIGHT!”

Steve stepped closer, closing the nonexistent distance between us until our bodies brushed.

I could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through his shirt — or maybe it was mine, pounding loud enough to drown out the music.

“SEVEN!”

His hand slid up, slow and deliberate, until it rested at the base of my throat.

Not gripping. Not pushing.

Just… holding.

His thumb stroked the hollow there, featherlight, and my pulse leapt beneath his touch.

“SIX!”

My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears, wild and unsteady.

I was pretty sure he could feel it ticking against his hand, because his fingers curled just slightly, like he was trying to memorize the rhythm.

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, and he leaned in until his forehead nearly brushed mine.

“FIVE”

“Stevie—”

His name came out soft, breathless, almost a plea.

His eyes softened instantly at the nickname, like it hit him somewhere deep.

He let out a low, content hum, the kind that vibrated through his chest and straight into me.

“FOUR”

Steve leaned in just a fraction, close enough that his nose nearly brushed mine. His breath fanned across my lips, warm and uneven, like he was fighting every instinct screaming at him to close the distance.

“Sweetheart…” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through me. The word reverent. Careful. Like he was afraid I might break our moment if he said it too loudly.

His eyes held mine, wide open, unguarded.

He looked at me like he was already kissing me in his head.

“THREE!”

“I really, and I mean really like you, sweetheart.”

His voice was a whisper, but it hit me like a spark to dry tinder.

His hand at my throat slid up, fingers curling lightly around the back of my neck, guiding me closer without actually pulling. Waiting. Always waiting for me to meet him halfway.

My knees went weak.

“TWO!”

“I thought you just wanted to be friends,” I breathed, the words trembling out of me.

It felt like stepping off a cliff.

His hand slid from my throat to cradle the side of my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek like he was memorizing the shape of me.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head just slightly. “I really don’t.”

“ONE!”

He waited for me to pull away.

I didn’t.

And then his lips were on mine.

Soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid I’d disappear.

But I surged up onto my toes, greedy, deepening it, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Months of wanting him crashed over me all at once, dizzying and warm.

I had spent countless hours daydreaming about this moment.

Steve let out a small groan before his hands moved to my face, pulling me into him.

Steve let out a small, helpless groan before his hands slid to my face, pulling me closer like he’d been waiting forever.

When he finally broke away, he pressed a quick kiss to my lips, breathless.

“Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

Another kiss.

“Yeah… I should’ve done this sooner.”

Heat rushed to my face, and I buried it in his chest, muttering a flustered, “Stop.”

I jerked my head to the side, my eyes landing on Steve standing in front of the door. He was bundled up in his tan winter coat, scarf loose around his neck. Snowflakes clinging to the ends of his hair, melting slowly from the heat of the store. There were two steaming to-go cups in his hands.

For a split second, I almost went to wipe the snow from his hair.

I didn’t.

But the thought lingered longer than it should have. I shook my head and set the last stack of plastic rectangles on the shelf.

I had told him to stay home and let me walk back to my place. Apparently, he listened about as well as every other man out there. It really wasn’t that far—I would’ve been fine.

Steve never let me walk if he could help it. And on the nights, he was stuck at work and couldn’t take me himself, he’d call just to make sure I made it home safely.

“I told you not to worry about me,” I said, crossing my arms. “I’m more than capable of walking home.”

Steve’s lips fell into a frown, that familiar crease forming between his eyebrows — the one he got whenever he thought someone wasn’t taking care of themselves properly. Or, more specifically, whenever he thought I wasn’t

“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging, “I’m supposed to keep my best friend from getting hypothermia.”

Best Friend. Key word there.

The words settled somewhere in my chest, heavier than it had any right to be.

I rolled my eyes, partly to hide the smile threatening to show. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And yet,” he replied, lips tugging into that easy grin, “you’re still alive because of me.”

“I still have to finish stocking some of the vinyl and cassettes before I can leave,” I gestured to the half-filled shelf behind me.

“That’s okay,” Steve said, already moving deeper into the store like he belonged there. He set the cups on the counter, brushing a bit of melted snow from his sleeve. “I can wait. I also brought hot cocoa from that place you like.”

I smiled despite myself. It was really good cocoa—the kind that tasted like melted chocolate instead of watered-down milk. The taste of it lingered on my tongue.

I wrapped my hands around it, letting the heat sink into my fingers. “Thanks.

He let out a pleased hum, like he’d won something. Then his gaze flicked to the half-stocked shelf. Up close, I could smell the cold clinging to him, layered with a faint hint of his cologne—clean and familiar in a way that made my senses buzz.

“What’s left?” he asked, already shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto the counter. He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, forearms exposed like he knew exactly what he was doing to my concentration.

“You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he cut in, already reaching for a stack of vinyl’s. “I’m here. Might as well make myself useful.”

I stepped in to help before he got any ideas about taking over my job entirely. I stood beside him, closer than necessary. Every time he shifted, his arm grazed mine—brief, accidental touches that sent little sparks up my spine.

He started sliding albums that clearly belonged in the L section into G.

I slid another cassette into place. “You’re putting those in the wrong order.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you absolutely are.” I said, a giggle slipping out before I could stop it.

He paused, squinting at the labels. “Okay, maybe I am. But in my defense, this is tiny print.”                                                                                                              

A laugh escapes my lips—loud and unguarded. And Steves eyes softened as he looked over at me, as if the sound was something he wanted to bottle up and keep in his pocket for the next cloudy day. There was no more playful glint.

“See?” he murmured. “If I wasn’t here, you’d be bored.”

“I was doing just fine. I have listened to the entire discography of the Beatles.”

“See you needed me.”

We kept working, but the air between us shifted. Every so often, his hand brushing my lower back as he passed on occasion, lingering there just long enough to make my breath stutter. Then we both reached for the same cassette, his fingers brushing over my knuckles. He didn’t pull away right away—just stayed there for a beat, staring at me like he’d forgotten what he was doing.

My breathing hitched. I was painfully aware of how close he was, of the warmth radiating from him, of how easy it would be to close the distance.

But we were friends, and friends do not kiss. Not the way I wanted too anyway.

When the last case was slid into place, he dusted his hands off dramatically. “There. We make a good team.”

“We?” I echoed.

My brain was still short-circuiting from what had basically been a handhold ten minutes ago.

He shrugged, but there was a faint pink on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. “I mean… yeah. You and me. We always do.”

Warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading through every inch of my body.

Before I could say anything, he grabbed our coats, holding mine out for me. “Come on. It’s freezing out. I’m driving you.”

“I can walk.”

“You could,” he agreed, gently zipping my coat up himself, fingers careful as they brushed my chin. “But then I’d have to follow you the whole way to make sure you don’t slip on ice and crack your head open. And honestly? That sounds exhausting.”

I snorted. “You’re impossible.”

He held the door open, guiding me out with a steady hand so I wouldn’t slip on the ice.

“I can’t be that impossible,” he said as he stepped into the snow beside me. “You keep me around, after all.”

The parking lot was quiet, blanketed in white. His car sat under a streetlamp, lightly dusted with fresh snow. Steve walked close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him, he kept a hand hovering close to my back—Ready to catch me it I fell.

 It felt like something out of a movie—the snow falling slowly, and the night sky casting a soft glow over Steve’s face that made him look almost unreal. The car door creaked open, and he kept one hand on the frame as I slid inside, steady and attentive, like he always was.

“I’m glad you came by tonight,” I said before he could close the door, my voice softer than before. “Even if I told you to stay home and not worry about me.”

A small smile appeared on his face. “Me too.”

I remember getting drinks with Steve at some swanky club, and the rest is a blur of neon lights and chaos. I rubbed at my eyes, desperate to shake off the haze. As I shifted, something cold scraped against my skin.

My eyes snap open.

A diamond ring –Two Carats at least— gleamed on my finger, catching the light in a way that makes my stomach drop. My breath stutters, chest tightening as panic claws its way up my throat.

Holy shit.

Did I really do the most cliché thing imaginable? Did I actually elope with a stranger in Vegas? I thought I had just hooked up with someone, not married them. My heart races, the thought alone is enough to make me dizzy. No. No. No. This cannot be happening.

I shot upright, panic propelling me. The arm that had been draped around my waist slips away in my haste, landing limply against the sheets. Whoever it belongs to makes a soft half-conscious groan before settling back into a snore. As if possibly our world hadn’t just tilted off its axis.

I should look. I needed to look. But the thought alone is enough to twist my stomach into knots, because once I see, once I know it becomes real.

Slowly, I turn my head.

Its…Steve?

I suddenly feel nauseous.

There is no way. No possible way I eloped with Steve. It had to be a mistake. I must have lost track of my room and stumbled into his, desperate to sleep. He wouldn’t marry me—he had big dreams for his future: the perfect wife, the kids, the white picket fence. And, I wanted maybe one kid and to leave Hawkins.

Steve lets out another snore before shifting so he is laying away from me. He looked impossibly peaceful, as though nothing in the world—not even me—could steal it away from him.

My heart starts to hammer painfully against my ribs, and my lungs burn as every breath I take comes out in shallow ragged gasps.

Maybe he pulled me out of making a terrible decision, and nothing actually happened. And I am just being the dramatic one as usual.

With a shaky hand I very carefully reach for his left one, clinging to the hope I was just being a drama queen. Or at the very least I married a stranger that I would have to hunt down.

That fragile hope is shattered the second my eyes landed on his hand. There is a gold band sitting against his soft skin, mocking me.  

A strangled sound ripped from my throat before I even could stop it. I jerked my hand back, as if I had just been touching molten lava, and not the hand that had caressed me with tenderness countless times before.  

There were too many emotions crashing through me at once—panic, anger, shame, sheer stupidity—all tangled together in some knot that was impossible to untangle.

Had I drunkenly spewed off about how in love I was with him last night? Because, I thought that secret was going to go to the grave with me, and Robin. And I was fine with that.  No one needs to know I was so in love with Steve Harrington that being his friend tore me apart from the inside out.

I was a masochist, really. Because if I couldn’t have him at least I could still be friends with him, laugh with him, and pretend it was enough. But now? Now Steve wasn’t just the boy I loved in secret. He was my husband, and I don’t know if I can survive the fallout.

We have to annul this. That was the only option. Then I could pack up and move away. Reinvent myself somewhere far from Hawkins where no one knew my name, where no one knew Steve Harrington or the disaster of a night that had just rewritten my life.

Robin was never going to let me live this down. I’d be the butt of her jokes for at least ten years, probably longer. I could already hear her voice, dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh my god, remember when you drunkenly married your crush? When I specifically told you not to make stupid decisions. Like, congratulations, you’re living in a real life rom-com, except it was unrequited love so now you are alone with five cats.”

The sound of her cruel laughter echoed in my head, cruel only because it was true. Robin had warned me not to do anything stupid on this damn trip. And now I’d handed her the ultimate ammunition.

I groaned a little louder than I intended. The pulsing ache in my head hadn’t gone down. It was one hell of a hangover.

Harrington was still dead asleep, sprawled across the bed like he didn’t have a care in the world. How much had he even drunk last night? Enough to knock him out cold, apparently.

My eyes darted down, relief flooding me when I realized both of us still had our clothes on. Thank God. If we’d slept together too, I’d definitely be booking the next flight to Europe with a fake passport and a new identity.

I slipped out of bed, my legs shaky beneath me, and made my way to the bathroom. I needed to calm down before I completely unraveled on Steve. It wouldn’t be fair. We had both made this decision together… I think.

With my hands cupped beneath the faucet, I splashed cold water onto my face. The shock dulled the pounding in my head, numbing it for a fleeting moment. Then the ring caught the light—glinting like it was determined to remind me of its presence. As if I could ever forget.

Where had we even gotten the thing? It had to be fake. Either that, or we robbed someone blind. Except… it didn’t look fake. It was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. The exact style I’d always imagined when I pictured my wedding. My dream ring was just casually sitting on my finger.

I think I might throw up.

When I stepped back into the room, my eyes landed on the beat up desk—and froze. A marriage certificate sat there. I winced, biting down on my bottom lip hard. My fingers tremble as I pick it up. The paper was tacky, cheesy, the kind of thing you’d expect from a Vegas chapel. There at the bottom were two names printed in bold, Steve Harrington, and my name. Right under those were slanted sloppy signatures sealing our truth.

How was Steve going to take this?

There was only one way to find out, but the mere thought of waking him up terrified me. Because once he opened his eyes, once he saw the ring, the certificate, me, everything would change. He wouldn’t even have to say no—his rejection would be unavoidable, and it would shatter me completely.

I pinched my thighs hard, desperate to wake myself up, to get out of this nightmare. Maybe I was still in Hawkins. Maybe this was just some vivid, cruel dream.

But the sting of pain stayed. The ring stayed. The certificate stayed

And Steve Harrington was still peacefully asleep in the bed.

His hair lost little volume, but it was still almost perfect—like even sleep couldn’t undo the effortless way he carried himself. Of course he would have bed head that looked intentional. That made him still look painstakingly perfect.

I reached out and poked at him, muttering his name ever so quietly. He shifted, murmuring something incoherent before burrowing deeper into the pillow. The sight was almost unbearably cute, the kind of domestic moment I’d once let myself dream about before reality would reminded me it could never happen.

“Steve,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I really need you to wake up.”

His eyes shot open, sharp and alert despite the haze of sleep. And I was caught in them, those familiar topaz eyes, always so warm, always so full of sunlight. They locked on me instantly, scanning me with a rush of concern.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” The words tumbled out of him in a hurry, his voice hoarse but urgent, as if he was ready to jump into action.  

I watched as the hangover caught up to him, the protectiveness fading as he winced and screwed his eyes shut. He let out a low cry.

“We need to talk.” I whispered, minding the pain in both our heads.

“Yeah, okay.” His hand dragged down his face, fingers pressing into his temples. “Give me a minute?”

I didn’t want to give him a minute. I wanted to figure out how to annul this, erase this mistake from existence. And then I could run far far away from him.

The silence that followed was suffocating, too quiet, too heavy. Steve’s brows furrowed as he studied me, confusion flickering across his face.

“Okay,” I said, though the word came out hollow, brittle.

He pushed himself up and moved to the bathroom. I watched as he bent over the sink, drinking water straight from the faucet—gross. Who trusted a hotel sink to be clean? The sound of running water echoed through the room. He grabbed a washcloth and dragged it across his face, the motion slow, deliberate, like he was trying to scrub away the grime from the night before.

Little did he know that I was also the grime from last night.

When he sat back down the bed dipped under his weight. The familiar scent of his cologne was still clinging to him. It had faded through the night, but it was still there, curling around me.

I stayed glued to my spot, gnawing on my bottom lip until it hurt. My nerves were a live wire.

Steve reached for me, careful, almost hesitant, and pulled me between his legs. His warmth folded around me, his presence overwhelmingly steady. “Look at me, what’s got you so freaked out? I can fix it.” His voice was soft, coaxing, and when he pushed a strand of hair back from my face, my eyes fluttered shut. I hadn’t even realized they were stinging until then.

I opened my mouth but snapped it shut. How do I even start?

“Talk to me, sweetheart. Please.” His hands were now on my hips.

Without speaking, I raised my left hand and showed him the ring.

His sharp inhale made me open one eye. A rapid cycle of emotions flickered across his face-—confusion, shock, something unreadable—before they settled into disappointment. And my heart cracked, splintering at the inevitable rejection I was waiting for.

I knew it. He would regret marrying me. I wasn’t the one he wanted. I would never be that one.

“Who—whose ring is that?” His voice was rough, uncertain.

“I-I don’t know. It was there when I woke up,” a tear slipped free. “God, I don’t know what happened. There is a marriage certificate over there. I am so sorry Steve.”

His gaze darted to the desk, then back to me.

“So, we—we uh… got married? You didn’t marry a stranger?” For a fleeting second, relief flashed in his eyes.

“Yes.” My voice cracked. “We can annul it… I think.”

“Okay,” he breathed out, as if he couldn’t believe what I was saying. “Okay. That’s… wow.

A strangled laugh tore through me. “Wow? Steve, this is a disaster. We’re married. Married. Do you understand what that means?”

I bit down hard on my lip until the metallic tang of copper spread across my tongue. My hands shook as I stared at the ring again. This isn’t a fairytale. This is a nightmare.

Steve didn’t pull away. If anything, his hands tightened on my hips, grounding, steady—like he was bracing himself this time.

“Hey,” he said quietly, cutting through my spiral. “Look at me, please, sweetheart.”

I shook my head, backing away, my brain screamed at me to bolt for the door. “Don’t,” I whispered. “Please don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking.”

He stood then, shaking his head, his movements deliberate.

“What I’m thinking,” he said carefully, “is that you’re terrified. And bleeding.” His thumb brushed beneath my lip. “And that whatever happened last night… you didn’t do it alone.”

His kindness only made it worse.

“You didn’t want this,” I said, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. “You didn’t wake up dreaming of marrying me. You have plans, Steve. A life. Someone—” My voice broke. “Someone better.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping there, but his eyes never left mine. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Another tear slid down my cheek. “We need to get home and figure this out, then I can move in with my brother, the one in California. We can pretend this never happened. Continue on with our lives That’s what’s for the best. We definitely shouldn’t tell Robin. That would be— well that would be a disaster. You will find a better woman, have kids-.”

Steve pressed a finger to my lips silencing me. His eyes flicking to the certificate on the desk and then back to me. “Pretend it never happened?” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, something raw.

I swallowed hard, throat aching. “Yes. It’s the only way we can leave with some dignity, Steve.”

His gaze darkened, jaw set.

“What if I don’t want to?”

My chest constricted. “You don’t mean that.”

His head snapped up, eyes burning into mine.

“I do.”

“Steve-“ I shook my head. “I think you are still impaired. You will regret this as soon as we are home.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair.  “You don’t get it. I’ve spent years trying to be okay with just being your friend. And now—now I wake up married to you, and you’re telling me to erase it? Like it’s some mistake?”

Just being your friend? What did he mean by that? Did he not ever want to be friends with me? God, I feel even more stupid.

Tears blurred everything, turning him into a smear of gold and shadow. “It is a mistake. You don’t care for me, not like that. You’re—you’re Steve Harrington. You’re supposed to end up with someone perfect, someone who isn’t me.”

He laughed, but it came out hollow slightly pained. “You’ve been the person I wanted all along. The only mistake Is I never told you how I felt.”

I shook my head refusing to listen.

My heart lurched violently, like it was trying to break free from my chest. “Stop, this isn’t- I cant.”

I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the sob clawing its way out. His gaze dropped to the ring on my finger, pupils dilating, as if the sight of it was both unbearable and mesmerizing.

“I want to go home.” I managed to get out between sobs.

“Ok,” it was a defeated ok. “We need to talk though, before you runaway from me. Please?”

I wasn’t sure if it was the way he was looking at me—like he was afraid of losing me—or the crack in his voice that made me nod.

----------

Steve had wanted to break the drive back for our sanity. But I was stubborn, insisting I could take over. So he could get some sleep while I drove. At first, he looked offended that I wanted to touch his precious BMW. But after an intense stare off he sighed, tossed me the keys, and muttered something under his breath I pretended not to hear.

The highway stretched on forever, a black ribbon swallowed up by the night. The emptiness gave it that horror- movie vibe. Trees surrounded us on both sides, it made me wonder what could be lurking behind them. I was fully prepared to run over an axe murderer if one jumped out. They would make a nice little speed bump. Steve would be appalled I’d turned his car into a murder weapon, but only for about ten minutes before he’d start lecturing me about getting blood in the wheel wells.

He sat in the passenger seat, sipping bad gas‑station coffee, watching me like he wanted to say something but knew I’d stop the car and bolt if he did. The silence between us was beginning to feel unbearable, pressing down heavier than the hum of the tires.

But I had nothing to say. I needed a day. Just one day to breathe, to figure this out, to wrap my head around the fact that I was married to Steve Harrington. Vegas really should give you a week before filing the marriage license, a grace period for people who wake up regretting everything. I bet the divorce lawyers out there made a fortune. Maybe that’s what I’d do — move to Vegas and help people untangle their disasters.

At some point I shoved the ring into my pocket while Steve slept, unable to stand the weight of it on my finger.

The gas station I pulled into had maybe three working overhead lights that buzzed faintly, casting everything into a jaundiced glow. The place was sketchy as hell. The air smelled of gasoline and bad plumbing, the kind of stench that would cling to your nose long after you left.

I stood by the pump, arms wrapped tight around myself, scanning the shadows for crazy axe murderers as the numbers on the meter climbed. I should have woken Steve — survival one‑oh‑one — but I needed him to sleep so he could finish the drive to Hawkins.

“Fucking hell.” I muttered leaning against the car.

Behind me, the passenger door creaked open. I turned my head slightly as Steve stepped out, tugging at his sweatshirt. It was my favorite of his. I’d stolen it more times than I could count, and he’d even offered it to me before we left. I refused, and now him wearing it felt like a punishment. All I wanted was to curl up in it and hide inside the familiar fabric.

He rubbed at his eyes, nose scrunching up at the smell.

 He still wore his ring. And I honestly didn’t know why.

“You should’ve woken me,” his voice hoarse from the nap.

“I didn’t want to,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the pump. “You needed the rest.”

The pump clicked, the sound sharp in the quiet night.

“Careful,” Steve said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t scratch my car with that thing.”

I let out a shaky laugh. Yanking the nozzle free.

“Relax, Harrington. If I scratched your car, I would throw myself into oncoming traffic so you don’t have to get your hands dirty.” I rolled my eyes, shoving the nozzle back into its slot.

He let out an offended noise to which I replied: “You’d disown me if I so much as breathed on her wrong, don’t pretend otherwise.”

He leaned against the car, arms crossed, watching me with that half‑amused, half‑wary look. “Never, you could set her on fire, and I would still forgive you.”

“Please,” I brushed past him toward the driver’s seat. “You basically just gave me permission to kill your child you know.”

That earned me a real laugh, low and warm, cutting through the tension for just a moment. Everything felt normal, like we were back to bickering about stupid things instead of the fact that we’d accidentally gotten married in Vegas.

I griped the wheel like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. It took a minute before he was sliding back into the car, shutting the door with a dull thud. He let out a sigh.

Steve shifted in his seat, stretching his legs out, the leather creaked under him. “You know,” he said finally, voice low, almost casual, “you’re the only person I’d ever trust behind this wheel.”

I snorted, “That’s a bold claim You’ve seen me parallel park.”

His lips curved, but his eyes stayed serious as he leaned closer, the dashboard lights painting his face in muted blues. “Still the truth.”

Maybe it was the way he was looking at me, as if I was his something precious, or maybe it was because I was making bad decisions this entire trip. Either way, I leaned in and kissed him.

It was a quick, impulsive, brush of lips that tasted faintly of bad coffee. He made a strangled sound, half‑surprised, half‑something else, and before I could pull away completely, his hand caught the back of my neck. His fingers were warm, steady, anchoring me in place.

The air between us shifted. His breath mingled with mine, uneven at first, then deepening as he pulled me closer. The second kiss was firmer, deliberate, like he wasn’t going to let me run from this too.

All I could feel was the press of his mouth against mine, the way his thumb brushed the edge of my jaw, coaxing me to stay. Nothing else mattered. I matched him, movement for movement, surrendering to the heat of it, letting him consume me until the world narrowed to the taste of him, and the weight of his hand.

I broke the kiss needing to breathe, my cheeks were on fire. “I—” My voice cracked. “I don’t know why I did that.”

The ring in my pocket felt like it was burning straight through the denim fabric, branding itself against my skin.

Steve’s forehead rested against mine, his breath uneven. “Yeah, you do,” he whispered.

His thumbs rubbed across my cheekbones.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” I muttered, eyes darting anywhere but his.

He leaned back just enough to look at me, a small smile tugging at his lips, stripped of his usual bravado. “Maybe not. But it’s something.”

The silence that followed wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was dangerous, charged, like the whole car was holding its breath.

I shoved the gearshift into drive, forcing the car back onto the endless stretch of highway. The road swallowed us again, headlights cutting through the dark. Robin was going to lose it when I told her what happened. Maybe even tell me I was the Dingus, not Steve.

---- When we finally pulled up to my place, Steve killed the engine but didn’t move to get out. He sat there, hands loose on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

“I’ll give you space,” he said quietly. “But we need to talk. Not tonight. Not like this. Tomorrow.”

Because of course he would. Steve was too good to me, too understanding, too kind. He would give me what I wanted instead of getting the answers he wanted. It’s partly why I loved him

“I will call you when I figure out what we need to do.”

He looked at me then, eyes searching, like he wanted to call out my bullshit. He knew I was going to shut myself away and hide from him. I would call him eventually, I had too. I couldn’t do this all by myself. I am sure there were papers he needed to sign.

Instead of saying anything, he reached for my bags, carried them to the porch, and set them down gently inside my house. No lecture. Just a quiet, careful goodbye.

I watched as he walked back to the car, and watched the bright red taillights fade into the distance.

My house felt empty as I stood there wishing things were different. He would normally stay here with me watching movies or reading books until we couldn’t keep our eyes open.

I couldn’t stay here alone, so I picked up the phone and called Robin. The one person who would come without question.

“Rob?” My voice cracked when she answered. “Can you come over?”

There was a pause, then her voice sharpened. “What happened?”

“Everything,” I whispered. “Please.”

She didn’t hesitate. “On my way.”

Minutes later, she was at my door, hair messy, jacket half‑zipped, eyes wide with concern. I let her in, collapsing onto the couch as the weight of my life choices pressed down again.

“I am so stupid Rob.”

She let out a little giggle, flopping down beside me and tucking her legs under herself. “Why do you say that? You usually save the stupid for daylight hours.”

“I married him.”

Her head snapped toward me so fast I thought she might sprain something.

“You what!” she shrieked.

I fished the ring out of my pocket, the metal cold against my palm, and handed it to her. She whistled low, holding it up to the lamplight.

“That’s a nice rock,” she said, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Now, how exactly did you marry Steve Harrington? Don’t tell me you blacked out and woke up in a white dress.”

“I’m pretty sure we were drunk and ended up at one of those Elvis chapels,” I muttered, digging my nails into my thigh. “I totally freaked out on him in the morning before making him drive us home. That’s not the worst part either.”

Robin leaned forward, eyes narrowing, grin tugging at her lips. She was so enjoying this. “You eloping with the man you’re in love with is not the worst part?”

Heat rushed to my face. “I, uh… I kissed him.”

Robin gasped dramatically, clutching the ring to her chest like she was in a soap opera. “You kissed him? Oh my god, this is better than cable. Tell me everything. Was it good? Was it bad? Did he kiss you back or just sit there like a stunned goldfish?” She was rambling, something I would never change on a normal day. But now it needed to stop.  

“Rob…” I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

“Don’t ‘Rob’ me. You married him, you kissed him, and you’re sitting here acting like it’s the end of the world instead of the beginning of a rom‑com. Honestly, I should start paying you for this entertainment value.”

I scowled, sinking deeper into the couch cushions.

“I need to figure out how to annul this. To erase this from our lives. How could I be so stupid?”

Robin leaned back, one eyebrow arched, her grin sharp. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

The words spilled out of me in a rush, faster than I could stop them. “He decides I’m some creep who forced him into marriage at a young age. And then he avoids me, and we stop hanging out, and suddenly I’ve lost him completely. And then Robin, you’re stuck listening to me cry about how I ruined everything, and you’ll hate me because I’ll be insufferable, and then I’ll have no one. And then I’ll have to move to, I don’t know, Alaska, and live in a cabin with thirty cats because I can’t face anyone ever again.”

Robin blinked at me, lips twitching like she was fighting a grin. “Wow. Usually, I am the one who rambles like that. But that, well that escalated quickly. From annulment to Alaska in under a minute. Impressive.”

I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face. “I’m serious, Rob. This is catastrophic.”

She tugged the pillow away, smirk firmly in place. “Catastrophic? Please. You kissed him, and I think he kissed you back based off your actions, and now you’re spiraling like you’re auditioning for a soap opera. Honestly, you should relax. If Harrington hasn’t run screaming already, he’s not going to.”

Her smile softened, like she knew something I didn’t.

“Can you… stay tonight? I don’t think I can be alone with this rattling around in my head.”

Her teasing look faded just enough to show her compassion. “Yeah,” she said, kicking off her shoes and curling up beside me. “I’ll stay. Someone’s gotta keep you from drafting divorce papers at three in the morning.”

I let out a real laugh at that. Because yes someone needed to stop me from drafting divorce papers. If anyone was going to be perfect for this task it was her.  

-----

It had been a week since the whole “wedding,” and I’d finally figured out what paperwork needed to be filed. The stack of papers sat on my kitchen table, waiting to set me free. The edges looked too neat, too final, like they were mocking me for hesitating.

Robin had been handing off messages to Steve on my behalf, playing courier with all the enthusiasm of someone who was forced into community service. Every time she came back, she’d drop his words like they were grenades and then lecture me about how dramatic and toxic I was acting.

He had tried to call. I couldn’t answer. The thought of hearing his voice made my chest tighten until I couldn’t breathe.

When I told her I was leaving, she freaked out.

“You can’t just leave,” she cried out, throwing her hands up.

“I can, and I will.” I pressed my palms against the annulment forms, the paper cool and sharp under my skin. “It’s easier this way.”

Robin tilted her head, eyes narrowing, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Easier? Or safer?”

“Both.”

She made a fuss, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re being toxic again. Like, Olympic‑level toxic. You need to chill before you lose everyone.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I shoved the papers toward her, the ring on top. It slid across the table with a hiss. “Take them. Give them to Steve. And promise me you won’t say anything.”

Robin stared at me, lips pressed tight, the weight of her silence louder than any lecture. Finally, she snatched the papers up, muttering under her breath. “You’re going to regret this, and when you do, I’m not letting you blame me.”

-----

Robin had barely been gone an hour when the knock came. Heavy, deliberate, the kind of knock that made my stomach drop.

“Go away,” I called out, setting my luggage next to the door. I still needed to pack my toiletries.

The door unlocked and flung open. Steve stood there, the extra key I had given him clenched in his fist. His knuckles were white around it, like he was about to snap it in half.His eyes swept the room, landing on the suitcase by the door.

“You’re leaving?” His voice was accusatory, but underneath was something raw and painful that made me flinch.

I crossed my arms. “I am. Its easier this way.”

Steve stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a thud that echoed through the apartment. “Easier for who? You? Because it sure as hell isn’t easier for me.” He tossed the key onto the counter, the metal clattering against the surface.

I was to chicken shit to respond.

“You freak out and then kiss me. A really good kiss by the way. Now you are packing. Send Robin with paperwork like I’m some stranger you’re cutting out of your life.”

My stomach twisted at his words, heat crawling up my neck. I wanted to fire back, to tell him he didn’t understand, but the lump in my throat made it impossible.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room like he couldn’t stand still. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to kiss me like that and then pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend I’m just some guy you can erase with paperwork.”

I flinched, the words hitting harder than I wanted to admit. “I don’t know how to do this, Steve. I don’t know how to go back to normal after being married to you.”

He stopped pacing, finally looking at me, eyes raw and unguarded.

Before I could retreat, his hand brushed mine, tentative at first, like he was testing if I’d pull away. When I didn’t, he slid his fingers between mine, grounding me with the warmth of his touch.

The lump in my throat threatened to choke me, but the way his forehead pressed lightly against mine made it impossible to look anywhere else. His scent—coffee, soap, something distinctly Steve—wrapped around me, pulling me back from the edge.

“I don’t want to go back to that normal,” he murmured, his thumb tracing circles against my knuckles. “I want us happy. Together.”  

I closed my eyes, letting the world fall away. The hum of the room faded, the air thickening with the weight of his nearness, and all I could do was breathe him in.

“I’ve been in love with you for years,” he said quietly.

The words didn’t come out rushed, like he was making sure they got through to me. They sounded like he’d been carrying them for so long they’d lost their sharp edges and settled into something heavier.

My breath hitched. “Steve…”

“I know,” he cut in gently, like he already knew every excuse I was about to offer. “I know you didn’t ask for this. I know the timing is a disaster. I know we didn’t plan any of it.” His thumb stilled against my hand.

I tried to step back. He didn’t tighten his grip—didn’t trap me—but he didn’t let go either.

“But I can’t live with you running because you’re afraid I won’t choose you,” he said. “Because I already have. I just didn’t say it out loud soon enough.”

“Steve-“

He shook his head, eyes shining with something fierce and steady. “When I think about my future, you are the one I see myself growing old with. I know this is all backwards, but I want to date you. And when you’re ready, I’ll give you the marriage you deserve.”

He fished the ring out of his pocket and slid it back onto my finger, his touch lingering. “And this can be a symbol of my promise.”

“I love you too. I have since Robin introduced us.”

Steve’s hands cupped my face, urging me to look at him. His palms were warm, calloused, grounding me in a way that made the chaos of the past week blur at the edges.

Slowly, I rested my forehead against his, the suitcase by the door suddenly feeling very far away, like it belonged to another life.

“We should still annul the marriage,” I whispered,

His smile was small but certain, his breath brushing against my lips. “I’m fine with that—only if you agree to date me. And be mine, sweetheart.”

I nodded, the smallest movement, but it was enough.

Steve’s eyes softened, relief flickering across his face before he leaned in. His hands still cradled my cheeks, thumbs brushing lightly against my skin as if he was memorizing the shape of me.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate this time, it was steady, deliberate, the kind of kiss that unraveled the tight knot in my chest. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of coffee and something sweeter, something that was just him. The only thing that existed was the press of his mouth against mine, the way his breath mingled with mine, the quiet promise threaded through the touch.

The door creaked open cautiously. Clark stood there in his tall, rumpled glory. His curls were a chaotic halo, sticking out in every direction like he had just rolled out of bed. A well-loved hoodie hung loose on his frame, and his socks were mismatched—One striped and the other plaid. It was strange, seeing him like this. Human. Undone. Not the polished, composed version he offered the world, but something softer. Something real.

Still annoyingly good looking for someone who hadn’t tried. How was that fair?

He stared at me like I held a winning lottery ticket and a golden retriever puppy.

“Darling?”

“Can I interest you in some greasy pizza and fort building?” I asked, holding up two oversized shopping bags filled with random blankets and sheets I found.

Clark casually leaned against his doorframe, a soft smile I had not seen in a while forming. “Blankets and Pizza? Are you trying to win me over?”

Guilty. Well, a little guilty. I was truly there to help him.

“Maybe.” I deadpanned, brushing past him into the apartment.  

The soft click of his door closing echoed through the quiet apartment. The lights were dim, just the warm glow of the kitchen lamp spilling into the living room. It smelled faintly of coffee and the kind of candle people buy when they’re trying to feel okay again.

I dropped the bags onto the couch and turned to find him still watching me, arms crossed, that half-smile lingering like he wasn’t sure if he should be grateful, or kick me out.

“You raided the entire linen aisle,” he said while nodding at the discarded pile.

I shrugged, brushing a stray thread off my sleeve “I did. I also figured you wouldn’t be in the mood to answer the phone after the weeks you have had. So here I am to bribe you with carbs and childhood nostalgia.”

His brow lifted, a flicker of concern in his eyes. “I would never ignore you.”

I want to believe that. I really did. But it feels like he’s been slipping through my fingers, and I didn’t know how to reach him.

“I know,” I said, shrugging like it hadn’t taken me twenty minutes to work up the nerve to come over. “I just didn’t want to call in case you were asleep. Which is why I knocked like someone who overthinks basic door etiquette.”

Clark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I haven’t really been sleeping.”

I took a step closer, the distance between us suddenly felt too wide. “That’s why I am here. You always are taking care of the people around you, and I want to help you for a change.

His eyes searched mine for a long quiet moment. Like he was trying to decide if he deserved this, if he could let himself, be happy.

Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Okay. But I get to pick the movie.”

I didn’t care what we watched. He could’ve picked a documentary on paint drying and I would’ve sat through every minute. Because the truth was, I’d been holding my breath around him for days. Not knowing how to ease the weight he carried. I just wanted to bring that light back into his eyes. The one that used to flicker when he teased me. The one that made me feel like I was something good in his world.

“Deal.” I said, already pulling blankets from the bag. “But if you pick something with bad physics or a plot hole I can’t unsee, I reserve the right to pause and rant.”

“You mean like when you were sick and rewrote the ending to that alien movie?”

“It deserved better,” I tossed a pillow at him. “The wormhole logic was insulting.”

He caught it easily, grinning. “You’re lucky I find your rage charming.”

I rolled my eyes, but my chest warmed anyway.

“Thank you. Now move your couch, Boy Scout. We have work to do.”

“You’re not bossy at all,” he teased, moving the furniture like It was no heavier than a cat.

I watched him in awe, momentarily forgetting the task at hand. The way his forearms flexed, the easy strength in his movements was unfair. Even his hair had the audacity to fall perfectly into place.

Then I pulled out the sad plaid orange blanket I had found. It was suspiciously thin, slightly see-through, and might have been for decoration.

“Don’t judge. It’s quirky.”

“It’s tragic,” he said, grabbing it gently. The fabric crinkled between his fingers. “But we’ll make it work.”

I smiled throwing another blanket over my shoulders. “Where can we get good pizza?”

Clark didn’t miss a beat. “There’s a place two blocks over. Wood-fired crust. It’s sinfully good. Crispy edges, smoky flavor, the kind of sauce that ruins you for all other sauces.”

I raised a brow, pretending not to be impressed. But the way he said it as if he’d memorized every bite. Made my stomach growl in anticipation. Or maybe that was just the way he was looking at me. Like I’d already ruined him for everything else.

“Sold,” I said, already pulling out my phone. The screen lit up, casting a soft glow across the dim room, painting Clark’s face in soft blues and golds. “What do you like on your pizza? Please don’t say anchovies.”

“Anchovies,” he said, deadpan, but his smile tugged wider than usual, like he was enjoying this far too much.

I stared at him, horrified. “You’re joking, right? Because if not, then I don’t think this is going to work out. I have standards.”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Maybe.”

“I would rather open your freezer and find it filled with body parts. It was nice knowing you.” I declared, spinning dramatically toward the door, the blanket I wore trailed behind me like a cape.

I bit my lip, trying to keep my smile hidden, but it was useless.

Clark caught my wrist laughing. His grip was gentle, but firm enough to stop me. The heat of his palm against my skin sent a quiet thrill through me.

“Easy, Darling. No fish. I swear.”

The nickname sent a thrill through my body. Not because it was new, but because of the way he said it like it belonged to me. Like I belonged to him. I wasn’t sure what made me blush more: the word itself or the quiet certainty behind it. Either way, I was ruined. And not by the sauce he spoke of.

I narrowed my eyes. “You hesitated.”

The blanket slipped from my shoulders and pooled at my feet, but I didn’t move to pick it up. I was too busy memorizing the way he was taking me in.

“Because I like messing with you,” he said softly, and for a moment the air between us shifted into something lighter, warmer, charged with our unspoken thoughts.

My stomach did a stupid little flip, so I shoved the phone at him before my brain could spiral. “Order, then. Before I change my mind and settle for frozen waffles.”

He grinned, brushing his thumb absentmindedly against the inside of my wrist before letting go. “Pizza’s on me.”

“Absolutely not,” I said, shoving my card at him with more force than necessary. The plastic edge scraped against his palm, but he didn’t flinch. “This is on me. You can’t keep paying all the time.”

His brows lifted, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You realize I have my card number memorized right?”

“Don’t fight me on this, Boy Scout.”

Clark leaned in slightly; the scent of warm cinnamon and cedar invaded my senses, cozy and disarming. Even he smelled like comfort. His voice lowered like he was letting me in on some secret. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of fighting you. But I’m warning you now—I never lose.”

The words slid through me like velvet, stirring butterflies awake in my stomach. My pulse thudded at my throat. Before I could fire back, he plucked the card from my hand with maddening ease and tucked it back into my pocket. The faint drag of his knuckles against my hip caused my breathing to hitch.

“Hey!” I protested, chasing after him as he retreated with my phone. But he was tapping at my phone at inhuman speed.

His grin was infuriating. And unfairly attractive.

While he placed the order, I busied myself by dumping the rest of the blankets on the floor. I pretended not to notice the way his eyes lingered when I moved, the way the light caught in his gaze like he was cataloging every detail.

By the time he hung up, the living room was a chaos of fabric and fairy lights.

Clark crossed the room, pushing his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows. The soft cotton bunched at his forearms. “Now, tell me where you want your tragic plaid blanket in this architectural masterpiece of ours.”

I scoffed, snatching another blanket from the pile and tossing it at him. “Leave my poor blanket alone. It will hear you and collapse on us."

He caught it midair, eyes glinting as he met mine again. “Don’t worry I will save you from blanket suffocation.”

We worked in easy rhythm; chairs dragged into place with a satisfying scrape against the hardwood, sheets clipped together with mismatched binder clips, and pillows stacked precariously into walls. Every time something slipped, laughter spilled out of us.

Our fingers collided more than once over the blanket pile. At one point, he brushed a strand of hair from my face without comment, and I pretended not to notice the way my heart stopped.

And when the fort finally stood—wonky but perfect—we ducked inside together. The fairy lights were golden against the blankets, casting him in a light that made my breath catch. It was cozy.

His laptop sat open on a pillow, the streaming service already queued up. The screen flickered, casting pale light across the folds of fabric and the curve of his jaw.

And as if on cue a knock sounded at the door.

“Pizza is here.”

Clark wore a crooked grin as he crawled out of the fort, his socks sliding slightly on the hardwood. I stayed put, hugging a pillow to my chest, the soft fabric warm against my skin, trying not to think too hard about how stupidly romantic this felt.

When he returned, the smell of melted cheese and garlic filled the little blanket world we had built. He set the box between us like some kind of sacred offering.

“Okay,” he said, flipping the lid open with dramatic flair, “moment of truth. Best pizza in the city.”

I reached for a slice, the crust still warm beneath my fingertips. “If this pizza turns out average, I’ll actually be a little relieved. You’re getting hard to compete with.”

Clark leaned back on one elbow gesturing me to eat it. He watched as I took a bite, like my final approval was the only thing he wanted.

The sauce hit first; it was rich, and smoky, with a tang of something that danced across my tongue. The cheese was gooey and stretched as I pulled the slice away.  My eyes closed as I made an embarrassingly happy sound, the kind that escaped before I could stop it.

The laugh that left him was warm and teasing. “Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

I peeked at him, cheeks warm, the heat rising all the way to my ears. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

Clark tilted his head; eyes still trained on my face. I took another bite, slower this time, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered like he was memorizing me.

He reached for a slice and leaned back on one elbow, propping himself up on a pillow. the other hand resting near mine. Close enough that if I shifted even slightly, we’d be touching. And everything in me screamed to touch him.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” he said quietly. “The blankets. The pizza. Showing up.”

He was starting to sound like me.

“I know,” I said, voice softer now. “But I wanted to.”

He looked at me like that meant more than he’d ever be able to explain. His eyes flicked down, lashes casting shadows across his cheeks in the low light.

“I’ve been kind of a mess lately,” he admitted. “I tried to hide it though, so no one would worry.”

I shifted slightly, the blanket brushing my arm as I leaned closer. “I noticed,” I said. “I always notice you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Full. Charged. The kind that settled in your chest and made you forget how to breathe properly.

I set my plate aside, the ceramic clinking softly against the hardwood. Then I leaned back against the edge of his couch, “So... what movie did you pick?”

Clark reached for his laptop, turning it to me. “Actually... I didn’t.”

I blinked. “You didn’t?”

“I figured I’d let you choose. You already brought the magic.”

My heart did a full somersault.

I smiled, trying to deflect. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.”

He tipped forward slightly so that I could catch the darker flecks of blue in his eyes.  “You started it.”

My breath caught.

Clark slowly reached out brushing a strand of hair behind my ears. His fingers stayed there reverent and steady.

His voice was low almost a groan, as if he was confessing something dangerous. “I really want to kiss you Sweetheart.”

“Do it,” I whispered, the words barely making it past the thrum in my chest.

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he was trying to restrain himself. “I think the proper thing to do is take you on a date first.”

“This can count as our first da—”

His lips met mine before I could finish, soft and tentative, like he was testing the edges of something fragile. My hand found the front of his hoodie, curling into the fabric, and everything shifted.

His fingers traced my jaw, then down to my waist, anchoring me like he’d been waiting to touch me for a lifetime. I moved closer, knees brushing his, heart thudding against my ribs. The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, and the way his breath hitched when I deepened the kiss.

He tasted like something sweeter—something that felt like home.

My hands wandered up, over his chest, memorizing the shape of him beneath soft cotton. One of his hands slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, just resting there, warm against my skin, grounding me. His other hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head to kiss me deeper, slower, like he was trying to learn me one breath at a time.

The fairy lights glowed warmer, casting soft halos across the blanket walls. The pizza sat forgotten. And nothing else existed but him.

When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine, eyes closed, a smile tugging at his lips like he couldn’t help it.

“I’m still taking you out. For a proper first date.” he murmured. "Tomorrow morning, let's get breakfast."

I giggled, the sound bubbling up before I could stop it. He made me feel giddy in a way that was borderline concerning.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against my lips, voice wrecked and reverent, “You’ve been in my daydreams for so long, I think I started building my world around you.”

I didn’t answer. I just kissed him harder.

I kissed him back with everything I hadn’t said. Every morning walk. Every shared smile. Every time I’d wondered if this was more.

I moved so I was straddling his lap, knees bracketing his thighs. His hand on my waist pulled me flush against him, like even an inch of space was too much. The movement made both of us gasp. My fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to draw a groan from deep in his chest, and he kissed me like he was starving—like every second without me had been a slow unraveling.

His mouth moved to my jaw, my neck, trailing heat and want and something dangerously close to devotion. I felt his breath against my skin, the tremble in his hands as they slid beneath my shirt, palms splayed across my back like he needed to hold me together.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered, lips brushing my collarbone. “Every time you laughed or smiled at me, all I wanted to do was kiss you.”

He paused, voice thick. “You are perfect.”

The word hung between us. It weighed on me to have someone care so much. To see me so clearly.

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, “I’m not,” I said quietly. “You are the one who is perfect.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You are to me. Not because you try to be,” he added, voice barely audible. “Because you just... are.”

“Clark-“ I gasped.

He didn’t say anything, instead his hands wandered over my hips, my thighs, my waist. Like he needed to memorize every inch of me.

“I’ve wanted this I think since you dropped off the cookies, but I never thought it could be real.”

“It’s real,” he said, voice wrecked. “And you’re mine—if you want to be.”

There was a twinge of shyness to his words. As if he thought I would really say no. His thumb brushed my cheek, gentle and reverent. I nodded, too full to speak, and curled into him.

We stayed like that, tangled and quiet. Watching a terrible movie and eating what was probably the best pizza in the world.

“This movie’s terrible,” I whispered.

“You picked it,” he murmured into my hair, while his fingers traced lazy circles on my arm.

“I was distracted by your face.”

He chuckled, kissing the top of my head and pulled me closer.

Moving here was the best decision I could have made.

For those who wanted to be tagged:

I rolled my eyes at his scolding and heard the click of the lock. I should have pretended to sleep so Boy scout could save his breath.

Clark stepped inside with a beat-up thermos, a brown paper bag, and… flowers. He was in sweatpants and a hoodie—the most casual I’d ever seen him. His black curls were damp, like he’d been caught in the rain. Blue eyes swept over me like he was assessing the damage, and prioritizing needs.

I watched in awe as he slipped off his shoes and neatly set them by the door.

“You look like a very cute ghost,” he said, setting his things down on the counter.

“I feel like I’m dying,” I croaked. “Please don’t look directly at me.”

“Still cute. I brought soup and panic bought four types of medicine.”

“I didn’t even tell you I was sick.”

I swear the message I sent had just said, sorry can’t make it tonight. My phone was buried somewhere under me, but I could be fucked less to find it.

He silently laughed, pulling out his phone.

“You sent ‘cancel dying’ and a bunch of emojis that looked like they were melting in despair,” he turned the screen toward me to prove it. “I took the hint.”

Oh goodness. I was heavily medicated.

“That was the DayQuil talking,” I mumbled, sinking deeper into my blanket cocoon to hide from his sight.

Clark shot me a soft steady smile. “My mom makes this soup for my dad when he is sick. It has ginger, garlic, and something she never told him. I called her for the recipe.”

“Probably love,” I whispered. “Wait… you made it? I assumed you bought it.”

“Yes, I do know my way around the kitchen. I make a mean grilled cheese during the fall.”

Oh, I know he was good in the kitchen. Everything he had baked tasted like it was a gift from heaven and blessed by angels.

“I know you’re good with your hands, Boy Scout. I just didn’t think I was homemade soup-worthy.”

He flinched, jerking back to give me an appalled look. Like I’d insulted the very foundation of his being, and how dare I say such a thing.

“You, my darling,” he said seriously, “are homemade-soup worthy.”

I was silently thanking every higher entity out there for my fever—It masked the blush blooming across my cheeks.

“Where do you keep your bowls?”

I started to stand, but got a look so sharp it could’ve been a warning label. It said Move, I dare you.

I curled back into the couch, heart thudding quietly beneath my aching body.

Clark moved around my kitchen like he’d been there a hundred times. He pushed his hoodie sleeves up, showing off those really nice forearms. That I stared at for far too long. He hummed to himself while he worked, and the whole scene was alarmingly… domestic.

When he returned to where I was sitting in a zombie-like state, he adjusted the blanket around my shoulders like I was something fragile. Then he blew on the spoon before offering it up to me

“I promise its magical. You will be feeling better by morning.”

It was. Magical. The broth was rich and coated my throat like it was apologizing on behalf of the germs inside me. My eyes closed as I hummed in stuffy approval

“You’re not allowed to be this good at everything,” I whispered. “It’s deeply unfair.”

He waved his hand dismissing my thoughts and offered another spoonful. “Boy scouts are trained to be caring. Or maybe it’s just my seduction technique.”

I choked on the soup and winced. I swore his ears reddened a little bit after he registered his own words.

“I am just living up to your expectations honestly.”

The man winked. Winked!

I was not going to get any better if he kept spiking my heart rate.

“That’s not in the handbook.” I mumbled, picking at the strings fraying from my blanket.

His hand moved to my face, thumb stroking along my cheek.

“Page forty-two,” he said. “Right after knot-tying and wilderness survival.”

I took the bowl from him; our fingers touched like magnets drawn to each other

“You didn’t have to come.”

I was suddenly nervous. And ready to push him away.

“I wanted to,” he sat beside me, closer then necessary. His body radiated warmth, and suddenly the chill running through my bones didn’t feel so sharp.

It was the fevers’ fault for how good that made me feel. For how easy it was to imagine he meant it as more than friendship. I shook the thought away. Men like him had women throwing themselves at him. He wouldn’t need to spare a second glance my way.

“You should go home. I’m contagious.” I pushed on his arm, and he shook it off.

“I don’t get sick,” his voice was low. “I promise.”

I scoffed. Of course he doesn’t. There was no way he was human. He was too perfect.

“When you inevitably get sick, I will take care of you then.”

Clark leaned in, kissing the top of my head. It was so light I almost missed it. And he moved like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I must’ve dozed off during the movie we had put on.

When I woke up the lights were dim, and my blanket had somehow become perfectly tucked around me. The TV was playing one of those mindless baking competition shows. I was laying on Clark’s chest. Who was mindlessly playing with my hair.

“You stayed?” My voice was scratchy.

He looked down at me— it was an awkward angle. “You were out cold. I wasn’t going to leave you like that.”

I groaned hiding my face with my blanket.  

“Hey,” he said gently, tugging it back down so he could see me again. “How is the fever doing?”

I blinked up at him. He was being so gentle that the warmth I felt wasn’t coming from the fever. I had never felt so seen. So cared for.

“I don’t feel like I am being boiled alive anymore.”

“Progress,” Clark murmured, brushing a thumb across my temple like he was checking for lingering heat.

I stared at him. “You really don’t mind being here?”

Clark leaned his head back against the couch, side-eyeing me with a soft smile. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

I couldn’t stop the happy laugh bubbling up from my chest. It only lasted for a fleeting second before turning into a coughing fit. He immediately leaned forward, grabbing a glass of water, and a cough drop.

He waited until I’d taken a sip before moving again.

“I can stay here tonight, on the couch. In case you need anything tonight.”

I looked at the couch he was already spilling out of and shook my head. Having him around would be nice, though.

“You can’t sleep on the couch,” I said, propping myself up. “You’re too tall. You’ll wake up with a spinal injury. Just—just take my bed.”

The appalled look returned, like I’d just suggested we bomb the city. “Your fever must be worse than I thought if you think I’m going to let you sleep out here.”

“I have slept in worse places. I will be fine.”

“I wouldn’t let you sleep on the couch even if you weren’t sick,” he said, losing the stern tone.

Okay.

I opened my mouth to protest—because I was stubborn—but before a word came out, he placed a finger over my lips, shaking his head.

My heart rate picked up again.

 “You are frustratingly well mannered.” I mumbled against his finger.

Clark grinned. “So, I’ve heard.”

“I can use that air mattress of yours if I have to,” he tightened his hold on me. “I will just be a room away if you need me.”

I looked at him, my throat still tight. “Clark…”

“I don’t expect anything in return.” he said quickly, like he didn’t want me to feel pressured in any way.

I didn’t want him to feel like he had to take care of me. I’d been fine on my own for years, and I could survive the flu without a rescue mission. He probably had better things to do—things that didn’t involve babysitting me while I looked like a discount zombie.

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know. But I want to.”

Those were words he kept repeating—like he needed me to believe him, to understand that he was here because he wanted to be. Not out of obligation, not because I couldn’t manage on my own, but because he cared.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Stay.”

He smiled like he’d won the lottery and was now the richest man on earth. No gloating. Just quiet joy. He stood and offered his hand

“Come on, let me tuck you in.”

And I let him.

For those who wanted to be tagged:

It was easy. No expectations. I found it comforting to have a friend in this big city. It made it feel like I was home.  

Keys jingled against my palm as I turned the corner, thoughts caught somewhere between takeout menus and the bliss of silence. Only to find two strangers standing awkwardly outside Clark’s door, fumbling with the knob. One of them threw their body at the door while turning it.

“Can I help you?” I asked, adjusting my bag with subtle suspicion.

A woman with dark hair turned slowly, she was polished and unbothered. “Are we at the wrong door? Clark gave us his key while he went to grab dinner.”

So, not robbers. Probably.

“Oh. So friends.” I gave her a polite, vaguely suspicious smile. “Just in case you’re lying—I have a photographic memory, and I know what you both look like.”

That was a statement that would likely get someone killed or at least harmed. But my filter seemed to be  working less and less lately.

I headed toward my own apartment, hoping to retreat and hide under my blankets for the night. But the blond one spoke up before I could even get the key in my door.

“Wait!”

I paused, blinking at him as he pointed at me like I was the exciting plot twist to his evening.

“You’re the neighbor?” He exclaimed.

Was that… a question or a diagnosis?

“Umm… What?”

“Clark’s been different lately. Happier. He keeps talking about his neighbor like she’s rewritten his whole life’s trajectory. And I have never seen you here before.”

My brow inched upward, “I mean, yeah. We have been neighbors for a few months. And I’m not emotionally contagious, if that’s what you’re implying.”

The woman leaned into him. “She’s totally the mysterious neighbor girl.”

“I think you should come over.” He insisted, tugging my arm lightly towards Clark’s apartment. “We ordered way too much food. So, you would be helping us not over eat.”

“I don’t know,” I said, hesitating. “I’ve actually... never been inside his place.”

Clark’s life was busy. Mine too. We caught each other in the mornings, sometimes in passing on the weekends. When he wasn’t working late, I was buried under deadlines. Ours was a friendship built mostly in the quiet hours before the day really began.

“He’ll be ecstatic,” the guy promised, like a man with inside info.

Clark rounded the corner. Take out bags cradled in his arms. His glasses were slightly askew, his tie loosened too. It looked like the last few hours had worn him in just the right way. His baby blue eyes flicked between his friends… and then landed on me.

I was frozen like I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t meant to. Even though I had done absolutely nothing wrong.

He looked like he didn’t expect me to be here. But didn’t hate that I was.

“Hey,” he breathed out, like my presence shifted his gravity.

“Hi.” the sound barely made it out. Laced with more emotion than I intended. But I hadn’t expected his tone to affect me like that.

His friends snickered beside me, and I blushed. Officially embarrassed.

Clark’s gave them an inquisitive look, “What is going on here?

“They were, uh, trying to get me to come over,” I said. “And I was in the process of telling them no.”

He chuckled, stepping aside and nodding toward his door. “They meddle. You should come anyway—I made dessert.”

Those were magic words. Sweets were practically my love language.

“Okay.” Casual attempt #1: failed.

“That’s Jimmy and Lois,” he added. “We work together.”

So, they do have names. I was about to start calling them Thing One and Thing Two.

Inside, his apartment was clean and almost too neat. There was one out of place pile of books on the floor of his living room, a flannel draped over and armchair like it had been placed there in a haste. It smelled like cinnamon, and safety.

Of course, his apartment was charming. Of course, there wasn’t laundry in weird places or suspicious smells. It made my place look like an episode of hoarders. It was a controlled mess though. I knew where everything was.

I hovered in the entryway, unsure of where I belonged here.

Clark said my name quietly and handed me a cold soda can. It was my favorite. Of course he knew that. His fingers brushed mine, a touch just long enough to remember.

Without a word, he took my other hand and gently pulled me along, past the kitchen.

“It’s okay, they don’t bite. Only have questionable etiquette.”

He glanced at his friends making themselves at home.

I let out a giggle, though it wasn’t real. It was more a nervous tick then real amusement.

Jimmy was already tearing into the takeout like it was his kitchen and not borrowed space.

He tugged me toward the sofa. Lois was already there sitting, scrolling through her phone with the kind of casual grace that suggested she ran the room no matter where she sat.

Clark motioned for me to sit beside him on the end of the cushions. I would be close enough that our thighs would press together if either of us breathed wrong.

That hesitation crept back in, unsure of what the rules were here.  

He guided me down with a touch so gentle it barely felt real. Just as I’d predicted, his thigh pressed against mine. I filed the sensation under fever dream and folded inward, trying to make myself small enough to eliminate the contact.

“You, doing okay?” he asked quietly, voice barely louder than the hum of city traffic outside the window.

“Ye-Yeah.” My voice cracked, and I winced. “I’m just not great with new people.”

“I get that,” he said, eyes kind. “Me either. But I’m really glad you’re here.

It sounded effortless. Unbothered. But something fluttered behind my ribs.

Lois glanced up with an amused smile. “You two look cozy.”

Jimmy appeared with plates, setting them down like offerings. He leaned in. “So, tell us, neighbor girl—”

“Y/N,” Clark interjected softly. “Her name’s Y/N.”

Jimmy shot me a look full of mischief. “So, tell me Y/N. What have you been doing to have our dear friend Clark?  He has been whistling like a fairy tale princess in the mornings.”

I flushed. Clark immediately lobbed a fortune cookie at Jimmy’s head with impeccable aim. Lois sighed, half-laughing while muttering out a stop to Jimmy. They clearly operated on their own wavelength of chaos.

I tried not to combust from embarrassment

“I, er- we get coffee and walk together every morning,” I offered, shifting slightly. My thigh pressed back into Clark’s, and I couldn’t pretend it didn’t feel nice.  “It’s probably just the caffeine. And the fresh air.”

“Yeah. The caffeine.” Clark repeated under his breath.

Our eyes locked again. A millisecond of silence stretching between us, like something unspoken had stepped between us.

“You should try this, its delicious.” Lois handed me one of the glass plates of food.  

I silently thanked her for interrupting.

I took a bite of something saucy and crispy and immediately groaned in delight. Whatever it was? Absolute poetry in food form

 “Okay, what the hell—this is incredible.” I reached for more of the delicious goodness. “You didn’t tell me you had good taste in takeout too,”

“You didn’t ask,” He teased.

“You move boxes, build things, make coffee runs, find magical food spots... and bake? You're kind of the dream package.” I winced at my own ramble but couldn’t seem to stop.

He leaned in a little closer, just enough to make my pulse skip.

“Good with my hands,” he murmured, grin unapologetically wicked. “You said it.”

I nearly choked on air. “That was the caffeine overdose talking.”

“Sure, it was.”

Lois snorted. Jimmy leaned back, gleeful. “This is better than any reality show I’ve binged this year.”

This was it. It was basically my worst nightmare. Well—short of public nudity

Clark didn’t flinch at his friends’ antics. Like this was just how things were with them, and maybe it was.

He passed me a napkin without me needing to ask, because of course he did. And I took it accidentally, but really on purpose— skimmed my fingers along his.

His pinky curled lightly around mine before retreating. Just a breath of contact. As if he also wanted to touch me too.

Lois sipped her drink, watching us like she had a front row seat to her new favorite show.

“So, you adorable mystery,” She drawled. “What are your intentions with our dear sweet friend?”   

I dropped my chopsticks. “Say that again?”

Clark groaned. “Lois, please.”

But Jimmy jumped in too, eyes wide with faux curiosity. “No, no, I second that. I need to know if I should be preparing tissues for heartbreak or a wedding toast. Wait— are you single? That is the important question”

I was tempted to mess with him and tell him I wasn’t. But I was not really into lying for fun.

“Yes, I am.”

“You two are ridiculous,” Clark muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“I don’t know about intentions, but I plan to maybe steal some of his time this weekend.”  I looked at the side of his face. “If that is ok with you that is? I still owe you pizza, and a fort.”

“I’m yours.” The words came out so warm, they filled the room like sunlight.

“I mean—like, whenever you want. Just text me, okay?”

Lois squeaked. “Okay, that’s enough flirting over noodles. Someone change the subject before I start rooting for you two out loud.”

Jimmy raised his soda in a mock toast. “Too late. I already ship it.”

Clark stood a little too quickly. “I’m gonna… grab the brownies.”

He disappeared into the kitchen like it was a safe house, but not before I caught the faint flush climbing the back of his neck. The telltale pink brushed the tips of his ears.

I smiled to myself and gathered our plates, fingers slipping beneath ceramic still warm from dinner.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said as I entered, peeling open a plastic container. “You’re my guest.”

I brushed past him toward the sink. “You help me all the time. Let me return the favor.”

The faucet squeaked on, warm water rushed over my hands. Clark left to go set the Tupperware in the living room. Muffled laughter flooded into the kitchen. Jimmys easy banter blended with Lois’s snark. They were the perfect set of friends.

When he came back, the energy shifted. I feigned calm, but the air felt denser. He lingered behind me, close enough for the heat of him to wrap around my shoulders like a borrowed hoodie.

This wasn’t morning Clark. Not the sunny, joking version. This was end-of-day Clark. Unbuttoned, quieter. He made me nervous.

“If I asked you to stay a little longer...” he began, voice low. “Would that be okay?”

The question unfurled in the quiet. I froze. My hands stilled around the plate. Water slipped past my fingers. My heart nearly did the same.

Would it be okay?

I wanted to laugh at how fast my answer hit me. Or how badly I wanted to pretend I was playing it cool.

I glanced at him over my shoulder.

He was watching me with that warm-eyed patience he always carried, only now it was edged with hesitation. Like he’d placed something delicate between us and was waiting to see if I’d crush it.

“Depends,” I said, softer this time, tilting my head. “Is there more charming me involved?”

His smile was slow and crooked, and a little helpless. “Highly likely.”

“Then yeah,” I murmured, drying my hands on the towel with a faint shrug. “I think I can be convinced.”

From the living room, Jimmy yelled something about needing milk to go with the brownies and Lois countered with “We’re not going grocery shopping at 9pm, you maniac.”

I laughed, unable to help it, and Clark’s gaze flicked to my mouth before rising back to meet my eyes.

It wasn’t subtle. None of this was.

Stay a little longer.

Yeah. I could do that.

Whatever this was between us... it wasn’t just takeout and casual neighbor banter anymore.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by wooden dowels, screws that swore they were different but looked suspiciously identical. And a slow rising fog of existential regret.  

“Okay.” I muttered, gripping the back panel to slide in. “You want to fight? You’ve got one Billy Bookcase.”

This wasn’t building. This was humiliation in plywood form.

I jabbed a peg into the designated hole like it had insulted my best friend, and yelped when the side panel collapsed, smacking me in the shin with karmic precision.

“Son of a— Holy, stab me with an Allen wrench, that really hurt.” I doubled over clutching my leg, betrayed by gravity, Swedish engineering, and whatever unhinged optimism had inspired me to start this doomed project.

“You inanimate piece of—”

A knock interrupted my spiral.

It was soft. I nearly missed it. But there was something familiar to the rhythm of it.

I stopped mid curse, foot hovering inches from the panel I’d been preparing to kick into next week.

“Hey.” A voice came through the door. Gentle. It was a calm to the storm in my apartment pulling me back from the edge. “You ok in there?”  

I let out a dramatic exhale and dropped my foot onto the floor. “Define okay, because I think this bookshelf has developed a superiority complex and is actively plotting my downfall.”

There was a pause, long enough that I started to wonder if I had scared him off.  

“Should I be worried? Because it sounds like the plywood’s winning in there.”

How did he know? Was my apartment secretly made of tissue paper?

I limped to the door, massaging my shin, and opened it to find Clark. In another flannel shirt that looked softer than the last one. Hair tousled enough to look effortlessly charming. Like he was a lead in a romcom who had just wandered off set and landed in my hallway.

He glanced over my shoulder with a raised brow.

“Ahhh, “He said with mock sympathy. “You got IKEA.”

“I thought I got a bookshelf,” I replied, sighing theatrically. “Turns out I adopted a very angry puzzle.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, which of course made him somehow more attractive.

“Want some help?”  

I crossed my arms. “Are you going to charm the bookshelf into submission with those capable hands?”

"Charm is my backup plan if the wrench fails."

“I am perfectly capable of assembling furniture, Boy Scout.”

I knew he wasn’t offering because he thought I couldn’t do it. He was nice. He baked cookies. But I was stubborn. Proud. Borderline feral. I handled everything solo—this should’ve been no different.

Clarks’ hands raised in exaggerated surrender. “No doubt,” he said, voice soft but teasing. “But if you let me help, I promise not to take too much credit when it inevitably looks amazing.”

I squinted, suspicious of his confidence. But my lips twitched. “Fine. But if it collapses in the middle of the night, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal.”

He stepped inside and knelt beside the wreckage, grinning like he’d entered a cozy war zone.

“Okay… You flipped the backing upside down.”

“I did not,” I lied, channeling a false bravado.

He glanced up over his glasses, eyes twinkling. “You definitely did.”

Behind his back, I stuck out my tongue. Yes, it was childish. But it was also satisfying. I was beginning to hate how endearing he was.  

Not really. But still.

He flipped through the manual like it was written in his native tongue. “This screw goes here,” he said, “and this peg goes there—not where you tried to marry it to the wrong shelf.”

“How are you so good at this? Are you secretly a carpenter? Or were you manufactured by IKEA? And if it's the latter, do they sell more of you?”

I was kidding… mostly.

“I am actually a journalist.” He added casually, a lilt of a chuckle.

I tilted my head. That was unexpected. I don’t know what I thought he did for a living, but a journalist wasn’t in the top 5.

I watched him fit two pieces together with maddening ease. “You either have magic powers, or you are annoyingly competent.”

He smiled, unabashed. “I will take it as a compliment.”

The next twenty minutes unfolded like an unexpected duet. We bantered. I cursed the instruction booklet. He apologized to it like a nerd. And I laughed way more than I’d anticipated.

Holding out a palmful of screws was my idea of ‘helping’. Somehow, he always picked the right one without looking.  

“These boards are identical,” I grumbled, holding up two that looked like siblings separated at birth. “I think IKEA’s real business model is emotional chaos and tears.”

“They’re different,” he said, leaning close. “One has three holes. The other has four.”

I held the two boards side by side squinting. “Four versus three. Guess subtle differences can change everything. Learned that the hard way.”

He laughed—eyes crinkling, chest shaking. “Sounds like there’s a story behind that.”

“Oh, there’s a whole anthology. Mostly red flags and furniture that never got finished.”

He bumped into my arm lightly. “I promise not to ghost mid-construction.”

I nudged him back, teasing him. “Bold promise. Next, you’ll be telling me you follow through on texts and build pillow forts like a pro.”

Clark tilted his head, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “I mean... where are your throw pillows and sheets?”

I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh. It was easy with him. Easier than it should’ve been.

“Don’t tempt me. I have been missing childhood whimsy.”

A quiet settled in as we finished the shelf. It wasn’t awkward in any sense. Just charged, a soft static lingering. Our fingers occasionally grazed when we reached for the same piece.

My hair kept falling in front of my face, and without a thought, he reached over and brushed a strand behind my ear.

His knuckles traced over my cheek. I froze. My breathing hitched, the warmth of his skin ignited something I’d been trying not to name. His touch was gentle like I was made of porcelain. And it made me want to cry.

Clarks fingers withdrew slowly, deliberately, as if he had felt it too.

He pulled away very slowly. Letting the moment sit.

Neither of us spoke right away. But the silence wasn’t empty—it hummed. I pretended to refocus on the bookshelf, but I could still feel the ghost of his fingertips along my skin.

I watched his hands as they tightened the last screw.

“There. Billy lives.”  

I blinked at the finished bookshelf. “We did it. We’re amazing.”

Clark grinned. “Amazing people deserve rewards.”

Was this his way of spending more time with me? I wasn’t going to complain.

“Cookies again?” I asked, very seriously. I’d devoured the last ones embarrassingly fast. Kept the plate longer than I needed to, too.

Although that would be a reward for me. Not for his hard work.

“I was thinking something better.” He offered a hand to help me up. “There’s a corner bodega with overpriced celebratory sodas and sandwiches that probably violate food codes—but they’re incredible. You in?”

“Yes, but I’m paying. As an official thank you for your carpentry powers.”

His fingers wrapped around mine. Warm. Grounding.

“Noble gesture,” he said. “But I feel morally obligated to battle you for the bill.”

He acted like one of those gentlemen you read in historical romance novels. And it made me swoon.

But he had another thing coming if he thought he was going to pay.

I arched a brow. “Then prepare for war, Boy Scout.”

It got me another glorious laugh, as I grabbed my shoes. I glanced at Billy from the doorway.

“You tried to win the fight Billy, but I have a Boy Scout.”

At the bodega, everything smelled amazing. Like every food item contained too much grease, and would clog your arteries.

He didn’t let me pay.

I tried. I even pointed at random décor and pulled a weak “made you look” move. He tapped his card before I could blink, like a magician with a sixth sense.

When I tried to send him money, he stole my phone and pocketed it with a shake of his head.

“I at least owe you pizza.”

“Sounds fantastic,” he said, holding the door for me. “You can come to my place.”

“We can build that fort too.” I winked. Half joking half not.

“I wasn’t joking, you know.” It came out as a whisper, almost shy around the edges. “About the fort. I think it would be fun.”

Clark looked down at his shoes, then back up, meeting my gaze with something steadier than before. “I like being around you. It’s... easy. Even when you’re threatening plywood.”

I wanted to respond with something cool, maybe funny. But the words dissolved. Because he didn’t say it like a pickup line — he said it like a truth. And I didn’t know what to do with that

My fingers curled tighter around the waxy soda cup as I looked at him—this man who smelled faintly of cinnamon and kindness. The breeze kicked up just enough to tug at his flannel, and I wanted to follow it—to see where this moment would lead if I didn’t pull away.

“Let’s go home.” I muttered out instead.

I needed to clear my head. Time to think. To figure out why his laugh made my stomach flip and why a shared screwdriver felt like something more.

We should be friends. Just friends. I can handle that.

Part Three

For those who wanted to be tagged:

I shift the box in my hands awkwardly against my chest, trying to rebalance the weight without dropping it. My arms were screaming at me in protest, and my wrists have gone numb. The hallway stretched on like some cruel mirage. Honestly, I could sleep for a decade and still wake up sore.

With a frustrated grunt. I dropped the box I labeled ‘Kitchen maybe?’ to the ground. And press my palms to my knees gasping for breath. The move was supposed to be a fresh start. A clean slate. A new life. But in that moment, all I wanted to do was melt into the carpet and question every life decision I ever made.

What am I even doing here? Who thought this was a good idea? Certainly not me.

It was me.

I barely noticed the footsteps behind me until a voice brakes through my mental spiral.

“Need a hand with that?”

I jerk upright. Almost falling over the box, but a steady hand catches my elbow keeping me on my feet.

He is tall. Like… stupid tall. Dressed in jeans, and a plaid shirt that was rolled up to his elbows. It looked soft enough to steal.  A pair of glasses rested perfectly on the bridge of his nose, somehow making him even more attractive. He doesn’t match the city’s usual sleek, hurried vibe.

There is something gentler to him. His smile is warm in a way that makes you want to be ensnared by its warmth. It’s the kind that probably shows up even when he is annoyed.

“I—uh—no, I’ve got it. I mean, I don’t have it. But I’m stubborn. And, you know, you could be a serial killer or something,” I blurt out, rambling very much like someone who hasn’t slept and has been living off adrenaline and corner-store caffeine

He laughs. It is a quiet, rich sound that spilled into the hallway like sunlight warming the sand at a beach.

And before I can say anything else embarrassing, he bends down picking up the box. It’s effortless to him. Like the thing is full of feathers, and not every piece of mismatched junk I threw in the box during my packing meltdown.

Where was this guy when I was lugging boxes full of books that nearly broke me?

“I promise I’m not a murderer,” he says with a teasing smile, gesturing down the hall with the box. “Which door’s yours?”

I eye his rolled sleeves again –Because how could I not— and take in the wholesome energy practically radiating off him.

“You definitely give off Boy Scout energy.”

Wow, I have zero filter right now.

He raises an amused eyebrow.

I point weekly to 5B. “That’s me. The one with entirely too much crap.”

He chuckles and starts toward the door. “I’m Clark by the way. Or Boy Scout. Whichever suits your mood. I live next door in 5A.”

I trail behind him, dragging my feet a little less than before. “Nice to meet you. Names Y/N,”

Once inside, he sets the box down gently next to the growing mountain of chaos and gives me that same easy smile.

“Welcome to the building, Y/N. Let me know if I can help you with anything.

"You definitely seem like the type who’s good with their hands," I said, flashing a grin. Not sure where that boldness came from, probably the three coffees I’d downed earlier.

He rubs the back of his neck, and the blush creeping up his face makes me feel like I won something.

I laugh, really laugh, and it feels genuine. For the first time in a long time, it felt real.

“I might take you up on that... assuming you’re not too busy stashing body parts in your fridge.”

Once again, I get a smile from him, as he waves before slipping out of my apartment. I watched him go, a little dazed, a little reluctant to close the door on the moment we shared.

Later, my apartment looked like a war zone. Half opened boxes lurked around the corners like active trip wires, daring me to break an ankle. I would’ve committed a minor crime for cup noodles. Maybe even a felony if it came with forks. Because mine were currently missing. Everything was packed in a manic frenzy that no longer seemed funny.

I inflate my air mattress in the living room and throw an old ratty blanket on it like it’s going to solve my problems. My actual bed won’t be arriving until tomorrow. Neither will my chairs, my sofa, or any semblance of adulthood.

Outside the city is buzzing, like it’s alive. A different rhythm than home. But maybe that is the point.

Around 9pm, I finally found my forks in a box labeled Bathroom Stuff??? which contains zero-bathroom items. Just some duct tape, loose utensils and a jar of paprika. Honestly, it feels like sabotage from past me.

Three soft knocks pull me from my spiral.  

I freeze; paprika jar still clutched like a defensive weapon. My heart does that thing where it trips over itself.

Was I being too loud? Did I break some unwritten “no ramen after 8” rule?

“Sorry, I’ll keep it down—” I say automatically, swinging the door open mid-apology.

But it’s not a complaint.

It’s Clark.

He is standing there with a plate of cookies. Fresh chocolate chip, if the heavenly smell is anything to go by.

I swipe at my hair instinctively, not to impress. Just to feel a little more human even though it was a lost cause. Earlier when I’d caught my reflection it looked like I had barely survived a tornado of packing tape and insomnia.

“I figured you could use some unpacking fuel,” he says, giving me that boyish shrug again. “And Ma would be disappointed if I didn’t give my new neighbor a proper welcome.”

I stare at the plate too long, trying not to melt at the gesture. As I take it from him, my fingers graze his.

They’re warm.

My stomach growls. Like it’s auditioning for a horror movie. It’s loud enough I know he can hear it.

“These smell incredible,” I say, a little breathless trying to distract from my hunger. “Did you make them yourself, or...?”

Yes, I’m prying. Sue me. I want to know if he bakes for a girlfriend. If he lives alone. If kindness like this is routine or rare.

“Yeah. Baking helps me think.”

I blink. The edge of my exhaustion softens. That…wasn’t what I expected. But something about the way he says it so softly. Like it’s more than a casual hobby. Like it’s therapy

“Well,” I say carefully balancing the plate in my hands. “Mission accomplished. I haven’t eaten anything that didn’t come from a box or vending machine in twelve hours.”

Clark gives me a worried look. “Maybe I should make a casserole instead.”

“I knew it!” I tease. “Your hands can do anything.”

That earns me a laugh. A real one. It’s not quiet, it’s loud and it echoes. It sinks into me like warmth I didn’t know I needed.

His eyes drift over my shoulder, surveying the disaster zone behind me. The air mattress. The leaning towers of cardboard chaos.

“Ignore all that,” I say quickly. “Temporary chaos. I swear I’m not usually this... unraveled.”

“No judgment, you should’ve seen me my first week here. I lived off granola bars and panic.”

There was no judgement in his tone. Just honesty. The tension in my shoulder starts to ease.

I let out a nervous laugh. “You really know how to roll out the welcome wagon.”

“Boy Scout instincts.” He steps back slightly but hesitates. Like he’s waiting for me to say something else. Like he wanted me to ask him to stay and help me unpack.

I want to. I really do. Just for a few minutes. Just until the cookies run out.

But I don’t say anything.

“Thanks again, Boy Scout.” I say softly. “Really.”

He nods. “Anytime.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

I closed the door slowly; the plate was still warm in my hands and leaned against it for a long moment. The cookies smelled like home. Like comfort. Like the beginning of something I didn’t have words for yet.

Maybe moving wasn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had.