R A T

The way you were so painfully desperate for company. How you trailed after Drake of all people like a dog. Your softness. Eager to please. Desperate for approval. All things he despised about you. You were a Wayne, by some miracle, so you should act like it. 

What irked him most was your obsession with family. You would insist that he could come to you if you needed anything.

“I know it’s kinda scary moving homes.” What did you want with him? Clearly you were trying to lower his guard. “Especially to a place like this. My first week here I got lost three times,” of course you did, “so if you need anyone to show you around, you’re in good hands-”

“My old home was far greater than this… hovel. I do not need anything from you.” he snapped. “I can manage myself.”

He remembered the way you fidgeted with your fingers. “Yeah, mine too, but listen-”

“Don’t compare your home to mine. You lived in a shoebox. I lived in a palace! I had dozens of servants and maids, you had nothing.” You two are not equals. You can’t be. If you’re both on the same page, why didn’t you have to endure what he had? 

“You aren’t my sister.” he hissed. “We aren’t family. Just because your whore mother opened her legs and pushed you out nine months later, that doesn’t make us family.” Damian looked disgusted by the very notion of sharing DNA with you. “We are not kin.” 

The sting of rejection was one thing, but the disdain towards your mother was where you apparently drew the line. The image of you standing to full height with a straightened back, without breaking eye contact, never left him. 

“I can take a lot of shit Damian. But don’t ever talk about my mother like that again. If you wanna be mean, fine, but leave her out of this. It’s rude to talk bad about people who aren’t here.”

A sly smile crawled across his face. “Then why don’t you walk down to the homeless shelter and get her?”

“She’s dead Damian.” You said it like it was obvious. 

Father had told Damian your story, or so he thought. He knew that you were his half sister, that you were in highschool, you couldn’t know anything about their nightlife, but he hadn’t mentioned that. 

He stood there, unable to respond. Not out of shame or guilt, but because this was the first time you’d said something to him without coddling him. You left after that, and he assumed you were going to go to your room. Instead you went to the cellar. 

The next few weeks were strange. You weren’t trying to include him in whatever you and Drake were talking about, or offering to take him out to the city. It was as if you were strangers. If you ended up in the same room you would just act like he wasn’t there. 

But after another week, you returned to somewhat normal. He could tell you were keeping him at an arms length, but you still tried with him. Damian would rather die than ever tell you this, but he was relieved that your cold shoulder came to an end. Pennyworth and Drake weren’t like the servants at home. When he was snide or cocky around them, they would ice him out. Father cared for him, but Damian still didn’t feel emotionally fulfilled. 

School wasn’t any better. His classmates should’ve treated him as their superior, because he was, but instead they would just talk amongst themselves. He knew they were laughing at him. When he tried to talk to his classmates, they would look uninterested in whatever he had to say. 

So when he came home and heard you talking about making plans with your friends outside of school, he couldn’t understand it. What did you have that he didn’t?

Over time the resentment faded. He accepted that you were just an unlucky accident. There was no comparing the two of you. And yes, maybe he didn’t mind it when you were the one to pick him up from school. Maybe he liked it when you asked about his day. 

Tim’s fist meets Kon’s cheek with an untriumphant hit that ends up hurting him more than it does his opponent. “What the fuck is this?” he whisper-hisses. He doesn’t want Bruce to see your face on the monitor. The video is paused, leaving your flirtatious smile- the one you used to squeeze into the line- suspended in time. Tim rips the cord from the cameras and the monitor’s feed dies. The other side of the cave is none the wiser. 

“You asked me to blend in!” Kon throws his hands up and rolls his eyes. “Look dude you don’t get it, you aren’t in the scene. When a girl like that hits on you, you’d have to be a freak to turn it down.” 

Tim can feel his blood boiling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Y’know, like, hot.” Kon shrugs like it's obvious. “Don’t freak out man, I was just doing my job. You needed visuals, I got them. Just skip to the end. That's where the important stuff is. And by the way, she was a total asshole to me, if that makes you feel any better.”

He wouldn’t give Kon the satisfaction of hearing it, but it did in-fact help. He tries to clear his head by plugging the camera’s cord into his laptop as opposed to the monitor. This way he can keep it from Bruce.

Unprompted, Kon continues. “She got pissed off about something and flipped out on me. Couple hours later she starts making out with me again. Weird.” He doesn’t notice the smile he’s making until Tim looks back at him. 

“Again?”

“What?”

“You said again.”

Kon kisses his teeth. Instead of answering like a normal person, he leans over Tim’s shoulder and skips head. Before Tim can protest, he shuts him up with “I told you to skip ahead”. 

The footage shows the night playing out. He sees the sped up version of you turning on Kon and cussing him out. For some reason, Kon’s eyes- and therefore the camera- lingered on you after you stormed away from him. Tim watches you, through his friend’s eyes, melt into the crowd. 

The night goes on. Every now and then he catches a glimpse of you. Each time you look worse. The light inside you gets dimmer. There’s a chunk of time where you seemed to have vanished. In the footage, Kon is now at the bar. Tim gives him a pissed off look. Kon scoffs. “Relax, Kryptonian. My metabolism works differently, trust me I was barely drunk.” 

You’re there again; you’ve been crying. The inky black tear stains under your eye make it obvious. There’s something behind your eyes. Tim can tell. You’re calculating something. He’s seen the same look whenever you two play a strategy game. You’ve never been good at keeping your emotions to yourself. 

Kon clears his throat. “Yeah, just skip this bit.” Before Tim can react, the screen goes black. He presses the spacebar on his laptop, thinking that the screen just fell asleep, but instead it pauses the video. Odd. The footage must've been cut out.

“I turned them off.” Kon admits. “Felt weird y’know. I’m a lot of things but I’m not a freak. Not that kind.” 

Tim nearly respected that. But this Kon, and you’re his sister. Those two worlds aren’t supposed to collide. That was the rule. Bruce told him that over and over again when he was Robin. Bruce’s logic was that if you knew about them, you would be putting yourself in danger. If someone wanted to lure Batman out, they could use you. Or if someone wanted to lure Bruce out, they could take you hostage and use your identity for ransom. Tim understood the theory, but not the ethics. Your life as a civilian and their lives as heroes were to run parallel. 

When the screen comes back to life the footage shows the crowd dispersing. The last song just played and everyone’s leaving. Kon’s following the crowd. And you. You’re at the curb and a car pulls up. He can’t see the driver. You slip in like you own it. Tim watches Kon’s attempt at flirting and feels relieved when you pay him no mind. The car drives off with you in it and Kon watches it go.

The footage continues. Kon meanders along the street until he finds the back alley. Down the alley Kon arrives where he was supposed to. The basement gig had been hosted under the record store. Behind the store, Kon finally does his job. There’s two vans, one black and one white. Four men, two from each van. 

“How many?” asks one from the black van. 

“Four tonight. He wants three tomorrow.” responses one from the white van.

“Getting greedy.” the other man from the black van comments with a groan. 

“Whatever. We’re still getting paid. How many you got?”

“We got three tonight. You two are slacking.” The first man from the black van groans. 

“So what? We met the quota. Head back before he gets mad. You ever seen that little bastard when he’s pissed? Starts hitting anyone near him with that stupid cane.” 

The men disperse into their respective vans and hit the road, both in different directions. Kon got their number plates on camera. Tim hates that Kon actually did his job. 

“The white one went towards the Queen’s river docks and the black one went to the East river,” he added. “I think they’re shipping them. The people I mean. Like sending them overseas.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Tim sighs. “If they’re selling the people then they’d want them in good condition, right? But they’re beating these people black and blue. They’d bleed out or get an infection in those shipping containers.” he runs his thin fingers through his hair, to self soothe. “It’s gotta be something else.” 

He looks up at Kon. “I’m not gonna say anything, okay?”

Kon tilts his head, like a dog.

“About that video. I’ll cut out the start. I’m not doing this for you.” He feels like he’s betraying himself when he cuts the footage, but he would feel worse if he let you down. He’ll talk to you later, he decides. 

Bruce watches the doctored footage with a scowl. He knows they're close. He adds another dot to the map, the spot you were at. The map is a sea of red. Each spot represents bloodshed and fear. The only spots free from the red epidemic are on the east side docks. Near the iceberg lounge. One spot in the west side stands brave like the last soldier in enemy lands- on the east side. A small nightclub. 

Before he can make a plan, there’s a light at the top of the stairs. 

“She left.” Damian’s posture is rigid. He’s afraid. 

Roy’s apartment is weird. Well, it's not technically his, but still. It’s painfully minimalist. Feels more like a hotel room than an apartment. He says his friend has to travel a lot for work. You guess that explains it. Kinda. 

The couch isn’t very comfy but you’ve gotten used to it. You hate that. Being used to it. You never meant for this to become a thing. It should’ve just been one night. You were gonna get the trip out of your system and never see him again. 

But it felt so good to be taken care of. To have someone ask ‘how’s it feeling?’. Not out of obligation. You came back to him a month later. Just to be held again. You didn’t intend on tripping that night, but you didn’t want him to think you were weird. What kind of freak hits up a dealer just to hang out?

That's how you ended up here, a couple years later. Everytime you come you promise it’ll be the last but you both know it's not true. You see each other every couple months. On purpose that is. But there are some nights when you run into him at a party. 

Guilt nibbles at your chest as you lay next to him. You feel like you’re using him. Sure, it's mutually beneficial- you get to escape yourself and he gets to feel like a good person, but you know that doesn’t make it right. But it’s hard to think that way when you’re with him. His chest is so warm and the sound of his heart is constant. Reassuring you that he’s here and not going anywhere. 

You can’t help but snake a hand up from your side and put it on his chest, just above his heart. The steady thumping feels so smooth under your palm. He doesn’t mind. Roy adjusts himself to get more comfy. The TV plays an old sitcom, probably one you’ve seen before, but you aren’t paying attention. 

“You ready?” there's almost a purr in his voice, and you feel the way it vibrates through him under your hand. 

“Not yet. Can we wait a little?” 

“Course.” he goes back to watching the TV and you fiddle with his shirt, pinching at the fabric and running it between your fingers. It’s cool to the touch and the material feels like that of a sports jersey. 

The sound of the live studio audience pulls you from your trance. They coo at the family in the sitcom as the group stand together in a group hug. 

“Nevermind. I’m ready.”

The tab dissolves on your tongue like a snowflake. It melts away until it's a miniscule multicoloured pulp on the tip of your tongue. There’s no flavour, but you imagine if there was it would be akin to an overly artificial cherry taste, the kind that never tastes quite like the fruit; overly chemical and sickly. You rest your head on his chest once you’ve let it fully melt in your mouth. Again, the rhythmic beating of his heart tethers you to the moment. 

His arms become anchors when they hold you in place. You don’t know why he does it. Every time you do this with him, he has a hand on you. He doesn’t ask, but you don’t tell him not to. So it works itself out. The TV is still playing, but you flip through the channels to find something else. You don’t want to look at that perfect family for another minute. 

After half an hour it starts to kick in. Colours spring from the mundane walls, trickling through the air like fairies. The TV sounds louder than it did before and you can feel every hair on your head. Through it all, Roy’s heartbeat is there. Your lighthouse. 

“Thank you.” You mumble as you play with his shirt again. He nudges your finger away, and for a moment you’re lost, but he puts his finger in front of yours, an offering. So you start fidgeting with his finger. Then you get greedy and take his hand. “I needed this.” 

“Getting bad again?” It's curious but not condescending. 

“My brother said I should go to rehab.” your voice isn’t as strong as you wished it was. “You know the one who moved? He comes in thinking he owns the place and says that behind my back.” 

“Thats rough.” 

You note that he doesn’t dispute it, but you won’t let that bother you right now. “I don’t wanna think about it, I just wanted to come here and get away from them all.” you fiddle with the ring on his pointer finger and trace the lines on his palm. The shapes come alive and wave around like ribbons in the wind. 

You lay in silence for a few more minutes, content to just be present with one another until he stirs and sits up. “I think I know what’ll cheer you up.” He leaves the couch and heads to the bedroom. When he’s gone you feel cold. The texture of the couch is coarse against your skin and the cushions feel too stiff. 

He comes back in less than a minute with a small plastic baggie. It’s the size of a dollar bill folded in half. Roy squeezes back into his spot and you take yours, head back on his chest, the heartbeat back right where you can hear it. 

“I picked these up earlier cus you sounded miserable over text.” 

You feel a little guilty for hamming up your emotions on the phone, but it leaves you quickly. “What is it?”

Roy has a cat-like smile, teasing. “You know what these are. You loved it last time”

In your haze you can’t focus on the bag. Everything else keeps distracting you. The colours have been turned up to their maximum contrast and they swim through the room with such grace that it's hard to look away from them. When your eyes finally obey you and find the bag through the maze of drifting colour, you see what it is.

In the bag there are three circular tablets. The smallest one is a mustard yellow colour, about the size of an earring back. The other two are the same size, although one is toothpaste green with a star symbol etched in its surface, and the other is a purply-whiteish colour with a smiley face. 

The Ecstasy takes another half an hour to hit. You and Roy split one of the bigger tablets between you, not wanting to go overboard. It feels like stepping off a rollercoaster, when your body is still adjusting to solid ground, and there's that window of residual joy and adrenaline before your body returns to normal. Except, the window doesn’t close, instead it flies wide open. 

You get easily bored on ecstasy. Your brain wants stimulation. It craves it like a starving mutt. “Royyy,” you drawl, shifting and sitting up, “I wanna go out.” 

Roy knows what that really means. ‘I’m going out, you can either come with me or stay here’. He keeps his hand on your back as you move. “Where to?”

Before you can answer, the door opens. For a moment Roy looks just as scared as you, until you feel his body relax. A man you don’t recognise walks in. He’s big, bigger than Roy, large broad shoulders and a wide stance. The stranger exhales through his nose, clearly annoyed at the sight of the two of you. You’re trying to stay calm, if you get anxious it’ll trigger a bad trip, and that's the last thing you want tonight.

“What the fuck Roy?” His voice is rough and gravely. He doesn’t sound mad, which is a plus for you, but he’s clearly irritated. 

“I didn’t know you’d be back today.” Roy huffs, tightening his grip on you. He tries to subtly pull you back down, but you don’t get the hint. 

“Sorry.” Your voice sounds unsure of itself. Testing the waters if it were. 

The stranger looks surprised that you’re actually speaking to him. His stance doesn’t change, he still looks defensive but something in his face softened- in a way that's weirdly familiar. The weight lifted from his eyebrows. 

Jason didn’t like leaving Gotham, because it was never permanent. He’d always come back to it. The way he saw it, if he didn’t leave then it meant he wasn’t coming back either. Schrodinger’s Gothamite. Coming back meant accepting that this was home. So when he comes back to his apartment after a three day mission tracking down a peddler who tried to escape his justice, he wants to decompress. Instead, he finds his friend lounging on a couch he didn’t pay for, with a girl he’s definitely seen before. The one he finds outside the apartment complex on Birch street. 

“We can leave.” You offer. Jason thinks his luck might finally be turning. The sooner you leave, the sooner he can get his gear and go to the cave. The sooner he can talk to Dick about the plans for tonight’s operation. 

Roy groans and tips his head back. ‘Yeah sure bud, you’re the one suffering here.’ As soon as you’re out, he’s gonna kick that redhead’s ass. 

“No it’s fine,” Roy palms his eye, “Look, Jason this is Y/N, Y/N this is, well you know. See, we’re all good here now.”

Jason might just peel you off Roy and pummel him now. It takes everything in him not to throw himself at his friend. 

“Jason?” you echo with a far off look in your eyes. 

Shit.

He’s praying to whatever’s out there that you don’t recognise him from your night time therapy walks. Although, it's not like anyone’s ever answered his prayers before. When you don’t say anything else, he counts himself lucky. 

“You guys gotta leave.” he says bluntly as he crosses the room to head to the bedroom. His helm rustles in his backpack, he feels the smooth dome of the helmet against his back. “I need the apartment.” he gives Roy the look and doesn’t say anything else before shutting the bedroom door behind him. 

“Is he mad?” You ask while you stand up, adjusting your clothes and accessories. You’re trying not to let this ruin your high but the embarrassment is hard to ignore.

“He’ll get over it. Not the first time.”

You know that the two of you aren’t exclusive. You’re not a thing. You’re just two people who can’t be alone without doing something you’ll definitely regret the next day. That’s it. You know that every time you make out with a guy at a party, or wake up from a club night in someone else’s bed. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. You wonder if anyone else needs his heartbeat as much as you do. 

“Let's go to that place on the East side. You know the one that plays music from the 90s?”

When Roy finishes getting ready, he knocks on the bedroom door to let Jason know he’s heading out. “Say hi to B for me. We’re gonna go to Destiny’s. Catch you later.”

“Who’s B?” You ask while putting your boots back on. 

“Just his boss, he’s working the nightshift.”

You motion for Roy to move over. Taking his place, you talk through the door. “Sorry again. I hope your shift is okay.” 

When Jason hears the door close after you, he waits twenty minutes before leaving. Small world. You’ve never mentioned knowing Roy before on your walks, but then again Roy’s never mentioned you either. Before, he thought you were just a drunk, but now he knows it goes deeper than that. He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Did she say where?” Bruce doesn’t want his fear to bleed into his voice. He has to stay level headed. Damian races down the stairs, two steps at a time until he reaches the group. 

“If she did, don't you think I would’ve led with that?” the youngest retorted bitterly. “She said she was going to a friend’s.” 

“Which one?” Dick questioned, only to be cut off by Tim.

“She’s not.” He says it like he’s saying ‘the sky is blue’, or ‘grass is green.’ Although, living in gotham, it should be ‘the sky is grey’ and ‘the grass is grey’

“How do you know?” Dick questioned with his arms crossed. His worry is evident through his eyes. 

“Because she doesn’t have any friends.” 

An uncomfortable silence floats throughout the cave, chilling everyone to the bone. It’s an uncomfortable truth. 

“She left without saying goodbye. I tried to stop her but she just…” Damian pauses, looking for the right words, “she got weird.” he concludes. 

“Weird how?” Bruce pressed. “What did she say?”

“It wasn’t what she said, she pushed me. Then she left.” 

The same silence invades the space again. Tim doesn’t want to believe it. You wouldn’t do that, right? There’s no way. Not over a party. Unless… . He wishes his brain didn’t go there, but it does. It’s the logical next step. 

“We can work this out.” Tim swears, and all eyes turn to him. “We’ll sort something out. Look, we'll get her back, keep her home, there’s still time, we can still do the plan tonight, it’ll be fine. She’ll probably bring herself home. She always does.” he can’t tell if he’s trying to convince them, or himself. 

“I could look for her.” Kon offers, and then shuts up when Tim casts a glare on him.

All heads turn to Bruce. He clears his throat. “We’re doing this tonight.” His decree is absolute. “The chances of her being there, out of every place in Gotham she could possibly be, is a million to one. Suit up. Once Jason gets here we’ll debrief and head out.” 

Tim has a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he swallowed a stone of ice. 

Jason drives his motorcycle to the cave. It purrs and roars through the evening as it turns into night. He hates how long the drive is, but at least it's scenic. As scenic as you can get in Gotham at least. 

He pulls in and notes the tension in the room. When he comes in, the group are huddled around a map. It highlights the alleyways and backstreets surrounding the one blank spot in the red sea. Anywhere that someone could be taken without anyone knowing. Blindspots. 

“The footage Kon gave us shows them talking about the abduction after the set ended. It ended just before One, so it must’ve happened during the set. I’m willing to bet they’re banking on the people inside being too distracted to notice a friend going missing, and the security being too busy dealing with the line and the people inside.” Tim recaps to the group, and now Jason. 

“So we need to be there before them. We should leave now.” his voice quivers at the end.

The music inside is made better with your high. It’s like you can feel it in your soul. Every note. It’s been about an hour. Roy gets you a drink. You can’t remember what you asked for but it tastes sweet and fruity on your tongue. He gets something bitter. You taste it when your tongues collide. Not the first time this has happened. You always regret it after. This won’t be any different. 

On the rooftops opposite the club, the wind chills Tim to the bone. Something about this is wrong. The same image comes back to him, the one where you’re bloodied and beaten. A lifeless husk on the streets. He won’t let that happen. He can’t. His binoculars focus on the alley behind the club. It’s got a stupid name. Destiny’s. Jason stands next to him. “God I hate this place.” he checks his pistol again. For the tenth time. He’s antsy about something. Must take something big to rattle the big bad Red Hood. 

Tim doesn’t look up from his binoculars. They’ve been here for half an hour and Jason hasn’t stopped complaining about his one sided beef with the club. Before Jason can answer, they have visuals. The same white van pulls up behind the club. It nestles itself in the alleyway. 

Tim doesn’t like using his phone on patrol, but that same terrible feeling rises in his throat when he sees the van. His first thought is you. “I’m gonna send a text, take over for me.”

Timbo Y/N, I’m not mad I promise but please stay safe tonight. I know today was weird but we can talk about it. All of us. Dick didn’t mean it like that. 

You feel the vibration in your pocket while you dance. Fumbling around until you fish it out under the lights feels like being a baby deer on ice. You can see Tim’s name at the top of the screen, but the lack of signal keeps you from reading the message. You grab Roy by the shoulder and hold your phone out, “I’M. GONNA. CHECK. THIS. OUTSIDE. NO SIGNAL.”

“DO. YOU. WANT. ME. TO. COME?”

“NO. IT’LL. BE FINE.”

On the roof, Jason watches a woman in a fur coat walk past the alley. The street is deserted. In the blink of an eye, two rough hands reach out and grab her. To his absolute horror, the club door opens at the same time, and a mockingly familiar face walks out. You. 

You only left to check your phone. That was it. You didn’t know that this would change your life.

You see the hands pull her away. You hear the screaming. For some reason, your body runs after her. You’re not a hero. You’ve always avoided hard work- always shied away from a challenge, so why now? It’s like you’ve been possessed. 

Stop. Stop running. Stop. 

Your legs have a mind of their own, sprinting towards the woman- she’s at the end of the alley now. The ground is uneven and you fall flat on your face. Good. stay down. No, stop, stop getting up. Why are you getting up? You beg yourself to stop but you won’t listen. Everything hurts and your run is uneven but that doesn’t matter right now. Everything feels too slow. You’re not going to make it in time. 

When you see her more clearly, you think you know why you’re running. 

If someone else was there, Mother would’ve been alive. Had someone intervened and made that drunk to leave her alone, she’d be alive. If someone, anyone, stepped in, your life wouldn’t be the mess that it is. She’d come home with your favourite dinner, and she’d hold you close until you stopped crying- the way she used to. You’d come home from school and wait for her to get back from work. She’d be tired, but she’d be there. She’d make you work hard at school and you’d probably resent her for it, but then you’d graduate and get a job. You’d make friends at work. You would have a normal life. 

You wouldn’t be alone. You wouldn’t search for a saviour at the bottom of a bottle. You would be more than… this. 

So you have to do this. No one else will. This woman is someone’s world. Everyone is someone’s person. You were, once. You were Mother’s world. If this woman is lost, her person will become you. 

You grab a piece of trash, a glass bottle, and hurl it as hard as you can at the man pulling her into the van. It ricochets off his shoulder and lands on the floor with an acute crash, sending broken glass everywhere. Under the streetlight, it’s almost beautiful. If you weren’t petrified. He staggers back, clutching his arm. His grip is gone. The woman weasels out of his clutch and darts towards you, toward the street. She doesn’t say anything to you, but when she passes you, you see her eyes. There’s a silent understanding. 

You’re too transfixed on watching her run. You don’t see the man regain his composure. When the shock passes, you start to run as well.  

There’s sharp noise from behind you. Like a plastic toy breaking in two. It splits the air. 

It takes you a second to realise what’s just happened. When you hit the floor, it clicks. 

You’ve been shot. 

“Batman- shit- shit- get down here now!” That's all Tim can say. His worst nightmare is playing out in front of his very eyes. He descends from the rooftop like thunder. ‘Not her- not her- please not her’. He knows it’s futile. They both heard the gunshot. 

Bruce was already moving the second he heard the bottle smash. Just like that night. In the blink of an eye, he was back in Crime alley. He was ten years old again. He should’ve been quicker. Your face paralysed him at that moment. Why were you here? Of all places. Why was this happening to him?

You’re face down on the ground. At first you don’t feel it at all. Then it comes like burning lightning down your spine. You scream in agony. Your brain goes haywire. It keeps pulling up things you tried to bury. It shows you Mother, in the morgue, when you were asked to identify her body.

The bullet entered just below your ribs from behind. You feel yourself spilling onto the floor. 

Footsteps come up behind you. A gun cocks. 

Then there’s an almighty crash. A human meteor. You hear roaring, the primal kind, and hate. Raw violent hate. It beats the gunned man to the ground with fury. 

“B..ba..batma..an?”

Your voice fights against the shock. When the frenzy of hate stops, silence. Heavy steps make their way to you and crouch. To your surprise, you’re being cradled. By Batman. You feel like you’re going to melt into a puddle any second now, so you grip his arm to steady yourself. It’s sturdy but uncomfortable. 

“Please… I’m not… I don’t want to die.”

Your voice shatters him. 

“I didn’t say goodbye… I always say goodbye… why- why didn’t I say it? I wanted to.” your grip on his arm gets weaker. “I know I’m a bad person… but I don’t... don’t want to die” it gets harder and harder to breathe, “I haven’t done anything with my life. I thought I had time-” pain like you’ve never known shoots up and down your body. You convulse in his arms. Unintelligible sobs fight their way out of your mouth. You nearly choke on them. “I don’t wanna die alone…” your throat tightens up. There is nothing you can do. Your begging doesn’t change anything. 

The ground feels like it's melting. So do the walls. Nothing feels solid anymore. The arms holding you feel like mud. You feel that you could slip through them. So you do. Trying to hold onto solid ground is so, so hard, and you’re so tired. Slipping away just feels easier. And you’ve always taken the easy way out. 

Not again. This can’t be happening again. He can’t be losing another child. Not like this. Bruce can feel your energy slipping away more and more as each second goes by. Your eyes start to close. No. No. No. He shakes you as hard as he can. Nothing happens. 

Red Robin and Red Hood are there first, with Nightwing and Robin tailing them. They take in the scene in front of them with horror. 

“GET THE BATMOBILE!” Bruce shouts, clutching you closer to him. 

“What happene-”

“NOW!” He cuts Dick off with an even louder yell. “GO!”

CHAPTER 8 IS DONE- wooo. This is the chapter I've been looking forward to/ dreading. A rollercoaster!

I hope you guys enjoyed this one and I can't wait to talk to u when you've finished!

as always inbox is open

There will be taglist 1 and taglist 2- taglist 2 will be a reblog bcs tumblr says i hit the tag limit last time :(

taglist (1):

It wasn’t cruel. It was worse. Flat. Final.

A door sliding shut between rooms you’d never be allowed to enter.

You watched the shift of muscle under his skin as he folded the outer layer with unexpected care — long fingers smoothing fabric he clearly hated wearing. When he turned at last, it was only to walk toward the far wall, toward the second futon laid out near the veranda doors like an afterthought.

Separate beds.

Of course.

The distance between the grand bed and that narrow futon felt like an ocean. Miles of untouched white silk. An entire sea you weren’t allowed to cross.

He dropped onto the futon without ceremony, loosening the last ties at his waist, then lay flat on his back. One thick arm thrown over his eyes. The posture screamed conversation ended louder than any shout.

You pressed your lips together until they stung.

The chandeliers kept glittering.

The roses kept exhaling their cloying sweetness.

The ancestors kept staring with dispassionate approval.

And you—still wrapped in every layer of silk and hope your mother had pinned into place — felt suddenly, violently ridiculous.

You slid off the bed. The rustle of fabric was deafening in the quiet.

He didn’t move.

You grabbed the nearest pillow — small, embroidered with cranes — and walked toward the servant’s door you’d seen him use. If you were going to be alone, you’d rather your tears fall where no one (especially him) could hear them.

The panel slid shut behind you with a soft click.

You found yourself in a narrow guest chamber — someone’s unused quarters, probably. Plain tatami, a single low table, a futon already made up with crisp white sheets. No chandeliers here. Just a paper lantern giving off gentle, forgiving light.

You locked the door behind you.

Then the tears came.

They rose fast, unbidden, hot. You tried to wipe them away with the silk sleeve, but the fabric only smeared them across your cheekbones, cool and useless against the ache spreading through your chest like slow poison.

You’d imagined love.  

You’d imagined laughter at breakfast.  

You’d imagined being seen.

Instead you were drowning in gold and silk and roses and paintings and untouched wedding gifts, while he was in the other room, on a separate futon, already asleep or pretending to be.

So happy.  

So pretty.

You sank onto the edge of the narrow bed, pillow clutched to your stomach like a shield.

The crying started soft — a quiet shudder that barely disturbed the stillness. Then louder. Because the sorrow had roots older than today. It had been growing for years: every time your mother spoke of “the right match,” every time your father patted your head and said “you’ll make someone very lucky,” every time you caught your reflection in a mirror and thought ‘I’m pretty enough, aren’t I?’ and no one ever answered.

You curled your fingers into the sheets. Something tangible. Something to hold.

You remembered the ceremony again: hours of standing in perfect posture, smiling until your cheeks ached, bowing until your spine protested. The endless bows, the murmured congratulations, the hollow exchange of promises that now tasted like ash. Toji’s mother had been there too. You did not know why she disliked you.

“She’s too soft. My son needs a woman who can endure, not a pampered flower.”

He hadn’t looked at you.  

Not once.  

Not even when the officiant placed your hands together for the symbolic knot — you’d felt the warmth of his palm for three seconds before he pulled away like your skin burned him.

You’d imagined that moment so many times as a girl: the first touch, electric, gentle.

Instead — nothing.

The room darkened as the last of the daylight bled away. Shadows pooled in the corners like spilled ink. The single lantern flickered, throwing soft gold across the tatami.

The grand chamber next door would still be glittering. Chandeliers mocking you with their frozen beauty. Roses wilting while no one noticed. Gifts piled high, ribbons untouched, promises forgotten.

And you — small against the enormity of everything — felt so insignificant. So unnecessary.

So happy.  

So pretty.

You let yourself fall forward, face buried in the pillow. Tears soaked the only silk in the new room. Sobs rose without shame now, muffled but raw.

Nothing filled the space where he should have been.  

Not the grandeur.  

Not the gifts.  

Not the roses you hated.  

Not even the gardenias you’d never ask for.

So you cried until your throat ached and your eyes burned and the lantern dimmed to a faint glow.

So happy.  

So royal.  

So pretty.  

So alone.

But it was your wedding night. And you were happy.

So you cried until sleep took you, still in your wedding kimono, still clutching the pillow like it was the only thing that hadn’t lied to you today.

—

The next morning arrived without fanfare, the sun rising indifferently over the estate, casting long shadows through the shoji screens. Sunlight sliced in thin, pale ribbons, turning the guest room where you’d cried yourself to sleep into something almost gentle. Your wedding kimono lay in a crumpled heap on the floor like shed skin — a reminder of the night before. You’d woken with swollen eyes, a headache behind your temples, and the dull certainty that nothing had changed. The world moved on, uncaring of your tears.

You dressed in silence — simple pale blue yukata, hair loosely pinned, no makeup to hide the redness. No one had come to help you. No maids fluttering with trays of warm water or perfumed oils. You weren’t sure if that was deliberate or if they simply hadn’t been told where the new mistress had disappeared to. But in the Zenin clan, women were expected to manage themselves, to be self-sufficient yet submissive. Toji’s mother had made that clear during your first visit as a betrothed. “Don’t expect coddling,” she had snapped, her eyes cold. “My son doesn’t need a weak wife.”

Breakfast was served in the smaller eastern hall, a long low table set for two. The room was modest compared to the grand chamber, with tatami mats worn from years of use, walls adorned with simple ink paintings of mountains and seas.

You arrived late on purpose.

Toji was already there, seated at the head, back straight, eating methodically. He wore a plain black kimono today — no trace of last night’s ceremonial stiffness. The food in front of him was untouched except for the rice and miso; everything else arranged in neat, colorful rows like an offering he had no intention of accepting.

You slid onto the cushion opposite him without a word.

A young male servant brought the trays — his eyes lingering on you a second too long, a soft smile playing on his lips. He had always been kind, sneaking extra sweets from his father (also a servant there) when you visited as a child, now bringing tea with gardenia petals floating on top, knowing your preference.

“My lady,” he murmured, bowing low as he poured your tea with extra care, his fingers brushing the cup. The other servants bowed once, twice, then withdrew to the edges of the room, eyes lowered.

You looked at the spread.

Grilled mackerel.  

Pickled plum.  

Natto in its sticky, pungent glory.  

A small bowl of something green and slimy-looking you didn’t recognize.

Your lip curled before you could stop it.

You pushed the plate away an inch. Then another. The porcelain scraped softly against the lacquered table.

A servant girl — barely older than sixteen — froze mid-step.

You didn’t look at her. You simply folded your hands in your lap and stared at the untouched food like it had personally offended you.

Whispers started almost immediately, too quiet to catch whole sentences but sharp enough to sting.

“…difficult…”  

“…typical of her clan…”  

“…spoiled little—”

Toji didn’t pause.  

He lifted a piece of tamagoyaki with his chopsticks, ate it in one bite, then reached for more rice.  

His expression never changed.

You waited.

Nothing.

No glance.  

No comment.  

No are you not hungry? or even the cold eat what’s given.  

Just silence and the slow, deliberate sound of him chewing.

Heat crawled up your neck.

You pushed the plate farther — enough that it nearly touched the edge of the table — and stood.

“I’m not hungry.”

The words came out smaller than you wanted. Petulant. Childish.

Toji kept eating.

You turned and walked out.

—

Two days later, the gardens.

It was late afternoon. The air smelled of wet earth and cedar after a brief rain. You’d wandered out alone because the house felt too large, too quiet, too full of people who looked at you like you were a porcelain doll left on the wrong shelf.

The Zenin gardens were famous for their beauty — stone paths winding between ancient pines, koi ponds so still they looked painted, beds of flowers arranged by season and color like living tapestries.

You stopped in front of a low cluster of blooms near the east wall.

They were small. Dull purple. Spindly stems. Nothing elegant. Nothing like the perfect white camellias or the pale pink peonies further down the path.

You wrinkled your nose.

One of the gardeners — a middle-aged man with dirt under his nails and a straw hat pushed back on his head — noticed your expression and hurried over, bowing low.

“Is something wrong, my lady?”

You pointed at the ugly little flowers.

“Those. They’re hideous. Chop them down.”

He blinked. Then paled.

“Those are… violet spider lilies, my lady. Very rare. They only bloom once every seven years. The previous head gardener spent decades cultivating them—”

You tilted your head.

“I don’t like them.”

The man swallowed. Looked around as though hoping someone would rescue him.

“We… we would need the clan leader’s permission to remove them. They’re part of the official collection—”

You smiled. It didn’t reach your eyes.

“I’m his wife.”

The words tasted bitter. Sharp. Like biting into unripe fruit.

“So just do it.”

The gardener bowed again — deeper this time — and backed away muttering apologies.

You turned to leave.

Toji passed you on the path a moment later. He was walking with one of the elders, mid-sentence, voice low. He didn’t slow. Didn’t look at the flower bed. Didn’t look at you.

Just kept walking.

You stood there until his back disappeared around the bend.

Later that evening you overheard two maids in the corridor outside your (newly assigned, still separate) room.

“…he had the whole patch dug up this afternoon.”

“Quietly. Didn’t say a word about it.”

“Not for her, though. Just… didn’t want the complaints escalating. You know how the elders get when tradition’s disturbed.”

You pressed your palm to the sliding door and closed your eyes.

He hadn’t done it for you.  

He’d done it to avoid trouble.

Or so they say…

—

Three weeks later. Preparations for the mid-autumn gathering — a formal ball hosted by the Zenin to remind the other clans exactly who held power this season.

The dressing chamber smelled of sandalwood and fresh silk. Three attendants fussed around you, holding up kimono after kimono. Layers of deep plum, forest green, muted gold. Each one heavier than the last.

They settled on one: rich aubergine with silver cranes embroidered along the hem. The obi was wide, stiff, patterned with subtle waves. The jewelry — onyx beads, a heavy silver kanzashi shaped like a crescent moon — was elegant.

You hated it.

Not because it was ugly.   Because it wasn’t enough. It didn’t sparkle.   It didn’t scream wealth.   It didn’t make you look like you.

You stood in front of the full-length mirror, lips pressed thin, eyes flicking over every seam and fold with undisguised disdain.

One of the attendants hesitated, fingers hovering over the next layer.

“…does it displease you, my lady?”

You didn’t answer.   You just looked at your reflection like it had betrayed you.

The door slid open. Toji stepped inside. The attendants froze.

He was already dressed — black montsuki with the Zenin crest stark against the fabric, hair tied back, expression closed.

He looked at you once. Then at the attendants.

“Out.”

They bowed so fast their foreheads nearly touched the tatami and vanished.

Silence.

He crossed the room in four strides. You didn’t move. He stopped behind you — close enough that you felt the heat of him against your back, but not touching. Not yet. His eyes met yours in the mirror.

Then, without a word, he reached for the discarded outer layer — the one you’d pushed aside because the color was too dull — and draped it over your shoulders. Rough hands. Calloused fingers. Careful anyway.

He smoothed the fabric down your arms, adjusting the fall of the sleeves with short, precise movements. No lingering. No hesitation. Just efficiency.

Then the obi. He took it from the stand, wrapped it around your waist, pulled it tight — firm, almost punishing in its neatness — then tied the knot at the back with a single hard tug. You stopped breathing for a second.

His knuckles brushed the nape of your neck when he reached for the kanzashi you’d rejected — the heavy silver one. He slid it into your hair without asking, securing it in place.

Finally, he stepped back and looked at you again in the mirror.

“You’ll wear this.”

His voice was low. Flat. Final.

You stared at your reflection. The dress still wasn’t perfect.   The jewelry still felt wrong.  

But something about the way he’d dressed you — hands steady, breath on your neck — made your stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with dislike. You opened your mouth. Closed it. 

He turned towards the door.

“Wait—”

He paused. Didn’t turn. You swallowed.

“…thank you.”

A beat. Then, quieter than the rustle of silk:

“Don’t thank me for doing what’s expected.”

He left. You stood there alone, heart hammering against the stiff obi, fingertips brushing the place on your neck where his knuckles had grazed.

The dress didn’t feel any better. But your skin remembered his hands. And that, somehow, was worse.

—

You couldn’t sleep. Again.

The guest room you’d claimed as your own had become a kind of voluntary exile — separate futon, separate silence, separate everything. The grand shared chamber still waited next door like an accusation, its enormous bed untouched except for the single night you’d almost cried yourself raw in it. You hadn’t gone back since.

Tonight the air felt heavier than usual. The house creaked: timbers settling, wind fingering the eaves, distant water in the garden gutters. You lay on your side, staring at the low table where a single lantern burned low, its flame trembling like it knew something you didn’t.

Eventually you gave up.

You rose, slipped into a thin navy yukata, tied the obi loosely, and padded barefoot down the corridor. The tatami was cool under your feet. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself in the small tea room at the end of the east wing — a space rarely used, intimate, almost forgotten. A low chabana vase held one white camellia; the scent was faint, clean, nothing like roses.

You slid the door open without thinking. He was already there.

Toji sat cross-legged on the tatami near the tokonoma alcove, back to the wall, one knee drawn up. A small brazier glowed between his hands, warming a ceramic sake bottle and two shallow ochoko cups. No servants. No attendants. Just him, the firelight carving shadows under his eyes and along the sharp line of his jaw.

He didn’t startle when you appeared in the doorway. He simply lifted his gaze — slow, unreadable — and held it. You froze.

For a long moment neither of you spoke. Then he tilted his head toward the empty cushion across from him.

“Sit.”

You obeyed before your pride could stop you. You knelt carefully, knees tucked, hands folded in your lap. The yukata pooled around you like spilled ink. The brazier’s warmth licked at your shins.

He poured sake into both cups without asking if you wanted any. The liquid glinted amber in the low light. He pushed one toward you with the back of two fingers — casual, almost careless.

You took it. Neither of you drank yet.

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, but thick. Like smoke you could taste.

You stared at the surface of the sake. Tiny ripples moved across it from the faint tremor in your fingers.

“…Can’t sleep?” you asked finally. Voice small. Almost swallowed by the room.

He exhaled through his nose — a sound that might have been amusement or exhaustion.

“Never could.”

You lifted the cup. The sake was warm, smooth, faintly sweet with a burn that settled low in your chest.

“You drink alone often?”

“Sometimes.” He took his own cup, downed it in one motion, and poured again. “Better than lying there staring at the ceiling.”

You nodded like that made sense. It did.

The lantern flame dipped, throwing his profile into brief gold relief — scar at the corner of his mouth, the faint tension in his jaw, the way his lashes cast long shadows when he looked down.

You didn’t know why you asked the next question. Maybe because the silence was starting to hurt. Maybe because you were tired of pretending you didn’t wonder.

“…What keeps you awake?”

He didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced the rim of the empty cup once, twice.

Then, quietly: “Regret, mostly.”

The word landed like a stone in still water. You felt your breath catch.

He poured more sake — for both of you this time — and leaned back against the wall, stretching his long legs out to the side. The movement was lazy, almost careless, but his eyes stayed fixed on the low flame.

You waited. He spoke again, voice rougher now, like the words had been buried deep.

“There was someone. Before all this.”

Your heart gave a slow, painful thud.

You kept your face neutral. Careful. You sipped your sake to give your hands something to do. He didn’t look at you.

“High school. She was… nice. Loud laugh though. Never looked at me like I was defective.” A small, private smile touched his mouth — gone so fast you almost missed it. “Called me Toji like it was normal. Like the name didn’t come with a curse attached.”

Rei.

He didn’t say her name yet, but you already knew. Everyone in the clans knew fragments of the story — the Fushiguro pariah who almost slipped the leash entirely.

“She wanted out,” he continued. “So did I. We had plans. Stupid ones. Run to some nowhere town, work shit jobs, disappear. No cursed energy, no clans, no elders deciding who gets to breathe next.” He gave a low laugh — hollow. “Thought we could actually do it.”

The warmth in his voice was quiet, but unmistakable. It wrapped around her memory like smoke around embers. The first real softness you’d ever heard from him.

And it wasn’t for you.

Your fingers tightened around the cup until your knuckles ached. You forced a small smile — practiced, pretty, the one you used at banquets when someone asked about your future and you wanted to look unbothered.

“What happened?”

His gaze flicked to you then.

“You know what happened.”

You did. The arranged marriage.   Your clan’s cursed energy lineage.  

The Zenin elders dragging their disgraced son back into the fold because he was suddenly useful again.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the brazier like it might give him absolution.

“It didn’t matter what I felt. It was decided.” The words came out flat, final. “They called me in one afternoon. Told me the papers were already drawn. Told me she’d be safer without me dragging her down anyway.” He paused. “They weren’t wrong about that part.”

A knife slid between your ribs — slow, cold, precise. You kept smiling. Kept breathing. Kept the tears locked behind your teeth.

He poured another round. This time his hand was steadier.

“I told her the night before the announcement. She cried. Not loud. Just… quiet. Like she’d known all along it would end like this.” His voice cracked — just once, barely audible. “She said she didn’t regret any of it. Said she’d do it again. Even knowing.”

He drank. You didn’t. The silence returned, heavier now.

You stared at your reflection in the sake — distorted, small. Then, because you couldn’t stand the weight of his confession sitting alone between you, you spoke.

“I had flings.”

The words sounded careless. Light. Like you were discussing the weather.

He glanced up. You shrugged one shoulder, forcing nonchalance.

“Before the marriage. Nothing serious. Just… boys from other clans. Tea houses. Late nights in gardens. They thought they were special.” You gave a small laugh — practiced, brittle. “One of them tried to write me poetry once. It was terrible. I laughed in his face.”

Toji watched you. You kept going, words spilling faster now, like if you talked enough the ache in your chest might dilute.

“There was this one from the Kamo branch. Always smelled like incense. Took me to see fireflies once. He thought it was romantic. I spent the whole night thinking about how cold my feet were.” Another laugh. “Another one — someone from this clan, actually, I don’t remember who though — tried to impress me with his technique. Summoned a shikigami shaped like a tiger. It purred at me. I told him it was cute. He never called again.”

You were careful.  

So careful.

Never once did you mention the real reason you’d slipped out of your own estate so many times as a teenager.

Never mentioned how you’d begged your drivers to take the long route past the Zenin compound.

Never mentioned standing at the outer wall, hidden behind wisteria, watching a tall, bruised boy train alone in the yard — shirtless, sweating, fists bloody, never once looking defeated.

Never mentioned how you’d memorized the rhythm of his footsteps on gravel, the way he tilted his head when he listened, the scar that curved under his left eye like a crescent moon.

You’d gone there for him.

Always for him.

But you wrapped those memories in careless anecdotes, flings that meant nothing, boys who were forgettable.

Because if you told the truth now, it would sound pathetic. And you refused to be pathetic in front of him.

He listened without interrupting. When you finally ran out of stories, the brazier had burned lower. The sake bottle was half-empty.

He looked at you — really looked — for the first time that night. “You talk like none of it mattered.”

You met his gaze. Steady. “It didn’t.”

He studied you for a long moment. Then he reached for the bottle again, and poured the last of the sake into your cup.

“Drink.”

You did. It burned all the way down.

He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “Get some sleep,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow’s another long day.”

You stood. Your legs felt unsteady — not from the sake, but from everything else. At the door you paused.

“…Toji?”

He didn’t correct the intimacy of the name. “Yeah?”

You looked back over your shoulder. “Thanks. For the drink.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just watched you go. You slid the door shut behind you.

The corridor was cold. You walked back to your room slowly, one hand pressed to your sternum like you could keep the pieces from falling apart. Only when the door was locked and the lantern extinguished did you let yourself sink to the floor.

Only then did the tears come — silent, hot, endless. You cried for the girl who’d stood outside his walls hoping he’d notice her. For the wife who’d just heard him speak his love’s name like a prayer. For the future that felt smaller every day.

You didn’t sob.   You didn’t wail.

You just leaked — quietly, thoroughly — until your yukata was damp at the collar and your breathing hurt.

So happy.   So pretty.   So alone.

And somewhere in the dark of the tea room, Toji stayed sitting long after you left, staring at the dying coals, the empty cups, the space where you’d been.

He didn’t move for a very long time.

—

Half a year slipped by like water through cracked porcelain — slow, quiet, inevitable. Seasons turned. Cherry blossoms bled pink across the estate grounds in spring, then scattered like confetti no one celebrated. Summer brought thick, humid air that clung to silk and skin alike. Autumn painted the maples in fire. Winter arrived with frost on the eaves and breath that fogged the shoji screens at dawn.

Nothing dramatic happened.   No grand fights.   No sudden declarations.   No nights of passion that rewrote the rules.

Just time.   Relentless, ordinary time.

And in that time, the marriage became something else entirely: a slow, domestic haunting. You learned the rhythm of him without meaning to.

The way his footsteps sounded heavier in the morning corridor when he hadn’t slept. The particular creak of the third tatami panel outside the tea room when he paused there at night, deciding whether to enter or keep walking. The faint scent of cedar smoke that followed him after he’d spent too long near the brazier thinking.

You passed each other in hallways more often than either of you acknowledged. Early mornings mostly.

You’d be heading toward the kitchen wing for tea — hair loose, yukata tied carelessly — when he’d appear from the opposite direction, already dressed in training blacks, hair still damp from the cold-water rinse he preferred. Your shoulders would nearly brush. The air between you would thicken for half a second.

His hand would rise — instinct, maybe — hovering near your elbow as though to steady you around an invisible corner.  

Never touching.   Never quite closing the distance.

You’d feel the warmth of his palm like a ghost against your sleeve.   Then he’d drop it. Step aside. Continue past

You never spoke in those moments.   Neither did he.

The servants noticed everything. They always did.

At first the whispers were careful, hushed behind sliding doors.

“…still separate rooms.” “…the bed in the main chamber hasn’t been slept in together once.” “…she cries sometimes. Quiet. But we hear.” “They’re like two ghosts sharing the same house.”

You overheard them once while pretending to arrange flowers in the alcove near the laundry corridor. Two young maids, voices low but clear.

“…poor thing. All that cursed energy and still can’t hold a man’s attention.” “…maybe if she gave him an heir—”

You crushed a camellia stem between your fingers until green sap stained your skin.

You didn’t cry then.

You saved it for later, alone, face pressed into the sleeve of a yukata that still smelled faintly of the incense you’d burned the night he spoke Rei’s name like scripture.

The domestic moments accumulated like dust on unused shelves. Small.   Insignificant on their own.   Crushing when strung together.

Mornings when you found the tea already steeped exactly how you liked it — black, no sugar, one slice of yuzu peel floating on top — left on the low table in the sunroom without explanation.  

You knew it was him.

No servant would dare presume your exact preference without being told — except perhaps, the young male one who did on your first day. But then again, it would be nice to think Toji himself did this.

Evenings when you returned from a clan meeting (forced smiles, endless bows, questions about heirs that made your stomach turn) to find the veranda screens already slid open, the night air cool against your flushed cheeks, and a single low lantern lit near the railing so you wouldn’t stumble in the dark.

You never thanked him.   He never asked to be thanked.

Once, in late summer, you woke to thunder so loud it rattled the beams. Rain hammered the roof like fists. You sat up, heart racing, childhood fear of storms rising unbidden.

You padded to the corridor.

He was there — standing at the far end, back to you, arms crossed, staring out at the storm through an open screen. Lightning flashed; his silhouette went stark white for an instant.

You didn’t speak.

You just stood there, ten paces away, watching the rain slide down his profile in silver tracks.

He didn’t turn.

After a long minute he lifted one hand and pressed it flat to the wooden frame like he was holding the storm back.

You went back to your room. The thunder quieted eventually. You didn’t sleep.

Another time — early autumn, leaves just beginning to turn — you found him in the garden at dusk.

He was crouched near the rebuilt violet spider lily bed (the one he’d had quietly removed and then quietly replanted months later, never explaining why). His sleeves were rolled to the elbow. Dirt streaked his forearms. He was replanting a single bulb that had been dislodged by wind.

You watched from the veranda steps. He didn’t look up.

You stepped closer anyway, bare feet silent on cool stone. When you were close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, you spoke.

“…You kept them.”

He paused, thumb brushing soil from the bulb’s papery skin.

“Didn’t see the point in killing something just because someone didn’t like the look of it.”

The words weren’t gentle.   Weren’t cruel.   Just fact.

You crouched beside him — careful distance, knees tucked under your yukata.

“…They’re still ugly.”

A low huff that might have been a laugh. “Ugly things survive longer.”

You looked at his hands then, scarred, calloused, steady.   They moved with a care you’d never seen him use on anything else.

You wanted, suddenly, violently, to reach out.   To trace one of those scars with your fingertip.   To ask if it still hurt.

Instead you stood. “…Good night, Toji.”

He didn’t answer.

But you knew. A small upturn of your lips ghosted your face. He had listened to your tantrum and had them dug out on a whim, before replanting them. You didn’t matter much to him after all.

Winter came.

Snow dusted the pines like powdered sugar.   The estate grew quieter, fewer visitors, fewer meetings. More silence.

You took to reading in the library at night. Thick volumes of clan history, poetry collections, medical texts on cursed energy manipulation — anything to fill the hours when sleep refused to come.

One night you fell asleep there — head on your folded arms, an open scroll of waka poems still spread beneath your cheek.

You woke to the sensation of weight settling over your shoulders. A thick wool haori, black, heavy with his scent, draped across your back. You lifted your head slowly.

Toji stood at the far end of the table, arms crossed, looking anywhere but at you. The lantern light caught the faint scar at his mouth.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. He simply turned and walked out. The haori stayed warm for hours after he left.

You pulled it tighter around yourself and went back to sleep right there on the table, cheek against ancient ink, his scent wrapped around you like an embrace he’d never give.

Days blurred. Weeks. You realized it in fragments.

In the way your heart stuttered when his hand hovered near your sleeve in the hallway.  

In the way you lingered at corners hoping to catch his footsteps.  

In the way you memorized the exact weight of his haori on your shoulders.

Loving him silently was killing you.

Not dramatically.  

Not with blood or tears or screaming matches.

Just… slowly.

Like a candle left burning in an empty room until there was nothing left but wick and smoke.

You caught yourself one afternoon in the mirror — pale, eyes shadowed, lips pressed thin.

You looked like someone who had been waiting too long for something that might never arrive.

You touched your reflection.

Whispered to it:

“…This is going to break me.”

The reflection didn’t answer.

But the words stayed in your throat for the rest of the day, heavy as stones.

That night you didn’t go to the library. You went to the tea room instead — the same one where he’d first spoken Rei’s name.

It was empty. You sat in the same spot you had six months ago. Poured yourself sake from the bottle that had been left there, untouched since that night. Drank alone.

The brazier was cold. You stared at the empty space across from you where he should have been. And for the first time in half a year, you let yourself admit it out loud — to the empty room, to the dying winter light, to no one:

“I love him.”

The words tasted like ash and honey at once. You laughed once — small, broken.

Then you set the cup down. Stood. Walked back to your separate room. Closed the door.

And let the silence swallow you whole.

—

The winter deepened, relentless and gray, the kind of cold that seeped into bones and stayed there. Eight months had passed since the wedding now. The estate had settled into a rhythm that felt almost normal if you didn’t look too closely. But looking closely was all you did anymore.

The whispers had evolved. They were no longer careful or speculative. They had teeth.

It started in the bathhouse annex one morning. You had gone early to soak alone, hoping the steam would loosen the knot that had taken up permanent residence behind your sternum. Two attendants were preparing fresh towels just outside the sliding door — young women, new to the inner household staff, still careless with their volume.

“…can’t even warm his bed after all this time. What kind of wife is that?”

A giggle — sharp, mean.

“Maybe she’s defective. All that cursed energy and no use in the bedroom.”

“Or maybe he just doesn’t want her. Who would? Spoiled little thing. Thinks the world owes her affection because her clan has money and techniques.”

You sat very still in the water. The surface rippled with your held breath.

They kept going.

“…the elders are furious. No heir. No intimacy. Just a pretty doll gathering dust in the guest wing.”

“…she probably cries herself to sleep every night. Pathetic.”

You waited until their footsteps retreated. Then you rose, dressed in silence, and walked back to your room with wet hair dripping down your back like tears you refused to shed.

You passed Toji in the corridor that afternoon. He was coming from the training yard — sweat-damp hair clinging to his neck, sleeves rolled, knuckles still wrapped in stained cloth. You were heading the opposite way, arms full of folded linens you hadn’t asked for but had carried anyway because standing still felt worse.

Your shoulders nearly brushed. His hand rose — habit now — hovering near your elbow as though to steady you.

He didn’t touch you.

He never did.

But you felt the warmth anyway.

You kept walking.

He kept walking.

Neither of you looked back.

That evening, at the small council meeting held in the main hall, the disrespect finally broke cover.

The room was lit with low braziers and hanging lanterns. Elders sat in rigid rows. Branch family representatives nodded along to discussions of territory lines and upcoming joint missions with other clans. You sat to Toji’s right — close enough that your sleeve brushed his once when you reached for tea. He did not react.

The topic shifted — inevitably — to lineage.

One of the senior uncles, a man with a face like old leather and eyes like chipped obsidian, cleared his throat.

“Clan head,” he began, addressing Toji but glancing at you, “the matter of succession grows urgent. Eight months is ample time for… progress. Yet we hear nothing encouraging.”

Silence fell like a stone. Toji’s expression did not change.

The uncle continued, emboldened. “Perhaps the lady requires guidance. Or perhaps—” he smiled thinly “—she is simply not suited to the role. Some women are ornamental. Not functional.”

A ripple of murmurs — agreement, amusement. Your head was bowed, looking at the ground, but fingers tightened around the teacup until porcelain creaked.

Toji’s voice cut through — low, even. “Careful.”

The uncle blinked. Toji leaned forward slightly.

“I said careful.”

The room went still. The uncle swallowed.

“…Of course, Master.”

Toji sat back.

The meeting moved on.

But later, in the corridor outside, you caught the tail end of another conversation — two younger retainers, voices careless.

“…he defended her. First time I’ve seen him speak up.”

“…probably just pride. Can’t have them thinking the Zenin head married a dud.”

“…still. If he wanted her, we’d know by now. Bed’s been empty since day one.”

You pressed yourself against the wall until they passed. Then you walked to the garden.

Snow had begun again, soft and relentless.

You stood under the eaves and watched it fall until your yukata was damp at the hem and your fingers numb. Toji found you there an hour later.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood beside you, close enough that his warmth cut through the cold. After a long minute:

“…You heard them.”

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded once. He exhaled.

“They’re idiots.”

“They’re not wrong.”

He looked at you sharply.

You kept staring at the snow.

“The bed is empty,” you said quietly. “I am ornamental. I have not… warmed anything.”

His jaw worked.

“…That’s not on you.”

“Isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

You turned to him then — eyes dry, voice steady.

“I’m trying, Toji. Every day. I try to be what you need. What they expect. What this—” you gestured between you “—requires. And it’s still not enough.”

He looked away. Snowflakes caught in his lashes.

“…I know.”

The admission was small. Terrible. You wrapped your arms around yourself.

“…Then why?”

He didn’t answer. He just reached out slowly, his hand hovering near your cheek.

You waited. He didn’t close the distance.

Instead he dropped his hand. Turned. Walked back inside.

You stayed until the snow piled on your shoulders and you couldn’t feel your toes.

—

Cherry blossoms were late that year; the trees were still bare when the invitations went out. The hall was filled with representatives from every major clan — Gojo, Kamo, Inumaki offshoots, even a few minor houses hoping to curry favour.

You wore deep indigo layered with silver embroidery, elegant and expensive. The kanzashi Toji had once placed in your hair still sat heavy against your scalp.

You did not flirt. You never had. But men noticed you anyway. cuz ur so fine #trust

A sorcerer from the Kamo branch, young and smiling, approached you during the poetry recital portion.

He complimented your posture. Your grace. The way the lantern light caught the silver in your sleeves.

You answered politely in short sentences, small smiles. He laughed too easily. Leaned closer. Asked if you enjoyed the recitals or preferred quieter evenings.

You said you preferred quiet. He took it as an invitation. His hand brushed your wrist when he gestured toward the garden doors.

Across the room, Toji stood with a group of Gojo representatives — Satoru himself laughing too loud at something, white hair catching every light. Toji was not laughing.

His eyes were on you. Fixed. Unblinking.

The Kamo boy kept talking. You kept nodding — mechanical now.

Toji moved. He crossed the room without hurry. Stopped beside you.

The boy faltered mid-sentence. Toji looked at him once. The boy bowed, deep, hasty, and retreated.

Toji did not speak to you. He simply offered his arm. You took it — fingers light on his sleeve. Outside, in the cold garden air, he stopped under a bare cherry tree.

“…You let him touch you.”

His voice was low. Rough. You pulled your hand back.

“…He brushed my wrist. Once.”

Toji’s jaw ticked.

“…I saw.”

You looked up at him.

“…And?”

He stared at the ground. Then at you. “I hated it.”

The words were quiet. Honest. Ugly.

You felt something twist in your chest, sharp, hopeful, painful.

“…Why?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Snowflakes — early, unexpected — began to drift down again.

“Because,” he said finally, “I have no right to stop it.”

The confession hung there.

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then he turned away. “Inside. It’s cold.”

You followed. But the words stayed outside with the snow.

The almost-kiss happened ten days later.

It was late; one of those nights where sleep refused to come for either of you.

You found the tea room lit again. Toji was already there, sitting on the same cushion, brazier low, sake bottle half-empty. You slid the door shut behind you.

Knelt across from him. He poured without asking. You drank.

The silence stretched, thicker than usual.

You spoke first.

“…Do you ever think about her?”

He knew who. Always did.

He stared into the coals. “Every day.”

You nodded. “…Does it hurt less?”

“No.”

You looked at your hands. “…I’m sorry.”

He glanced at you sharply. “For what?”

“For being the reason it ended.”

He set his cup down carefully. “You didn’t choose this either.”

“…I know.”

Another silence.

Then — quiet: “I don’t hate you.”

You looked up. His eyes were dark. Tired. Open. “I never hated you.”

The words landed soft.

You felt them settle somewhere deep. “…Then why do we…?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he reached across the brazier slowly. His fingers brushed your cheek.

You froze. He didn’t pull back. His thumb traced the line of your jaw — rough pad against soft skin. You leaned into it. Just a fraction. His breath hitched.

He leaned closer. So close you could count the flecks of gold in his green eyes.

Your lips parted. His gaze dropped to your mouth. He tilted his head. Breath mingled — warm, sake-sweet.

Your eyes fluttered shut. He was there — millimeters away.

.

.

.

.

Then he stopped. His hand dropped.

He shook his head once. And stood.

“I can’t.”

His voice cracked on the last word. He left. The door slid shut.

You stayed kneeling until the brazier died and the room turned cold.

Outside, snow kept falling.

Inside, something in you finally cracked. Later, much later, Toji stood on the far veranda.

Snow piled on the railing. He stared at his hands — the same hands that had almost held you.

He realized — slow, terrible, inevitable — that this was no longer duty.

It hadn’t been for a long time.

It was want. Need. Fear.

He wanted you.

And that terrified him more than any elder, any fight, any ghost of Rei ever had.

Across the estate, in your room, you sat on the edge of the futon.

You stared at the wall. And you decided — quiet, final, exhausted — that you could not keep hoping.

Hoping had hollowed you out.

You would stop. You would breathe. You would survive.

Even if surviving meant burying whatever this was.

Even if it meant burying the part of you that still reached for him in the dark.

The snow covered everything.

Soft. Silent. Final.

—

The cherry blossoms had long since fallen, their delicate pink petals ground into the earth by the passage of time and feet, leaving only the memory of their fleeting beauty in the minds of those who had seen them bloom. It was now the height of summer, the air thick and heavy with humidity that clung to skin like an unwanted embrace, making every breath feel labored, every movement a small battle against the oppressive heat.

The estate, with its sprawling gardens and ancient wooden structures, seemed to hold its breath under the relentless sun, the cicadas droning in a ceaseless chorus that filled the voids left by human silence.

Nine months had passed since the wedding day. Nine months of learning the intricate dance of avoidance, of carving out spaces in a shared home where paths rarely crossed, where glances were brief and words even briefer.

You had become adept at rising early, slipping through the corridors like a shadow to avoid the moments when he might appear, his presence a reminder of what was and what could never be. Evenings were spent in the library, poring over scrolls and books that held no real interest, their pages a shield against the loneliness that threatened to consume you.

The servants’ whispers, once sharp and cutting, had dulled to a background hum, much like the cicadas — annoying but ignorable, a constant undercurrent to your daily life.

You told yourself you were fine, repeating the mantra in the quiet hours when doubt crept in. You told yourself the ache in your chest was merely a habit, a remnant of the girl who had once dreamed of love in fairytales and stolen glances.

You told yourself many things, building walls of self-deception brick by brick, each one a small lie to keep the truth at bay. None of them were true, of course. The truth was a living thing, burrowed deep within you, twisting and turning, refusing to be ignored. But you pushed it down, focused on the routines that kept you functioning — the pruning of flowers in the garden, the careful arrangement of tea sets in the sunroom, the polite nods to attendants who averted their eyes as if your pain was contagious.

Then she returned.

Reiko.

The name came to you later, pieced together from overheard snippets and the way the servants' voices dropped when they mentioned “the visitor from the old days.” You didn’t know her full name at first, only Rei, as Toji called her — only that a woman had arrived at the outer gate just after noon on a day when the sky hung low.

She wore simple traveling clothes — a dark gray kimono that blended with the shadows under the pines, her hair tied back in a loose knot that spoke of practicality rather than vanity, no crest on her sleeves to announce her status. No servant escort trailed her; she came alone, a small bundle slung at her side, her steps measured and confident as if the estate were an old friend welcoming her home.

The gatekeeper bowed low — too low, with a deference that suggested history, respect earned from past associations rather than current power. His voice murmured greetings, words lost to the distance but tone clear: reverence and surprise.

You were in the east garden that day, the one tucked away behind the main hall, where the camellias grew in orderly rows, their leaves glossy and dark against the summer sun. Pruning shears in hand, you had come here because your hands needed occupation, something to channel the restless energy that had built up over the days.

The shears were sharp, honed to a fine edge by the gardener who maintained them, and the stems gave way with satisfying snaps, red petals drifting to the gravel path like drops of blood from a wound that wouldn’t heal.

From the raised walkway that bordered the garden, you had a clear view of the main approach — the long gravel path flanked by ancient pines whose branches arched overhead like protective arms, the inner torii gate painted a vivid vermilion that stood out against the greenery, the courtyard beyond where stone lanterns stood sentinel.

It was a view you had come to know well, one that offered a sense of control in a world where so little was yours to command.

You saw her step through the outer gate, her figure small at first but growing as she approached. The guards straightened, their postures snapping to attention as if an invisible command had been given. One of them murmured something into a radio, his voice low and urgent.

And then Toji appeared, emerging from the training yard at the edge of the courtyard, still clad in his black dogi, the fabric darkened with sweat across his broad shoulders and chest, hair damp and clinging to his neck in unruly strands.

He froze mid-stride, his body going still in a way that spoke volumes — a rare crack in the armor of indifference he wore like a second skin. For one second, just one, he looked almost young, the lines of tension that etched his face softened by surprise, vulnerability flickering across his features like a shadow passing over water.

Then he moved. He walked toward her without haste, but you knew that walk intimately now. It was the one he used when something truly mattered. They met in the gravel courtyard just beyond the inner torii gate, the stones crunching softly under their feet. She smiled. wide, unguarded, the kind of smile that belonged to summers long past, to stolen afternoons under shady trees, to whispered plans made in the heat of youth.

It was a smile that lit her face, making her eyes crinkle at the corners, her whole being radiate a warmth that seemed to draw the light to her. He didn’t smile back, not exactly — his mouth didn’t curve, his eyes didn’t light — but his shoulders dropped half an inch, the permanent tension in his jaw eased just enough to notice, his hands — those scarred, calloused hands that you had studied in secret — flexed once at his sides before settling loose, as if remembering how to relax.

You stood very still among the camellias, the shears hanging forgotten in your grip, the world narrowing to that single scene unfolding before you. She said something — too far to hear the words, but close enough to see the shape of them on her lips, soft and familiar, the cadence of an old conversation resuming without effort.

He answered, his voice low and rough, the same timbre he had used in the tea room that night months ago when he first spoke her name, like a wound that had never fully healed. She laughed then, the sound carrying on the humid air — bright, unselfconscious, clear as a bell ringing through fog.

It sliced through the garden like light piercing through leaves, reaching you where you stood, a sound so pure and joyful it made your stomach twist with an emotion you couldn’t name, something between envy and despair.

Your fingers closed around the pruning shears until the metal bit into your palm, the pain sharp and immediate. Warm blood welled between your fingers, trickling down your wrist in slow, sticky rivulets; you barely felt it, your attention locked on the pair in the courtyard.

They spoke for perhaps ten minutes, the conversation flowing with the ease of long familiarity. She gestured toward the bundle at her side — opened it carefully, reverently, to show him something small, folded, wrapped in pale silk that caught the light and shimmered like water.

He took it with both hands, holding it as if it might break, his thumbs brushing the edge once, slow, reverent, a gesture that spoke of intimacy, of shared history. Then he nodded, once, sharp and decisive, his expression shifting to something softer, more introspective.

She touched his forearm, light, brief, the way old friends do when words aren’t enough to convey the depth of feeling. Her fingers lingered half a second longer than necessary, a touch that could be innocent or something more, and he didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch or step back. 

Instead, he let it happen, his body language open in a way you had never seen with you, never with anyone but her, it seemed.

You watched until she bowed easy, intimate, the bow of equals rather than subordinates — and turned to leave, her steps light on the gravel as she retreated down the path. Until he watched her go, still holding whatever she had given him, his gaze fixed on her back with an intensity that made your heart clench. Until he looked down at the silk bundle in his hands, his expression unreadable but his thumb still moving in small, absent circles over the fabric, a caress that spoke volumes.

Then he looked up. Straight at you. Across the garden, across the distance, across every careful wall you had built in the last nine months to protect yourself from the pain of wanting what you could not have. His eyes found yours like he had known you were there all along, like your presence was an afterthought or perhaps the reason for the tension that suddenly returned to his shoulders.

Green, sharp, tired eyes that had seen too much, endured too much, and now held a glint of something you couldn’t decipher, perhaps regret or resignation or nothing at all.

You didn’t move. Neither did he. For one long heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single line of sight — him standing in the courtyard with her gift in his hands, you standing among the dying flowers with blood dripping from your palm, the air between you charged with unspoken words, unsaid truths.

The cicadas seemed louder, the humidity thicker, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like the sky itself. Then you turned away, the motion deliberate, your back to him as you walked back into the house, the sliding door closing behind you with a soft click that echoed in your ears like a finality.

And in that moment, something inside your chest caved in; not dramatically, not with a crash or a cry, but quietly, irreversibly, like a house settling on rotten beams until the floor finally gives way beneath the weight it can no longer bear. The pain was a physical thing, a hollowing out of your insides, leaving you empty and echoing.

You bandaged your palm in the privacy of your room, the cloth wrapping tight around the cut, but the wound went deeper, invisible and festering. You didn’t cry then. You saved it for later, when the night would come and the darkness would hide the tears.

—

The sickness came slowly at first, creeping in like fog over a lake, subtle and insidious. A heaviness in your limbs that you blamed on the unrelenting heat of summer, the way it sapped energy from everything it touched.

A faint ache behind your eyes that you attributed to too many late nights spent reading scrolls you didn’t care about, the words blurring on the page as your mind wandered to places it shouldn’t.

A tightness in your throat that you dismissed as dust kicked up by the warm winds that swept through the estate, carrying pollen and memories alike. You told yourself it would pass, that it was nothing more than the season's toll on your body, a temporary malaise that would lift with the first cool breeze of autumn.

It didn’t.

By evening, your skin felt too tight, stretched over bones that ached with every movement. Sweat gathered at your temples even when you sat perfectly still in the shaded sunroom, the fans stirring the air but offering no relief.

The servants brought chilled barley tea, their eyes lingering on you with concern they tried to hide; you drank it mechanically, the cool liquid sliding down your throat but tasting of nothing, as if your senses had dulled along with your spirit.

You retired early that night, telling the maids you were tired, your voice steady despite the growing weakness. They exchanged glances — quick, worried — but said nothing, bowing as they left you to the quiet of your room.

You lay on your futon in the dark, the yukata clinging to your damp skin like a second layer of misery, staring at the ceiling beams until they blurred into shadows. Sleep wouldn’t come. 

Instead, memories did, unbidden and unrelenting.

The way he had held that silk bundle; like it was precious, a relic of a life he had lost but never forgotten. The way her laugh had sounded like something he once owned completely, a joy that belonged to him alone. The way his shoulders had relaxed in her presence — something they never did around you, not even in the rare moments when his hand hovered near your sleeve in the hallways, a ghost of a touch that never landed.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your sternum, trying to ease the pressure there, but it only grew, a vise tightening with each breath.

The fever broke through in the small hours, crashing over you like a wave. You woke soaked in sweat, shivering despite the warmth of the room, your throat raw as though you had swallowed sand.

The room spun when you tried to sit up, the walls tilting at impossible angles, your vision swimming with spots. You managed to crawl to the water basin, the tatami rough under your palms, splashing your face with trembling hands.

The coolness only made you shake harder, your teeth chattering, your body wracked with chills that came from deep within. You crawled back to the futon, curling into yourself — knees to chest, arms wrapped tight around your legs — as if making yourself small could contain the illness, could keep it from consuming you.

And let the fever take you under, a delirium that blurred the line between reality and memory, where images of Toji and Reiko danced in your mind, their familiarity a knife twisting in your gut.

He found you at dawn, the first light creeping through the shoji screens in pale fingers. The door slid open quietly, the sound barely registering in your haze. Footsteps — bare on tatami, soft but unmistakable.

You heard the rustle of fabric as he knelt beside you, his presence a solid thing in the swirling confusion. A cool cloth pressed to your forehead — damp linen, smelling faintly of cedar from the storage where it had been kept. The touch was grounding, pulling you back from the edge of unconsciousness.

You cracked your eyes, the effort monumental. Toji.

His hair loose and tangled, as if from sleep or the lack of it, falling into his eyes in disheveled strands. His shirt untied at the collar, revealing the strong line of his throat, sleeves pushed to the elbow in haste. His expression was unreadable in the gray predawn light.

“…Toji?” Your voice cracked, small, hoarse, barely yours, scratched from the rawness in your throat.

He didn’t answer. Just dipped the cloth again in the basin he had brought, wrung it out, and wiped your neck, your wrists, the hollow of your throat. Slow. Careful. Methodical.

His hands — those same hands that had held Reiko’s gift with such reverence — were steady, the calluses rough against your fevered skin, but the touch gentle, almost tender in its care.

You tried to push yourself up, the room tilting alarmingly. His hand pressed to your shoulder — firm, not rough, holding you down with effortless strength.

“Stay down.”

You obeyed, sinking back into the futon, your body too weak to protest. The fever made everything soft at the edges — colors bled into each other, sounds echoed distantly, time stretched thin like taffy. You watched him work — silent, efficient, the way he did everything in his life. He wrung out the cloth with economical movements, folded it once with precise creases, pressed it to your temple. Repeated the process without pause, his focus absolute.

After a long while, he spoke — voice low, rough from disuse or emotion he wouldn't name.

“…You’re burning up.”

You laughed once, weak, hoarse, more breath than sound, the irony not lost on you.

“…Fitting.”

He paused, his hand stilling on your wrist, thumb pressed to your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin.

Looked at you — really looked, his green eyes searching your face like he was looking for something he had lost long ago, something he feared he might never find.

The words came before you could stop them — half-delirious, unguarded, pulled from the raw place the fever had exposed, the place where all your carefully constructed walls had crumbled.

“Would you ever cheat… on me?”

His hand stilled completely on your wrist — thumb pressed to your pulse point, feeling it race. He stared, the lines around his eyes tightening.

Then firmly, as if almost offended, voice cutting through the haze like steel through silk:

“No.”

The word landed absolutely. Uncompromising. No hesitation, no qualification.

You searched his face through the blur of fever, your vision wavering but your mind grasping for meaning.

“…Why not?”

“Because I said I wouldn’t.”

Simple. Final. As if honor was a chain he had forged himself, unbreakable even in the face of temptation.

“But I don’t understand…” You closed your eyes, the room tilting again, the fever pulling at you like tides. You whispered — barely audible, cracked and fragile:

“We don’t even love each other.”

The silence that followed was deafening, a void that swallowed sound and light. He exhaled — slow, ragged, almost pained, the sound of a man carrying too much for too long.

Opened his mouth to speak— 

A sharp knock at the door, cutting through the moment like a blade. An attendant’s voice, low, urgent, apologetic, muffled but clear.

“Clan head. The council requests your presence. Immediately. There is word from the eastern border — a potential breach, scouts reporting movement.”

Toji’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the muscle pop, his teeth grinding in frustration or restraint.

He looked at you, long, searching, his eyes holding yours for a moment that stretched. You looked away; toward the ceiling, toward nothing, the fever and the pain too much to bear his gaze.

He stood, the movement fluid but heavy. “I’ll be back.”

You didn’t answer. The door slid shut with a soft thud. You were alone again.

The fever pulled you under once more, a mercy in its oblivion.

When you surfaced hours later, the room was dim, the lantern lit low, casting golden shadows on the tatami. Someone had changed your yukata—fresh linen, pale green, cool against your overheated skin, the sweat-soaked one folded away.

Fresh water waited in a clay cup beside the futon, condensation beading on the sides. A damp cloth folded neatly on the edge of the basin, ready for use.

Toji was gone.

But his haori lay folded at the foot of your futon—black wool, heavy with his scent of cedar and steel. On it, a little piece of parchment, that read:

“‘It’s not like we don’t love each other.’”

Chuckling a little, you pulled it over yourself without thinking, the weight comforting, the smell enveloping you like an embrace.

Curled beneath it. And cried. Quietly. Thoroughly. Endlessly.

You cried until your throat ached and your eyes burned and your body shook with exhaustion, the fever amplifying every emotion until it felt like your very soul was weeping. Until sleep finally took you again, a blessed darkness.

When you woke, the fever had broken, leaving you weak but clear-headed, the sickness retreating like a tide pulling back from the shore.

You rose when the household rose. Dressed carefully; simple, elegant, impeccable. Pale silks that whispered against your skin, hair pinned neatly with ornamental kanzashi that caught the light. Perfect posture, every line of your body a statement of composure.

Ate breakfast alone in the sunroom; small bites of rice and pickled vegetables, polite sips of tea, no wasted movement, no lingering over the flavors.

Attended meetings with poise, nodded at the right moments during discussions of clan affairs, answered questions about heirs with small, polite smiles that never reached your eyes, deflecting with grace.

You no longer waited up for the sound of his footsteps in the corridor at night.

No longer lingered in hallways hoping for a glimpse of him, for that hover of his hand near your sleeve.

No longer smiled when he passed — only the small, correct bow of acknowledgment, eyes lowered in deference.

Your greetings became formal, stripped of warmth.

Good morning, clan head. Good evening. Thank you for the tea.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

The servants noticed immediately, their whispers shifting from pity to unease. They whispered less openly now, but you caught the glances, the furrowed brows.

Looked at you with something like pity — or fear, as if your coldness was a contagion they might catch.

You didn’t care. The wall was for you, not them.

Toji noticed too.

Of course he did.

At first, he thought it was the sickness lingering, the fever’s aftermath leaving you drained.

He brought tea himself one evening — black, with a yuzu peel floating on top, exactly how you liked it, the steam curling in delicate tendrils. Left it on the low table in your room without a word, his presence filling the space.

You thanked him — quiet, polite, the words flat. Drank it slowly, the flavor familiar but distant. Left the cup untouched afterward, rinsed and set aside.

He stood in the doorway longer than necessary, his frame blocking the light, his eyes on you.

You didn’t look up from your scroll, the words on the page a blur. He left, the door sliding shut with a soft sigh.

The next day he lingered in the garden when you walked past, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable, the sun casting shadows across his face.

You bowed — shallow, correct, the motion precise. Kept walking, your steps even on the gravel. He watched you go, his hands flexing at his sides, knuckles white.

The day after that he tried again.

Found you in the library — mid-afternoon, sunlight slanting through the screens in gold bars that danced on the tatami.

He stood in the doorway, filling the frame.

Asked in a low voice about the household accounts, a safe topic, neutral, something to fill the silence.

You answered, precise, polite, brief, numbers and figures recited without inflection.

Closed the ledger with a soft thud. Stood. Bowed. Left, your yukata brushing past him without contact.

He stayed in the doorway long after you were gone, his gaze fixed on the spot where you had sat.

His panic grew quietly. Ugly. A slow-building storm.

He drank more sake alone in the tea room — stared at the empty cushion across from him until the brazier died to embers, the room growing cold around him.

Sharpened his blades on the eastern porch until the whetstone sang a high, keening note and his fingers bled from the pressure, red staining the handle.

Walked the estate at 3 a.m. when sleep refused him — footsteps heavy on gravel, breath fogging in the night air, the moon a silent witness to his unrest.

Every time he passed your door he paused, his hand hovering near the panel.

Listened for any sound — breathing, rustling, anything to indicate you were awake, aware. Heard nothing but silence.

And felt something inside him fracture — slow, deep, irreparable, a crack spreading through glass until the whole thing shatters.

He told himself you were recovering, that the fever had left you tired, distant.

That it would pass, like the seasons, like the sickness.

But the distance grew, a chasm widening with every polite bow, every averted gaze.

You stopped leaving the tea room door cracked on nights when thunder rolled across the sky.

Stopped accepting the haori he draped over your shoulders when you fell asleep in the library, folding it neatly and leaving it on the table instead.

Stopped looking for him in crowds at clan gatherings, your eyes fixed on the horizon.

He felt it like a blade between ribs — twisting every time you offered that small, empty smile, every time your voice lacked the warmth it once held, even in its quiet way.

He thought you had fallen out of love, the affection he had sensed in fleeting moments slipping away like sand through fingers.

Didn’t realize you were protecting what little was left of your heart, armoring yourself against further pain.

You thought he still carried Reiko in every breath, her visit a reminder of what you could never be.

Didn’t realize.

Both of you miserable. Both of you wrong.

—

The fever had returned. It had lingered longer than anyone expected, a low-grade ember that refused to die out completely even after the acute sickness passed. It left you weak, your body heavy as if gravity had doubled overnight, your skin perpetually warm to the touch.

The servants brought trays of cooling broths and herbal teas, their footsteps soft and apologetic, but you barely ate. The food tasted of ash.

Your reflection in the small hand mirror showed hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes, lips pale despite the rouge one of the maids had tried to apply. You looked like someone who had been grieving for years instead of months.

The mid-autumn ball was approaching — three days away now — and the estate buzzed with preparations. Messengers arrived daily with invitations confirmed, seamstresses carried bolts of silk through the corridors, musicians rehearsed in the far garden pavilion until the notes drifted like falling leaves. Everyone moved with purpose. Everyone except you.

You sat on the engawa that afternoon, legs dangling over the edge, a thin shawl draped around your shoulders despite the lingering summer warmth. The garden below was still green, but the maples at the far end had begun to bleed red at the tips — early warning of the season’s turn. You watched a single leaf detach, spiral slowly downward, land on the stone path. It felt symbolic in a way you were too tired to articulate.

Footsteps approached from behind. Heavy. Familiar. Toji stopped a respectful distance away. “You’re still burning.”

His voice was low, rough from disuse or restraint. You didn’t turn. “It’s nothing,” you said. The lie came automatically now.

He stepped closer. You felt the shift in the air, the faint heat of his body cutting through the breeze. He crouched beside you, close enough that his knee almost brushed yours, far enough that no part of him touched you.

“You’re not going to the ball.” It wasn’t a question.

You finally looked at him.

His face was unreadable, but the lines around his eyes were deeper than usual, the scar at the corner of his mouth pulled tight. He had dark circles under his eyes. When was the last time he slept?

“I am going.”

He exhaled through his nose — sharp, frustrated. “You can barely stand.”

“I’ll stand for the evening.”

“You’ll collapse.”

“Then I’ll collapse gracefully.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You don’t have to prove anything to them.”

The “them” hung heavy—elders, branch families, allied clans, the entire suffocating web of jujutsu society that had arranged this marriage in the first place.

“I’m not proving anything to them,” you said quietly. “I want to go.”

He studied you for a long moment. The wind lifted a strand of your hair; it brushed across your cheek. His hand twitched as if to tuck it behind your ear, then stilled.

“Why?”

You looked back at the garden. “I really want to dance.”

The words were small. Almost childish. You hadn’t meant them to sound that way, but they did. You hadn’t danced since you were a girl, twirling in your mother’s garden under moonlight, pretending the world was kind and love was simple. You hadn’t danced since before the wedding, before the silence, before the distance became a living thing between you.

Toji didn’t laugh. Didn’t scoff. He just watched you. After a long silence he stood. “Rest today. Tomorrow we’ll see.”

You didn’t argue. He left without another word.

The next day the fever was lower, but exhaustion clung like damp silk. You let the maids bathe you, dress you in a simple yukata for fittings. The seamstresses arrived in the afternoon — three women from the capital, their hands quick and sure, their voices soft with deference.

The ball arrived.

The grand hall had been transformed — lanterns hung in tiers, casting warm golden light across polished wood floors. Screens painted with autumn landscapes divided the space into intimate pockets. Low tables groaned under platters of seasonal delicacies — chestnuts glazed in honey, persimmons sliced thin as paper, grilled eel glistening with soy.

Musicians played in the corner — koto and shamisen weaving delicate threads of sound through the murmur of voices. Guests moved in slow, elegant currents: Gojo representatives in white and pale blue, Kamo in deep crimson, minor clans in careful jewel tones, everyone wearing their power like jewelry.

You entered on Toji’s arm.

He had offered it without a word when you met in the corridor outside the hall. You had taken it — fingers light on his sleeve, barely touching. His muscle flexed once beneath the fabric, then stilled.

The room noticed.

Heads turned. Eyes followed. Whispers rose like smoke.

You kept your chin up, smile small and practiced, eyes forward.

The night passed in fragments.

Greetings exchanged with elders who smiled too widely and asked too politely about heirs.

Compliments on your kimono from women whose eyes lingered on your waist, calculating.

A dance with a Gojo heir who held you too loosely, spoke too loudly, smelled of expensive incense and entitlement.

Toji watched from the edge of the floor — arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his gaze never left you.

You felt it like a physical touch.

After the third dance you excused yourself.

Slipped toward the side corridor that led to the private retiring rooms.

The hallway was quieter, lit by wall sconces that threw long shadows. You found an empty powder room — small, elegant, a gilded mirror dominating one wall, a low stool, a basin of scented water.

You closed the door. Locked it. And the mask cracked.

You stared at your reflection.

The kimono was still perfect. The kanzashi gleamed. Your hair hadn’t slipped a single pin.

But your eyes were glassy. Your breathing was shallow.

The whispers had followed you all night — soft at first, then bolder as sake loosened tongues.

“…still no heir after nearly a year.” “…beautiful, yes, but what use is beauty without children?” “…perhaps she’s barren?” “…or perhaps he doesn’t touch her.” “…poor thing. Reduced to a womb that won’t open.”

Your worth reduced to a womb. To a vessel. To a function you had failed to perform.

The room tilted. You gripped the edge of the basin. Your reflection blurred. Black spots danced at the edges of your vision.

You swayed. The fever surged back in a hot rush. Your knees buckled. You caught yourself on the stool, but the world spun faster.

You slid to the floor — kimono pooling around you like spilled ink — back against the wall, head between your knees, trying to breathe through the nausea, the dizziness, the crushing weight of being seen only as a failure.

The door rattled. Locked. Then, a forceful knock. “My lady?”

A servant. You couldn’t answer. The knock came again — harder. Then the door burst open — wood splintering slightly at the lock.

Toji.

He filled the doorway, breathing hard, eyes wild for half a second before they locked on you.

He crossed the room in two strides. Crouched. Hands on your shoulders, careful, but urgent. “Hey.”

You lifted your head slowly. His face swam into focus. Green eyes wide with something close to fear. “You’re burning again.”

You laughed weakly. “…Always.”

He slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees. Lifted you effortlessly.

You were too weak to protest. He carried you through the side corridors — away from the hall, away from the music, away from the eyes.

Servants scattered when they saw him. He didn’t stop until you reached the private wing — your wing. He kicked the door to your room open.

Laid you gently on the futon. Pulled the heavy covers over you. Fetched water. Pressed a cool cloth to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, watching him exhausted. “…I ruined your night.”

He froze. Looked at you. Then — quiet, almost disbelieving: “You think that was my night?”

You blinked. He sat on the edge of the futon. His hand, rough and scarred, covered yours. “I dragged you there. You were sick. You shouldn’t have gone.”

You shook your head weakly. “I wanted to go. I wanted… to dance.”

His thumb brushed the back of your hand slowly. “I know.”

Silence. Then softly: “I’m sorry.”

You stared.

He looked down at your joined hands. “For ruining your night. For… everything before that.”

You swallowed. Tears welled.

“…You didn’t ruin anything.”

He met your eyes. “I did.”

A beat. Then, you said — barely audible: “What did you mean? That letter on your haori, when you were… away.”

He frowned. You quoted him, voice trembling: “‘It’s not like we don’t love each other.’”

His breath caught. He looked away.

“I thought you were talking about me,” you said quietly. “About how I… felt. Feel.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that could have been a laugh or a sigh or both.

“I wasn’t.”

You closed your eyes for a second. The lantern light danced behind your lids, orange and unsteady.

“Then who were you talking about?”

A long pause. Long enough that you began to think he wouldn’t answer.

When he did, his voice was quieter than you had ever heard it. “Me.” One word.

It landed like a stone in deep water. Ripples spreading outward, touching every memory you had collected of him — the hover of his hand in hallways, the tea left steaming on the sunroom table, the haori draped over your shoulders while you slept in the library.

“But… but Rei…”

He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at his own hands — scarred knuckles, calluses thick from years of violence turned to habit. His thumbs moved in slow circles over each other, an unconscious rhythm.

“Reiko came here to show me her wedding invitation,” he said. “She’s marrying someone from a minor branch house up north. Quiet guy. Good with plants. She smiled the whole time she talked about him. Like she used to smile at me, but… different. Lighter.”

You felt something loosen in your chest — small, fragile, dangerous.

“She’s happy,” he went on. “Really happy. And I—” He stopped. Cleared his throat. “I told her I was glad. Meant it. She hugged me goodbye. Gave me the invitation to keep, said it felt right that I should have it. Then she left.”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were dark, tired, unguarded in a way that made your heart stutter.

“She’s not my heart anymore,” he said. “Hasn’t been for a long time.”

The rain tapped harder against the roof, a sudden gust rattling the screens. You felt the words settle inside you, one by one.

Not his heart. Not anymore.

You tried to speak. Nothing came out at first. Then, small: “When did it stop being… her?”

“Hard to say exactly,” he answered after a moment. “Maybe the first time I caught myself watching you prune those damn camellias instead of thinking about what could have been. Maybe the night you cried in the guest room and I stood outside the door like an idiot because I didn’t know how to walk in. Maybe when I realized I kept leaving tea the way you like it even though you never asked me to. I don’t know. It wasn’t one moment. It was… all of them.”

You stared at him.

He looked almost afraid — like saying it out loud might make it disappear.

“I love you,” he said.

Quiet. Almost a whisper.

The words were plain. No poetry. No grand declaration. Just three syllables laid bare between you.

“I love you,” he repeated, softer this time, as if testing whether the world would end if he said it twice. “Not because I’m supposed to. Not because the elders want an heir. Not because you’re beautiful or powerful or any of the things they keep saying. I love you because you stayed. Even when I made it impossible. Even when I gave you every reason to leave. You stayed. And somewhere along the way I started wanting you to stay — not out of duty, but because the house feels wrong when you’re not in it.”

Your breath caught.

Tears welled without warning — hot, sudden, spilling over before you could stop them.

He reached out hesitantly, brushed one away with the pad of his thumb. The touch was careful, like he thought you might break.

“I didn’t expect this,” he admitted. “Didn’t expect to feel anything at all. Thought I’d just… endure. Like always. But you—” He shook his head once. “You made enduring impossible. Because every time I looked at you I saw something I wanted. And I was terrified of wanting anything again.”

You stared at him through the blur. “I love you too.”

The confession came out small, shaky, but real. His eyes widened. Shock, raw and unguarded, flashed across his face.

“You—”

“I’ve loved you since before the wedding,” you said, voice trembling but steady underneath. “Since I used to stand outside the Zenin walls as a girl and watch you train until your knuckles bled. Since I memorized the way you tilted your head when you were thinking. Since I begged drivers to take the long route past this estate just so I could catch a glimpse of you. I loved you when you wouldn’t look at me during the ceremony. I loved you when you left tea I never asked for. I loved you when you replanted those ugly flowers and pretended it wasn’t for me. I loved you every time your hand hovered and never touched. I loved you through every silence, every separate room, every night I cried myself to sleep because I thought you’d never see me.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks now — silent, unstoppable.

“I thought I was alone in it,” you whispered. “I thought you still carried her. I thought I was just… obligation. A duty you tolerated. So I stopped trying. I stopped smiling. I stopped waiting. Because it hurt too much to hope.”

He stared at you — stunned, almost disbelieving.

“You loved me,” he repeated, like he needed to hear it again to believe it.

You nodded. “Still do.”

A sound escaped him — half laugh, half sob, rough and broken. He leaned forward — slow — forehead pressing to yours.

You felt his breath against your lips — warm, unsteady. Neither of you moved for a long time.

Just breathing. Just being close.

The rain kept falling. The lantern flickered.

Then quietly, almost afraid — he said: “I don’t know how to do this.”

You smiled through tears. “Me neither.”

He exhaled shakily. “But I want to try.”

You lifted your hand slowly, and cupped his cheek. The scar at the corner of his mouth was rough under your thumb.

“I want to try too.”

He turned his face into your palm. Closed his eyes.

And for the first time in nearly a year, the silence between you wasn’t heavy.

It was soft. Devastating. Real.

And just like that; He kissed you.

It was warm. Soft. Exactly like your mother had described to you.

Loving. Caring. And so, so happy.

He didn’t let go for a long while. His fingers came up behind your back, as if to pull you in deeper.

You shifted slightly — enough that the loosened obi rustled against the sheets. The sound seemed loud in the stillness.

He looked down at you.

The moonlight caught the green of his eyes and turned it almost luminous, soft in a way you had never seen before. No armor. No distance. Just him — tired, unguarded, looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

You swallowed.

“I really did want to dance tonight,” you whispered. The admission felt small, almost silly after everything else that had been said, but it was true. “I’ve never danced with you. Not once.”

His mouth curved — just the smallest lift at one corner, the scar pulling with it.

“I know.”

He studied your face for another long moment, then slowly slid off the edge of the futon and knelt on the tatami in front of you. One knee down, then the other. The movement was deliberate, almost ceremonial. He stayed there, balanced on his knees, hands resting lightly on his thighs, looking up at you with an expression so open it stole your breath.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked.

The question was quiet. Almost shy.

You felt fresh tears prick your eyes — not from pain this time, but from something softer, something that ached in a good way.

You nodded.

He rose just enough to offer both hands.

You took them.

His palms were warm, rough, steady. He helped you sit up — slow, careful of the lingering weakness in your limbs — then helped you stand. The kimono dragged across the tatami with a soft hiss; you swayed once, and his arm slid around your waist instantly, steadying you without hesitation.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

You believed him.

He pulled you close — close enough that your forehead rested against his collarbone, close enough that you could hear the steady thud of his heart beneath the montsuki. One of his hands settled low on your back; the other lifted your free hand to his shoulder. You curled your fingers into the fabric there, feeling the heat of him through the layers.

There was no music.

Only rain.

Only breathing.

He began to sway — slow, simple, barely more than a shift of weight from one foot to the other. You followed, letting him lead, letting your body remember how to move with someone else’s rhythm.

Then he started to hum.

Low. Rough at the edges. Barely audible at first.

The tune was small, fragile, almost forgotten.

You froze.

You knew it.

You had hummed it once — years ago, when you were barely sixteen, standing outside the Zenin compound wall hidden behind wisteria vines. He had been training alone in the yard, shirtless, sweat gleaming on his skin, fists bloody from hitting a wooden post until it splintered.

His father had left bruises across his ribs earlier that day; you had seen them bloom purple under the afternoon sun. He hadn’t cried. Hadn’t made a sound. Just kept hitting.

You had watched until you couldn’t stand it anymore.

Then — soft, barely louder than a breath — you had started humming that same tune. A lullaby your mother used to sing when you were small and afraid of thunderstorms. Simple. Repetitive. Gentle.

He had stopped punching. Turned. Looked toward the wall.

You had ducked lower, heart hammering, certain he had seen you. He hadn’t. But he had tilted his head, listening.

And for a moment—just a moment—the tension in his shoulders had eased. You never told him it was you. You never told anyone.

Now — here, in the dark of your shared room — he was humming it back to you. The same notes. The same rhythm.

Memory and present colliding so hard you felt it in your chest like a physical impact.

Tears slipped free again — silent, unstoppable. He felt them soak into his montsuki.

His humming faltered for half a second. You pressed your face harder into his chest.

“You kept it. The song.”

“Kept a lot of things I never admitted to keeping.”

You lifted your head. Looked up at him.

His eyes were wet too — shining in the moonlight, unashamed. He leaned down. Forehead to yours again.

Still swaying. Still humming — fainter now, almost a whisper.

The dance slowed until it was barely movement — just holding each other, breathing together, letting the tune fade into the rain.

When it ended completely he didn’t let go.

Just stood there with you in his arms, rocking almost imperceptibly, like the world outside had finally stopped spinning long enough for the two of you to catch up.

After a long time you spoke — voice low, careful.

“They said things tonight. At the ball. About heirs.”

He tensed slightly. His hand smoothed down your back; slow, soothing.

“I heard them,” he said, closing his eyes. “I hated it. Hated every second. Wanted to break jaws. But mostly I hated that you had to hear it.”

You swallowed.

“It’s what they’ve always said,” you whispered. “Since the wedding. Since before. It’s my job.”

His arms tightened.

“Not to me.”

You opened your eyes. Looked up. He held your gaze; steady, fierce, tender all at once.

“I don’t want an heir,” he said quietly. “I don’t want a legacy. I don’t want a child because the elders demand one, or because the clan needs another sorcerer with your blood and my name.”

You tilted your head in surprise. He continued:  “I want a baby.”

The word landed soft. Different.

“Our baby,” he said. “Not for status. Not for power. Just… ours. A kid who might have your eyes. Or your laugh. Or your beauty. A kid we choose to make because we want to. Because we love each other. Because we want to build something together that isn’t about duty or bloodlines or any of the shit they keep trying to talk to us about.”

Tears welled again. You didn’t try to stop them.

“You’d want that?” you asked, voice trembling. “With me?”

He cupped your face with both hands — gentle, reverent.

“I want everything with you,” he said. “The quiet mornings. The fights. The nights you can’t sleep and I stay up with you. The way you hum when you’re thinking. The way you look when you’re angry. The way you look when you’re happy. I want kids if you want kids. I want no kids if you want no kids. I just want you. Whatever that looks like. Whatever you choose.”

You stared at him, stunned, aching, overflowing.

“I want that too,” you whispered. “A baby. Our baby. Not an heir. Just… ours.”

He exhaled; shaky, relieved. Leaned down.

Pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering, warm. Then, soft against your skin:

“Whenever you’re ready.”

You nodded against his chest. “Whenever we’re ready.”

He kissed your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your eye where tears still clung.

Then, slowly and carefully, he tilted your chin up. Your eyes met. No more words.

Just the question in his gaze, silent, patient. You answered by rising on your toes.

Your lips brushed his — tentative at first, trembling with everything that had been held back for nearly a year.

He made a low sound in his throat, half groan, half sigh, and kissed you back.

Slow. Deep. Real.

His hands slid into your hair — careful of the kanzashi — fingers threading through strands, cradling the back of your head like you were something precious. You opened for him; he took the invitation with a hunger that had been banked for too long, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that matched the slow sway of your earlier dance.

The kiss turned hungry. Desperate.

Years of want poured into it, every avoided glance, every separate futon, every night you cried alone, every time his hand hovered and never touched.

You tugged at his montsuki, fingers clumsy with emotion and lingering weakness.

He helped, shrugging out of the haori first, then the outer layer, letting them fall to the tatami in a dark heap.

Your hands found skin, warm, scarred, alive. He shuddered under your touch.

You kissed down his jaw, his throat, tasting salt and cedar and him. He groaned, low, wrecked.

His hands moved to your obi, slow, reverent, untying the knot he had tied earlier with such careful precision. Layer after layer fell away until you stood in only the thin juban, trembling in the cool air.

He looked at you, really looked — eyes dark, pupils blown.

“Beautiful,” he breathed. “So fucking beautiful.”

You felt it — believed it too— for the first time. He lifted you effortlessly, and laid you back on the futon.

Covered your body with his — careful weight, warm skin, heartbeat thundering against yours.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, while his hands mapped every inch of you he had never allowed himself to touch before. Collarbone. Breasts. Ribs. Waist. Hips. Inner thighs. 

Everywhere his fingers went, fire followed. You arched into him, gasping, needy.

“Please,” you whispered against his mouth.

He kissed down your throat, open-mouthed, reverent, then lower. Lips on your breast, tongue circling a nipple until it peaked, hard and sensitive.

You moaned, loud, unashamed. He smiled against your skin. Moved lower.

Kissed your stomach, soft, lingering, where one day, maybe, his child would grow. Then lower still.

He parted your thighs with gentle hands. Looked up at you, asking.

You nodded desperately. He lowered his head. Tongue, slow, deliberate, tracing you, tasting you, learning you.

You cried out, back arching, fingers tangling in his hair.

He groaned against you, vibration sending sparks up your spine. He didn’t rush.

Took his time, lapping, sucking, circling, until you were shaking, thighs trembling around his head, pleas falling from your lips in broken syllables.

When you came it was sudden, white-hot, shattering, your cry echoing off the rafters.

He didn’t stop until you were limp, panting, tears of pleasure slipping down your temples.

Then he crawled back up your body, kissing every inch he passed, until he was braced above you again.

Forehead to yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice wrecked, trembling with restraint.

You cupped his face.

“Yes.”

He reached between you, guided himself slowly. He pushed in — inch by inch — watching your face the whole time.

You gasped — fullness, stretch, heat. He paused, buried deep, giving you time to adjust.

“Still with me?” he whispered.

You nodded, tears slipping free again.

“Always.”

He started to move — slow rolls of his hips, deep, measured. Every thrust dragged against every sensitive place inside you. You wrapped your legs around him—pulling him closer, deeper. He groaned—head dropping to your shoulder—teeth grazing skin.

“Feel so good,” he rasped. “So perfect. Mine.”

Yours. Yours. Yours.

The word echoed in every thrust, every gasp, every shared breath. You felt it build again, slower this time, deeper.

He felt it too, pace quickening, hips snapping harder.

“Come with me,” he begged against your ear. “Please, come with me.”

You shattered first, clenching around him, crying his name.

He followed, hard, deep, spilling inside you with a broken moan — body shaking, arms trembling as he held himself above you.

He collapsed, careful not to crush you, forehead pressed to yours again.

Both of you panting. Sweat-slick. Alive.

He kissed you, soft, lazy, lingering. “I love you,” he whispered against your lips.

You smiled, tears still falling. “I love you too.”

He stayed inside you, softening slowly, holding you close. Neither of you moved for a long time. Just breathing. Just being.

The rain had stopped. Moonlight spilled brighter through the screens now.

And you felt so perfect.

So happy.

a/n: i wrote ts in 5h hope it isnt ass

Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.

And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you. 

If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.

The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:

It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.

But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid: 

It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.

Just so much for a girl in her twenties.

You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.

She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.

Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—

“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.

He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”

At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”

A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.

Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.

Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”

With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”

As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”

“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”

You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.

The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.

Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.

“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”

Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”

Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.

Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.

You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”

He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”

No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.

He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.

Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.

“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”

“Shut it.”

“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”

You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”

Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”

A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.

He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”

Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.

He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.

At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.

Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.

“James Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”

Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”

You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.

Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.

“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.

Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.

Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.

In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”

Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”

Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.

“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”

“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”

You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.

Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”

Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”

Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”

Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”

Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”

Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”

“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”

The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.

You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.

Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.

A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.

It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.

Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.

Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.

Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.

Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”

“Excuse me?”

“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”

“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.

“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”

“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”

His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”

To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.

You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.

Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.

You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.

“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.

You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.

He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.

Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.

An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.

At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.

Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.

Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.

It’s yours.

Goddammit.

Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.

[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]

[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]

[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]

You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.

The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.

A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.

It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.

Don’t beat yourself up over it.

It’s just one article.

Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.

What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.

You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.

Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.

He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.

“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”

Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.

The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.

You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.

You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.

You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.

A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.

You hear it. His voice.

“…Hey.”

Clark.

You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.

There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.

Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.

He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”

That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.

“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”

Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.

You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”

It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.

Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”

“It’s not.”

You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.

That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.

Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.

You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.

It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”

You choke on your own saliva.

“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”

Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.

Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”

He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.

“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”

His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.

“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”

Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”

His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”

“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”

“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”

Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”

There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.

“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”

You scratch your nose. “Sure?”

“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”

“…No.”

He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”

“Oh my God.”

“I warned you.”

“No, but—a thesaurus?”

“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”

“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”

“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”

“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”

He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”

“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”

You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he echoes.

A pause.

“Wanna hear another one?”

“Clark, please—”

“What do you call fake spaghetti?”

“I don’t even want to think about that one.”

“An impasta.”

You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”

Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”

“Of terrible puns?”

“Of coffee and emotional support.”

You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.

By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.

“You always carry tissues with you?”

“A man needs to be prepared.”

He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.

You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.

“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”

Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”

Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.

Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”

Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.

You like Lois.

You really, really do.

She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.

You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.

Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.

They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.

In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.

All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.

“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay?“

You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”

Jimmy blinks.

Then blinks again.

Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”

You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.

“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”

The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”

“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”

“Drop it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”

“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.

Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.

Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.

Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”

You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.

And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.

Again.

They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.

And somehow, that settles it.

The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.

The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.

The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).

You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.

The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.

You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.

He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.

“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”

You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”

He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”

“Well, are you?”

His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”

You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.

Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.

“Are you annoyed?” you ask.

His smile fades. “What?”

“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”

“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”

You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.

Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.

Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.

“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”

“She’d eat you alive.”

“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”

“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”

Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”

Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”

“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”

He smiles then. “The team.”

“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Carl.”

“Caro?”

“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”

“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”

You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”

“Oh. You sure?”

“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”

“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”

He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.” He’s already turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll grab our stuff.”

And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.

The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.

But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.

The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.

“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.

“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”

You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.

Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”

“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.

You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”

He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”

“How do you…?”

“What?”

“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”

“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”

“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”

“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”

“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”

“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”

Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.

He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”

“Excuse me?”

“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”

“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”

“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”

As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.

“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.

“You say that like I’m not honored.”

“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”

“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”

You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.

“Clark?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”

He pauses. “I had a feeling.”

You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”

Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”

You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.

By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.

You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”

“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.

There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—

An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.

He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me a call if it gets worse.”

“Only if I want to be carried again.”

“Happy to oblige.”

And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

You’re beyond head over heels.

Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.

Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.

Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.

You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—

“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”

“Clark told you,” you say flatly.

Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”

“I cannot believe he told you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”

“I hate you.”

He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”

“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”

“Not attention in general. Just his.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.

Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—

“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.

You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”

Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”

“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”

“...Okay.”

You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.

“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”

“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”

He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”

“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”

And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.

Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.

You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.

Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”

You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.

Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.

Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.

You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.

And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.

Your charger.

Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.

Jimmy Olsen.

You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”

“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.

“You left your charger here—”

“Don’t even get me started on that.”

“—but I already gave it to Clark.”

Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.

“You what?”

“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”

“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”

“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”

“Jimmy—”

“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.

You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.

Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.

In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.

“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”

You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”

He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”

You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”

He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”

You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.

“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”

You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”

He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”

He says nothing. So you keep going.

“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”

You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”

Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”

Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.

“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”

“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”

And so he begins to read.

You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.

“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”

“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”

“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”

Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”

“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.

You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.

He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.

“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”

“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”

When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.

You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”

“Do what?”

Does he want you to say it?

You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.

That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.

One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.

His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”

You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.

Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.

You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.

He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.

“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”

A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.

Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.

At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.

It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.

He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.

Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.

Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.

And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.

At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.

Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.

Then:

“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.

That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”

He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”

He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.

You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”

“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.

“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”

“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”

“How noble of you, Kent.”

Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.

But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.

Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.

It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.

Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.

One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”

Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.

Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”

He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”

“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”

“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”

Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”

Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.

Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”

The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Mr. Kent.”

His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”

He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”

“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”

“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”

It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”

His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.

As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.

Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.

Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.

You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.

There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.

You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.

Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.

The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.

Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.

Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.

Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.

And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.

The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.

Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.

The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.

Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”

You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.

You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.

Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.

“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”

He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.

Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”

His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”

If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.

Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.

In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.

His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.

For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.

A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.

You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."

He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.

Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”

“I told you—”

“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”

He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Disappointed, then?”

“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”

He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”

You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”

That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”

“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”

“I’ve been telling you—”

“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”

“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”

“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”

“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.

Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”

“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”

You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”

“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"

“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”

Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.

He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”

“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.

“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”

Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.

The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.

One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.

You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.

Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.

He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.

It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.

Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.

Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.

But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.

You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.

Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.

Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.

Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.

Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.

His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”

You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”

He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”

“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”

He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.

His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.

Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”

You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to know.”

“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”

“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”

For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.

Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.

So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”

“Then you know what comes next.”

Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.

It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.

Sleep won’t come.

You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.

So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—

You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.

And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.

It all makes you wonder where Superman is.

He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.

You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.

Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”

It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.

You can’t look away.

The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.

For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—

No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.

Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.

“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”

Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.

Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”

You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.

Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.

There he is.

Clark.

Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.

Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.

Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.

Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.

Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.

Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.

If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.

If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.

They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.

Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.

You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.

The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.

The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.

Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.

For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.

Straight through you.

Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”

You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.

He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.

You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.

Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.

Gone.

You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.

“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”

The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.

Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”

Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside

At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.

“Clark—”

“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”

It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.

They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?

“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”

Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.

You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?

“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”

You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.

In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.

“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them.  “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”

You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.

Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.

The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.

He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.

A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.

“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”

You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.

“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”

His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment.  “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”

So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.

“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment.  “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.

There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”

“What do you mean—”

“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”

Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”

It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

“Again. Please.”

You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”

He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”

“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.

Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.

But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you

He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.

You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”

“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”

“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”

You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”

“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”

A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”

“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”

Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”

“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”

Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”

“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.

“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous

Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.

He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”

“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”

Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.

“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”

You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.

You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth.  “I came as well. Mentally.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”

“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.

Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.

“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”

Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.

“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”

You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.

“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”

It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.

His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.

“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.

“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”

Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.

This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.

When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.

He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—

Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.

Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.

Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.

By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.

You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.

He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?

“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”

And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.

The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.

Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.

At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.

To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.

“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”

You slow your pace but don’t let go.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.

You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.

“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”

“Baby, I swear—”

“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”

“Then you deserve it.”

“But twice?”

“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”

One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.

“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”

He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.

Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.

In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.

Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.

His voice is low.  “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”

“Condom?”

He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

“I told you you could come inside me.”

That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.

“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.

He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.

“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”

“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”

Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bare.”

“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”

He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”

“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”

“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”

He pushes in.

At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.

“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”

“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”

“Want me to kiss you?”

He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”

You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”

“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”

His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.

“Why not?”

“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”

It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.

As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.

Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.

He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.

The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.

It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.

“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.

The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.

You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.

“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.

It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.

His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.

You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.

“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.

“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”

And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.

He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.

Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.

You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.

He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.

“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”

You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.

The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”

You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”

“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”

You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.

There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.

“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.

A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”

“What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”

“That… was a weird route to get there.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”

You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”

“It was like a week ago.”

“We weren’t even speaking.”

He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”

“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”

“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”

“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”

“Oh. Right. I guess I—”

“Are you going to?”

“I—would you want to?”

You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”

When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”

At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.

Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.

Somehow, it feels even truer in his.

Thus the days passed, then weeks. You found yourself ignoring Clark with a painful but necessary discipline. You learned not to look at his gestures, not to expect smiles, not to imagine attentions that would never come. You had always been the observer, and now you decided to give that up too: a rest for your heart after so many accumulated disappointments in life.

You sank into a simple routine: arrive at work, do your duty, and go straight home. You allowed yourself a smile with Jimmy, a conversation with Lois —who, surprisingly, helped you get passes to exclusive restaurants—, but nothing more. You understood that your world should not revolve around someone who did not revolve around you.

“To my office,” ordered Perry, pointing at you from the doorway.

You looked at him with tiredness. Autumn had left with Halloween, and now Christmas decorations hung from the walls with twinkling lights. For some reason, they seemed less cruel. You stood up and followed him.

“Are you going to fire me?” you asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Perry let out a deep laugh.

“You’re the only one who manages to make me laugh,” he said sarcastically.

You smiled with slight relief, until he raised a finger asking for patience.

“Give me a second.” He picked up the phone. “Karen, put him through.”

He set the receiver down and turned back to you with seriousness.

“Your restaurant reviews have been excellent. So much so that the Metropolitan Gazette of London wants to collaborate with us. They want to cover Metropolis’s gastronomic side, to show the cultural diversity here, ‘the Babel Corridor.’”

Your eyes widened.

“The Gazette?” you asked, almost breathless. “That’s… impossible. The mixed-restaurant district is chaos. There are too many.”

“I know,” said Perry, raising his eyebrows. “You’re not going to cover them one by one. In fact, it’s not for you to investigate them, but because you yourself will be the one interviewed.”

Your surprise barely had time to settle when the door opened.

“There you are, boy!” exclaimed Perry with enthusiasm, rising from his chair. You turned, and your breath caught in your chest.

A man with green eyes and light blond hair stood in front of you, wearing a cordial smile and an outstretched hand.

“She’s the one I was telling you about,” Perry explained, introducing you with evident pride. “She’s excellent.”

“Adam Hall, food reporter for the Gazette of London,” the blond man introduced himself, shaking your hand with firmness and contagious warmth.

“Nice to meet you,” you murmured, still confused, glancing at Perry as if waiting for clarification.

The editor adjusted his glasses and explained:

“Adam will stay for a week. Enough to write a feature on Metropolis’s Babel Corridor. We’ll have a section in London to show how diverse our city is. I want you to be his guide. He’ll interview you, and it will be a formal collaboration. Can I trust you?”

You took a deep breath, swallowed your initial doubt, and finally nodded with determination.

“Of course, of course I can.”

Adam smiled with satisfaction, releasing your hand with an elegant gesture.

“I’m sure it will be a fantastic experience.”

Perry smiled, pleased, and slapped the desk with his palm.

“Then I’ll leave it in your hands. Go ahead.”

Adam nodded. You did too. And, for the first time in weeks, you felt that something in your life was opening up to a new path that had nothing to do with Clark Kent.

You left Perry’s office and were still trying to process what had happened. Adam walked beside you with an enchanting natural ease, carrying his notebook and with a calm smile on his face. He was a stranger in Metropolis, but he seemed to fit in like a fish in water.

The newsroom was in its usual bustle: phones ringing, reporters arguing over headlines, keyboards clattering like an army. Jimmy was the first to lift his head from his desk when he saw you approaching.

“Hey!” he greeted with that smile that always seemed a little mischievous. “And who are you? A new Planet recruit?”

You stepped forward.

“Jimmy, this is Adam Hall, food reporter for the Gazette of London. We’re going to collaborate with them.”

Adam extended his hand with a friendly gesture.

“A pleasure, Jimmy. I’ve heard a lot about the Daily Planet’s photography section.”

Jimmy’s eyes lit up.

“Really?” he asked, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. “Well, well… I suppose it was about time someone over in London recognized my talent.”

“Of course,” Adam laughed, playing along with ease.

Lois appeared behind, adjusting her jacket while organizing some papers.

“What’s all the fuss about here?” she asked, looking up.

“Lois, this is Adam Hall,” you said calmly, careful to sound confident. “He’s from the Gazette of London for a feature on Metropolis’s Babel Corridor.”

Lois raised her eyebrows, surprised, and immediately smiled with that natural confidence that characterized her.

“Wow, London.” She shook his hand firmly. “Welcome to the chaos of the loudest city on the planet. I hope you’re ready.”

Adam let out a soft laugh.

“I have the best guide, so I think I’ll survive.”

Lois looked at you and nodded with complicity.

“Of course. She knows every corner.”

Jimmy clicked his tongue in mock annoyance.

“I knew she’d end up going international.”

Adam smiled.

“Well, I hope you’ll show me your favorite places. Nothing better than someone who knows the city from the inside.”

You nodded, gathering your things.

“Yes, we’ll start today. Perry wants to make the most of the week.”

Lois tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and joked:

“You’ll see, Adam, this girl has a better eye for restaurants than Perry himself does for headlines.”

Jimmy chuckled softly, amused by Lois’s comment, and you only shook your head, blushing against your will.

For a second, you felt that strange sensation: the certainty that someone was watching you. You turned slowly, and there was Clark, sitting at his desk. He pretended to look through a pile of papers, but his blue eyes drifted again and again toward the group.

Your chest tightened. Was he looking at you? The thought lasted only a moment before dissipating. No… of course not. Lois, with her light laugh, was joking with Adam as if they’d known each other forever. And Clark… Clark was watching that. You knew it. It made sense: his attention always ended up on Lois.

You looked away immediately, your heart weighing like stone. You repeated the same thing you had in recent days: he doesn’t care what I do. Even if I went away with Adam to the ends of the earth, he wouldn’t even notice.

“Shall we go?” asked Adam, adjusting the notebook against his chest with that polite smile that looked like it came straight out of a magazine.

“Yes, of course,” you replied firmly, hiding any trace of what was happening inside you.

You didn’t say anything else. You simply invited him with a gesture to follow you. Jimmy raised his eyebrows, amused, as if he wanted to throw a joke at you, but you preferred to ignore him. Lois gave you an encouraging smile, and Clark… well, Clark said nothing.

Only when you passed near his desk did you dare to lift your gaze. He lowered his eyes back to his papers far too quickly.

That was enough to confirm it in your mind: it wasn’t you he was watching. It was Lois, it was always Lois.

You quickened your pace, the echo of your heels ringing loudly on the floor as you walked toward the exit with Adam at your side.

What you didn’t see was Clark’s expression in that instant. He followed you with his eyes until you crossed the door, and then his chest tightened with a pang he couldn’t conceal. He tried to go back to his papers, but the letters danced, impossible to read. The pen between his fingers finally snapped with a sharp crack; he didn’t realize it until he saw it broken in his hand.

“Why does it hurt so much?” he thought, clenching his jaw. He had convinced himself that Lois was impossible to ignore. But now, with Adam by your side, the image that haunted him wasn’t Lois laughing in the room, but you walking away without looking back.

And then the thought he had avoided for so long appeared with brutal clarity: “What if it was always you?”

He leaned back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut. The murmur of Lois talking with Jimmy reached him distantly, like background noise. It no longer filled him the way it used to. It no longer distracted him.

The Babel Corridor was a place where the streets seemed to sing in every language in the world. Mexican restaurants with the smell of freshly made corn, little French cafés with windows full of colorful macarons, Greek taverns with blue lamps, ramen stalls filling the air with steam, and even Turkish shops where the aroma of spices mixed with grilled meat.

The ground was covered with uneven cobblestones, and the hanging lights between poles gave the place a cozy atmosphere even in broad daylight. People came and went with bags of food, children running between outdoor tables, and a constant buzz that, far from chaotic, felt like the heartbeat of the city.

“This is incredible,” said Adam as he wrote in his leather notebook, his green eyes shining with excitement. “In London we have cultural zones, but here… it’s like the whole world decided to sit at the same table.”

You smiled, a little surprised by the way he described it.

“Yes. That’s why they call it the Babel Corridor. Each shop is a different voice, and if you listen closely, they all end up telling the same story: that of a city that never stops welcoming someone new.”

Adam looked at you with interest, leaning toward you.

“That sentence should go in my report. Do you mind if I use it?”

“Go ahead,” you replied with a small laugh, surprised that your words could matter so much.

As you walked among the shops, some owners greeted you from afar, recognizing you from your reviews. Adam kept watching how people treated you: a gesture of respect, a “good to see you again,” a “thanks for what you wrote.”

“Seems like you’re quite loved here,” Adam commented, with a tone almost of admiration.

You lowered your gaze with a shy smile.

“I guess at least they know I talk about them sincerely. It always happens here,” you explained. “One step and you smell curry. Three more steps and you’re already catching the aroma of Argentine empanadas. People say it’s confusing, but in reality it’s a mosaic.”

Adam took notes quickly.

In every restaurant, even if you didn’t go in, Adam asked for your opinion. Not just about the food, but about the story behind each place. “Why do you think people keep coming back here?” or “Which dish seems the most authentic to you?” And you answered naturally, forgetting your insecurities for a moment.

“Tell me,” he insisted, pulling out his recorder, “if you had to choose just one restaurant in this whole place, only one, which would it be?”

You thought for a moment, enjoying the game.

“The Lebanese one on the corner,” you finally said. “It doesn’t have the fanciest menu or the prettiest place, but they make the best pita bread in the city. Warm, soft… like it was hugging you.”

Adam chuckled softly, writing quickly.

“God, even I want to try it right now.”

Adam closed his notebook for a moment and breathed in the air, heavy with aromas.

“Definitely, this place has a soul,” he said, as if searching for words that could capture it in a headline.

“I think so,” you replied softly, looking around. The steam rising from a ramen stall mixed with the smoke from an Argentine grill, and people passed between both as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Adam leaned closer to you, curious.

“Is it always this crowded?”

“More in winter,” you explained. “People look for hot food, something that reminds them of home. Here it’s easy to find it, no matter where you come from.”

Adam smiled, lowering his eyes to his recorder.

“You also talk as if you were writing,” he said, almost amused.

You let out a small laugh.

“Habit.”

The afternoon slipped away almost without you noticing. You only managed to walk through the Babel Corridor in a general way: a quick glance at the shops, notes on the fly, promises to come back calmly. Adam insisted that the best thing would be to start tasting the next day, with the restaurants you recommended as essential.

“That’s how we do it in London,” he explained, closing his notebook with a soft snap. “But I admit that here I need an expert guide, and I already have one.”

At the end, he walked you to your apartment. At the door he stopped, with that kind smile that seemed permanent.

“Thanks for today. Really. This has been one of the most inspiring walks I’ve had.”

You didn’t know what to say; you just nodded, a little awkward.

“Tomorrow will be better,” you managed to say, and he tilted his head conspiratorially before saying goodbye.

The next morning, the office was livelier than usual. The murmur of keyboards, phones, and footsteps mixed with the smell of fresh coffee. Adam was with you, showing some of his notes. Lois and Jimmy didn’t take long to come over, curiosity shining on their faces.

“Let me see,” said Jimmy, almost snatching the notebook from your hands. “I want to go with you.”

“Jimmy, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You’re only going to be a nuisance.”

“An adorable nuisance,” he replied, pulling out his camera with an exaggerated gesture. “Besides, I can take the best pictures for your article, Adam.”

Everyone laughed, even you. Your laugh came out louder than you were used to, free, clear.

“God! Even I want to try it right now,” exclaimed Lois, amused, after reading one of Adam’s descriptions.

Adam raised his eyebrows, playful.

“If you come, I promise to save you the best seat.”

“I accept,” Lois replied, high-fiving Jimmy.

Your laugh sounded again, joining the scene, while you shook your head. You didn’t notice at first the fixed gaze from the other side of the bullpen. Clark had lifted his eyes from his papers and stayed still, surprised. He had never heard your laugh so loud, so sincere. Something inside him tightened, as if he had discovered a secret he was never meant to access.

Adam flipped through his notebook when Lois, with her natural commanding style, pointed her hand toward the nearby desk.

“Clark, come here. I want to introduce you to someone,” she said energetically.

Clark stood up slowly, adjusting his glasses with that nervous gesture that always accompanied him, and walked toward the group.

“This is Adam Hall, reporter from the London Gazette,” Lois explained with a confident smile. “He’ll be with us for a week to do a food feature.”

Adam immediately extended his hand, cordial and firm.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Clark Kent.”

Clark shook it kindly, though his smile seemed to hide something else behind that polite façade.

“Welcome to the Planet. I hope the chaos doesn’t overwhelm you too much.”

Adam laughed softly.

“After yesterday at the Babel Corridor, I think nothing will surprise me.”

Jimmy, who had been watching everything with that mischievous spark in his eyes, seized the moment to intervene:

“Hey, Clark, you should come with us. It’d be great to have your opinion.”

Clark hesitated for a second, looking toward you as if waiting for your reaction. But you said nothing. You kept yourself busy reviewing Adam’s notebook, as if he weren’t there.

Lois crossed her arms, as if expecting no objection at all.

“Yes, you should,” Lois added enthusiastically, giving him a little push on the arm. “Come on, don’t hide so much.”

Clark nodded with a restrained smile, agreeing. Adam smiled, satisfied, Lois and Jimmy high-fived in celebration, and you just remained silent, jotting down directions in your planner, without exchanging a single word with him.

Because you were convinced: Clark wasn’t there for you.

The first destination was a Japanese restaurant hidden between two tall buildings. From the outside it seemed discreet, but once the door opened, the aroma of dashi broth and fresh fish filled the air. The walls were decorated with light wooden panels and paper lamps, and behind the counter the owner, a gray-haired man, looked up with a broad smile as he saw you walk in.

“Ah! Our star critic!” he exclaimed in heavily accented English, bowing slightly in respect.

Adam raised his eyebrows, intrigued, while the owner came closer to greet you.

“Your review about our ramen brought so many new people that we still feel it. I will never forget it.”

You smiled, a little embarrassed.

“I just wrote what I really tasted. People deserved to know.”

Adam quickly scribbled in his notebook, and Jimmy took the chance to snap pictures of the steaming bowls. Lois, amused, leaned toward Adam.

“You see? Our friend here is quite a food celebrity.”

Adam laughed.

“I’m starting to suspect I came to the city and she already conquered everything worth conquering.”

Your blush was inevitable, and Clark, from the other side of the table, only pressed his lips in silence.

The second destination was an Italian restaurant with wide windows and the smell of freshly baked bread. The owner, a robust man with a mustache, stopped kneading the pizza as soon as he saw you and ran to greet you.

“Signorina!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms as if you were family. “Since you wrote about our lasagna, we never lack full tables!”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” you replied, smiling sincerely.

The man almost made you sit in the kitchen to show you the ovens, while Adam, Lois, and Jimmy watched fascinated.

Adam, with a mischievous smile, joked:

“I’m going to have to take her to London. With her reviews, they’d fight for her in any newsroom over there.”

Jimmy burst out laughing.

“Don’t even joke about it, Hall. The Planet without her would be like coffee without sugar.”

Lois, amused, joined the game.

“Well, if she goes to London, I already see her turning into a full-on Brit.”

Everyone laughed. You too, shaking your head, though the joke made you think more than you wanted to.

Adam, more serious this time, looked at you directly.

“Seriously speaking… if you asked, I could get you an opportunity over there. With your talent, I don’t doubt it.”

Your eyes widened slightly. You didn’t answer right away, because the idea floated in your mind as something possible for the first time.

Lois touched your arm with enthusiasm.

“It would be a huge opportunity. Not everyone gets into the Gazette.”

That was when Clark, who had been silent throughout the whole tour, spoke. His voice was firm, without needing to raise it much:

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to the Daily Planet. She’s not going anywhere.”

The air at the table grew tense. Jimmy and Lois looked at him in surprise, Adam raised an amused eyebrow, and you stayed still.

Clark lowered his gaze for a moment, as if regretting being so blunt, but then added calmly:

“That’s what Perry says.”

For a moment, no one knew what to say. You lowered your eyes to your plate, your heart pounding, not quite understanding why that sudden defense had left you speechless.

The Italian restaurant was filled with warm aromas: freshly baked bread, bubbling tomato sauce, and a touch of oregano that lingered in the air. As they kept eating, the conversation flowed lightly. Adam asked quick questions between bites, Lois threw witty remarks, and Jimmy kept looking for angles for his photographs.

But you noticed something else. Every time Adam leaned a little closer to you to speak, every time his hand brushed the table nearer to yours, Clark’s fork would come to a halt. He said nothing, but you could feel it: that stillness, that tension, like an invisible thread only you could perceive.

When you glanced up sideways, you caught him watching you. It wasn’t the calm, serene gaze he usually wore; there was a different intensity in it, as if behind his glasses he was hiding a question he didn’t dare to ask.

You shook your head slightly, as if to chase the thought away. You’re imagining things, you told yourself. Clark was in love with Lois—he always had been. That spark you thought you saw was nothing more than a reflection of your own confusion.

And yet, every time Adam smiled at you and Clark fell silent all at once, the doubt began to grow again.

Suddenly, the owner’s wife appeared from the kitchen with a radiant smile and an extra tray in her hands.

“This is for you,” she said to you, placing several carefully wrapped containers. “A small gift to take home. After your review, we never lacked work. It’s the least I can do.”

You blushed, lowering your head slightly.

“Thank you, really, it wasn’t necessary.”

“Of course it was,” the woman replied, giving your arm a light pat. “You will always be welcome here.”

Adam smiled, fascinated by the scene.

“Jimmy, can you take a picture of this?” he asked, pointing at the tray and at you with a gesture.

Jimmy raised the camera and snapped several times. In one of them, without meaning to, you ended up looking at Adam right as he tasted a piece of pasta and gave a playful thumbs-up.

“Well, you two look like a couple,” Lois blurted out between laughs, looking at the picture on Jimmy’s screen.

You laughed nervously, shaking your head.

“Oh, please.”

Adam only raised his eyebrows with mischief.

“Well, I could get used to having such good company in my photos.”

Everyone laughed. Everyone, except Clark.

He took Jimmy’s camera a second later, curious. And when he saw that image, the air caught in his lungs. That look you gave Adam… it wasn’t new. It was the same one you had once given him, in the most unexpected moments. A careful, gentle look, charged with something he never dared to decipher.

He had always thought you avoided him, that you rejected him in silence, that maybe you resented him for something he never understood. But when he saw that photograph, he realized he had been wrong. You had never hated him. Maybe you kept your distance because you felt something more and didn’t know how to handle it—and he, out of fear or clumsiness, never dared to say anything or find out why.

And now… now he understood that maybe he had been blind all this time.

He lifted his gaze to you. You were still speaking animatedly with Adam, while he pulled out the recorder and asked you to repeat the description of a dish in your own voice. Your lips curved into a natural smile, light and effortless. And in that instant, a knot tightened in his stomach.

And just as it had happened for the past month, Lois was no longer on his mind. It wasn’t her laughter that haunted him, it wasn’t her words that anchored him. It was you. That smile, the way your eyes lit up when you focused on something, that unspoken bond you now seemed to share with Adam—and not with him.

Clark gripped the camera tightly in his hands. He didn’t understand how it had happened, but he knew with certainty: it was no longer Lois who left him breathless. It was you. And the simple awareness of it, right there, in front of everyone, hit him with the force of a train.

He swallowed hard and looked away, trying to pull himself together. But every burst of laughter that spilled from your lips alongside Adam pierced him like a cruel reminder: he was losing you.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.

“Hon, I really wish I was wrong too.” She said, rubbing what you’re sure she intended to be a soothing hand across your back, though everything felt too hot right now, too claustrophobic, and you were resisting the urge to flinch from her touch.

“You must be.” You practically whispered to yourself. It had been at least twenty minutes of this now, going back and forth in disbelief despite the paper trail before you

“What about that small chance that I’m not, though? What if this is what’s happening?” She added, pulling her hand back and angling herself to better face you, her expression still pinched into that look of pity and concern you wanted to smack off of her, despite knowing she was speaking with the best of intentions

“What? That he’s trying to trap me?! Has been from the beginning? There’s no way, nuh-uh.” You shook your head adamantly, refusing to believe that there was any possibility of something so ludicrous being true, of being your reality, your life

“Please just- just hear me out?” She all but pleaded, glancing towards the closed door as you heard the sound of laughter echoing down the hall, parents still filtering in and out, picking up their children like any other day, unaware of the drama unfolding in the office. “We always thought it was kind of strange at first that he wasn’t listed on her birth certificate when you submitted it with all your other paper work but- we really didn’t give it much more thought. Really didn’t think twice when he added himself to the list of contacts after you hadn’t put him down, because he told us you’d just forgotten to. I mean from the moment he walked in here he’s always called himself your husband, and you his wife, always claimed to be Rosie’s dad.”

At this point your eyes are squeezed shut, unable to differentiate between what you’re hearing and what you know to be true in your heart. Or at least, what your heart desperately wants to believe is true- your confidence slipping with every word she speaks

“And when he insisted a few months ago that 75% of Rosie’s daycare fees be charged directly to his account, we-”

“What?” You all but hiss at her, eyes snapping open in shock

“So you didn’t know about that either.” She mumbles, cheeks reddening in apparent embarrassment, whether for your or herself you’re unsure, though you’re certain you’re starting to see red the longer you sit here. “I mean, is it even all that surprising at this point? You just got done telling me he’s been trying to have you financially depend on him from the get go.”

“I said he’d offered to help me with the bills when we first started dating. Not that he tried to entrap me!” You bite back, unable to feel sorry yet that you’re being so short with her when this isn’t her fault, right now you need someone to be upset with, someone to take your feelings out on, and unfortunately she happens to be the unlucky messenger caught in the crossfire.

“I’m sure that’s how he made it sound, but hon, I’m just seeing red flag after red flag here. It starts with small ‘favours’ like that, then he’s telling you that you don’t have to work anymore, that you can rely on him. And asking you to move in so soon-”

“It- it isn’t ‘so soon’. We’re already practically living together, we- we’re in love. This- this isn’t- I don’t-” you cut off yourself off, unsure what you’d even say at this point. You can feel a headache coming on, your mind running a mile a minute, you wouldn’t be surprised to find steam coming off of you you’re feeling so heated. You’re beyond confused now, your heart knows that Simon’s never led you astray before, never give you a single reason to doubt him or think of him as dishonest. But you can’t ignore what you’re hearing either, as contrary as it might be to what you’ve known to be true, the facts are set out before you

“I know you love him.” She says softer this time, eyes trying to convey a comfort you don’t want right now. “But I can’t lie, I’m worried now. Like you said, this could all be some very strange misunderstanding. But from where I’m sitting babe, it seems like he’s been lying to you for months now, if not from the start. And the only reasons I can think of him doing that, aren’t very good ones.”

“I just don’t-” Your words are cut off when a knock rasps against the office door, both of you glancing over in time to see the door open.

“Hey Emma, Rosie’s mum hasn’t picked her up yet and I have to clean the room- oh! There you are!” One of Rosie’s educators says, stepping into the room with none other than your baby sat against her hip

You can feel the tension momentarily leave your body as Rosie spots you, her neutral expression turning into one of pure joy as she realizes her mama’s here, tiny arms reaching out towards you as she starts to flail in her teacher’s arms, sweet little coos erupting from her as she all but tries to leap towards you

“We were just chatting. Sorry to have kept you waiting with her. Hope she wasn’t too much trouble.” You say, standing from your chair and taking Rosie into your arms, feeling her lay her little head against you as she makes herself comfortable in your hold, a comfort you desperately need yourself right now

“Her? Trouble? Never. She had a great day today.” The teacher smiles politely, excusing herself to likely go finish her closing duties, certainly eager to get out of here now that you’ve got Rosie off her hands

“Maybe we could-”

“I’m gonna get this one home.” You cut Emma off before she can start, readjusting your hold on Rosie as you take a steadying breath. You want nothing more than to get out of here, to pretend that this never happened, though you aren’t sure you’re ready yet for what’s certainly about to happen at home. “Thanks for the chat. I’ll think about what you said and- I’ve got some talking to do with Simon now, I suppose.”

Perhaps by some small miracle, Simon ends up having to work late that night, shooting you a text to let you know that he’s sorry he won’t be home for supper and to please give Rosie a goodnight kiss from him if he isn’t back by her bedtime

You don’t reply to his message

You feel numb, as though this were something that was happening to someone else, a story you might overhear people whispering about while in line at the grocery store, or even an all too cheesy reality TV show storyline, certainly not something that’s happening in your home, to your family

You feel akin to a ghost, a spectre simply going through the motions as you float through the flat, following Rosie’s bedtime routine with nothing more than muscle memory to guide you from step A to B

She’s nodding off in your arms before you know it, blissfully unaware as to the turmoil happening in her mum’s mind, the fight that’s likely to ensue when her dad comes home, none the wiser as you lay her down in her crib for the night, a soft kiss planted on her forehead for Simon’s sake because as conflicted as you are, his love for her is undeniable

If anything, that’s the very thing that has you feeling so confused right now, is because you know Simon loves you, both you and Rosie, and so everything that’s just been revealed to you is so utterly contradicatory you can’t even begin to try and wrap your brain around it

He’s never been anything short of wonderful to you, willing to bend over backwards to make you smile from the very moment you met

The Simon you know wouldn’t lie to you, wouldn’t hide things from you, wouldn’t try to entrap you in any way like Emma or anyone else might try to insinuate

And yet…

Shutting her door quietly, you make your way down the hall, glancing at the piles of boxes that have only recently made a home for themselves along the walls of your flat

Moving boxes, the majority of them being from Simon’s own place across town that he hasn’t been to in months, as you prepare to move into the new house in the upcoming weeks

A house that you love, a house that you dreamt about, a house you can picture becoming a home, and yet still, a house he bought without asking you first, apparently a common trend

Plopping yourself down on the couch, rubbing furiously at your tired eyes as you try in vain to make sense of this conflicting situation

Because the Simon you know, isn’t capable of lying to you

The Simon you know has never once failed to fulfill a promise to you, never ceases to exceed your wildest dreams and expectations time and time again, always coming through for you in every way you’ve ever wanted and never knew you needed

The Simon you know is one who works harder than anyone you’ve ever met before, but didn’t hesitate for a split second to drop everything when Rosie had her first runny nose, fussing over her incessantly until you were both sure it was nothing more than a case of the sniffles

The Simon you know never lets you go through a late night feeding alone, getting up out of bed with you every single time her cries reach your ears, or sometimes insisting you stay asleep while he either goes to retrieve her for you or feeds her a premade bottle himself

The Simon you know doesn’t complain when the kitchen sink springs a leak after he’s had a long day at work, but rather angles Rosie’s high chair so she can see him working as he talks her through every step of the repair, teasing her about starting to pull her weight around he house as she giggles

The Simon you know pretends to grumble when you insist on applying sunscreen to his face on particularly sunny days, but secretly loves every second you spend so close him, fingers tracing his skin and taking care of him as delicately as you would with Rosie

The Simon you know shamelessly carries the diaper bag over his shoulder wherever you go, proudly wears Rosie on his chest in the baby sling any chance he gets, and most of all, never fails to hold your heart in his hand no matter how full they may already be

Tonight however? You can’t help the way your heart seemingly drops when you hear the telltale sound of keys at the front door

Simon is home

“Birdie?” His deep, Manchester accent calls out from around the corner. You’re hardly in control of your body as you rise to your feet and all but float towards him, torn between needing his comfort during such a confusing time, but equally fighting off the hurt and skepticism you’re beginning to feel

“Hi Si.” You meekly respond, coming into his view just as he’s toeing off his mud-caked boots, his eyes lighting up once he sees you

“Hi love.” He replies, stepping closer until you’re within his reach, naturally falling against his chest as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, your eyes closing as you breathe in his scent. “Rosie asleep yet?”

“Put her down just a couple minutes ago.” You answer, arms snaking around his torso to embrace him tightly, unable to deny the hot tears beginning to prickle at the corner of your eyes.

“M’sorry I missed bedtime.”

“S’alright. Gave her your good night kiss for you. And I saved you supper. Just some chicken and salad but-”

“‘Jus’ chicken and salad’ is already more than I deserve for coming home late to my girls. Thank you, birdie.”

You know your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when he pulls back to look at you, pulling yourself out of his hold to head towards the kitchen, his footsteps right behind yours

“How was your day? Not workin’ you too hard are they?” He asks, opening the fridge and pulling out the plate you’d saved for him

“No, work was fine.” You answer, awkwardly rubbing your arms as you lean against the wall, poking the edge of one of his moving boxes labeled simply as ‘stuff’ with your socked toes. “Actually, my day got kind of weird towards the end, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Simon asks you, peering at you over his shoulder as he gets ready to reheat his food

“Well I uh- I went to pick up Rosie from nursery and wound up talking to Emma. You know, the assistant director?”

If you didn’t know Simon so well, didn’t know his mind and his body language like the back of your hand by now, you might have missed the oh so subtle way he tensed up for no more than a split second, his large frame perfectly still as he held his breath for no longer than a blink of the eye, but you saw it

“‘Course. How is she?” He asks as casually as he can, though he pointedly isn’t meeting your gaze anymore

“She’s fine. Busy as usual. But anyways, I got chatting with her in the first place because I was just letting her know about the move soon. Wanted to update our address.” You add, waving a hand towards the many boxes dotted around the place

“Ah, right. Smart o’ you to get a head start on tha’.” Simon chides in, still not looking at you as he goes about grabbing himself silverware and a drink, keeping his head down the whole time

“I thought so too.” You say, pushing yourself off the wall to step closer to him, feeling your heart begin to pick up pace as dare to say what you’re too afraid to confirm. “Also figured I would go ahead and update Rosie’s contact information, while I was at it. Was well overdue adding you.”

At this point Simon has stopped moving entirely, his back turned to you as he faces the kitchen sink, not a word to be said as you continue

“But then she told me that you were already on there.”

Nearly a full five seconds pass by in complete and utter silence, before Simon slowly spins himself around to face you

“Oh.” Is all he can apparently manage to say at first, his face pulled into an expression you aren’t overly familiar with, eyes glancing everywhere but at your face. “Did you somehow add me and forget?”

“That’s what I thought at first too.” You elaborate, wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt, despite knowing that there isn’t a logical explanation for the second half of what you’re about to say. “But it was strange because she told me that she remembers having a conversation with you, after our first visit. Said that you were the one to add yourself.”

Again, Simon seems to forfeit to what he knows best in moments of high stress, a painful silence that echoes louder than any shouts ever could

“Things got really strange though, the more she told me. Like how you’ve been paying the daycare bills behind my back.”

“Love, I-”

“What was she talking about, Simon? Please tell me she was wrong.” You interrupt him, feeling your cheeks begins to burn with untamed emotions you haven’t dared to let out yet, the stinging at your lash line growing stronger as hot tears threaten to topple over

“No. She wasn’t wrong, but-”

“What?” You interrupt him, trying your best to keep your volume low for Rosie’s sake, though you can tell your emotions are already starting to get the better of you

“Look birdie, I- I’m not ready to talk about this yet. Let’s leave it alone for tonight, yeah?” Simon says as coolly as he can manage, though you notice the way his jaw ticks, how he runs his hand through his short hair as he only does when frustrated

“What the hell does that mean? You’re not ready to talk about what? Simon what is going on here?” You ask him, feeling yourself becoming light headed as the conversation takes the turn you were fearing it would, his words failing to reassure the uncertainty brewing within you

“Love it’s not- there isn’t anythin’ going on. I’m only jus’ trying to take care of you. So please, let’s just leave it.”

“No, Si. I can’t just ‘leave it’. Not when I’m finding out that you’ve been lying to me for who knows how long!” You insist, reaching behind you until you feel a stack of the moving boxes hit your calf, sitting down on the large box as you look up at Simon across the room. “What am I supposed to-”

“I said enough! Just drop it, please birdie. It’s nothin’.” He snaps at you, going to slam a hand down on the kitchen counter but catching himself at the last second, glancing down the hall towards Rosie’s closed door as he shakes his head to himself

“No! I’m not just going to drop this, Simon. How am I meant to know that you haven’t hidden anything else from me?”

“Oh, because you don’t hide anythin’?” He asks, stepping closer to you while trying to keep his voice down, lest you both wake the baby up

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Christs sake, I’m talkin’ ’bout Rosie’s father. What else would we be talkin’ ‘bout?” He admits, throwing his hands up in the air in defeat, coming to sit on the boxes across from you

“Are you kidding me?” You ask, narrowing your eyes at him. “We’ve gone over this before, it was a fucking one night stand Simon! Rosie doesn’t have a father, because I don’t know who her fucking father is! Is that what you want to hear? That I dont know the stranger who knocked me up after sleeping with him one goddamn time?”

“I don’t know what happened because we never talk bout it!” He replies, one foot incessantly tapping agains the tiled floor as he struggles to keep his cool. “There’s some bloke out there who could show up one day and take everythin’ I’ve worked for, so bloody fuckin’ right I’m concerned! How could you not know who he is? Might not know his name, but you could pick him out of a lineup surely? Describe him?”

“Are you seriously that insecure right now? You’re feeling threatened by a ghost? Because that’s all he was Simon, was a fucking ghost! It was a goddamn Halloween party. Every single person in that was wearing a mask, including me!” You argue back to him. “You want me to try and describe some tall guy wearing all black and a stupid skull mask? Is that it? How he didn’t even take it off while we were having sex? How he only wanted me to call him Ghost the entire goddamn night? What does it matter, Simon?“

By the end of your rant, you’re left huffing and puffing, borderline seeing red as you can’t believe of all things, this is what Simon would feel the need to bring up at a time like this

You’re expecting him to argue back, waiting on him to retaliate with whatever other ugly words you’re going to throw at each other tonight, the first proper fight you’ve ever had

And yet, he’s sat perfectly still, eyes locked on your own though it’s as if he isn’t quite seeing you

Rather, he looks like he’s seen a ghost

“Simon?”

He remembers that night almost too perfectly

Exactly half a year since his forced retirement, Simon was all too eager to get through the last of his ‘highly recommended’ therapy sessions

The older gentleman he met with once a month wasn’t all that bad, to his credit, had some decent stories to share and never pressed Simon to fill in the silence when he wasn’t in the mood to do so

But he was still a shrink at the end of the day, wasn’t he? Still wanted the former Lieutenant to talk about his feelings and his past and his thoughts and his nightmares and just about everything Simon would rather keep under heavily guarded lock and key

Even if he never insisted on making Simon spill his guts the way he might have imagined a shrink was obligated to do in their mandated fifty minute sessions, he’d still somehow managed to get the younger man to open up to the smallest degree, learned as much as he was willing to share within these bleak walls

Though he held no ill feelings towards him nor his profession, Simon couldn’t help but glance at the clock above the shrink’s head at least every other minute, looking forward to having his Saturday afternoons back to himself soon as this last appointment was done and over with

“Simon?” He remembers the old man saying, catching his wandering eye. “Did you hear me?”

“Sorry. Go on.” The muscular man had said, crossing his arms across his chest as he’d fought to give the man before him his full attention.

“I was only just saying,” he kindly went on, a soft smile appearing below his white moustache. “If if was something you might be open to exploring, I don’t think it would be the worst idea if you wanted to wear the mask out in public again. One last time.”

“Why would I do tha’?” Simon had questioned.

“Please correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve spoken before about feeling conflicted between who you used to be six months ago, and who you’re having to become now post-retirement. A man with a name and a job and obligations. Whereas for over a decade, you were certain you’d never be anything more than this Ghost fellow you’ve mentioned. This man without a name, without a face. Am I right on this?”

“Suppose so.” He grumbled, shifting in his spot, the softness of the cushions around him a mundane luxury he was still growing used to feeling.

“You’ve also said that the honourable discharge came as a bit of a surprise, an unexpected end to this Ghost, as it were. Something, or someone, you never had the chance to truly mourn.” The shrink had gone on, gesticulating his pale, wrinkled hands with every word he spoke in Simon’s direction.

On his end, Simon could only manage to nod in response, taking in the man’s perspective

“The mask was something pivotal for you, something you held on to without fail for years, Simon. Years. It’s understandably difficult to be told you would no longer going to need this thing you had grown to, dare I say, depend on? Something that kept you separate from the rest of the world? A world you were being thrown back into without a choice?”

The older man had allowed for a beat of silence as Simon absorbed his words, only keeping his eyes on him as any indication now that he was still listening

“Now, I know you’d said that you haven’t put the mask back on since. We also evidently can’t replicate the sort of environment that Ghost used to live in. But if you wanted to put the mask back on for one night. If you wanted to put the mask back on for just a moment and perhaps allow yourself to make peace with this change in your life, to say goodbye to Ghost and give yourself the chance to fully become Simon, well, tonight might not be the worst night to try and do so.”

As if he needed his own shrink reminding him that it was Halloween that night

He remembers the odd few pumpkins lined up outside the apartments he’d passed on his walk home from the session

Remembers the posters for discounted costumes and reminders to check your children’s candy dotted along brick walls here and there

Hell he’d even had a group of giggling trick or treaters run past him at one point that evening

Staring at the handful of boxes he still couldn’t bring himself to unpack yet, Simon sat ins his flat entirely too long that night with a drink in hand, staring at the very one he knew held the thing he woulnd’t have been caught dead without less than a yer ago, now ruffed between some folded shirts

The more drinks he got in his system, the less ludicrous the doc’s idea had sounded to him

Perhaps he should don the mask one last time, if only to see what it felt like to have his second skin back on him again, to be Ghost for only just a moment more

He had been tearing the cardboard box open before he knew it, ripping through clothing until his hands met the familiar feeling of the skull beneath his fingertips

He hadn’t bothered looking in a mirror or anything dramatic of the sort as he slipped the material over his head, not feeling the need to glance at the face he once relished in knowing was the last one countless had ever seen in their lives

Unsure of how he felt but knowing he didn’t want to sit still, Simon had gone back out onto the streets, the sun having set long ago and trick or treaters certainly tucked into bed by now with lollipop coloured tongues and wrappers awry

He knew he wanted to keep drinking that night, seeing as it was the only way he could fall asleep most nights, and needn’t go very far before following the noise of the nearest pub, only just around the corner from his measly flat

Though the place had been crowded that night, packed with the young and old all dressed in differing levels to commitment to their costumes, Simon was pleased to see he could still part a crowd with ease as he’d slunk his way over to the busy bar

The music had been damn near defeaning, and the heat from all the dancing bodies was poignant, his senses kicking into overdrive as he fought the urge to turn hightail and head back to the solace of his empty four walls

The barkeep hadn’t even bat an eye at Ghost’s appearance as he’d made his way over and took his order, making haste to keep up with the demanding crowd

What had the doc said, again? That he ought to be taking this time to say goodbye to Ghost and welcome in Simon?

Pure rubbish, as far as he was concerned

He would always be Ghost in a way, wouldn’t he? Mask or not, his hands would still be stained with someone’s blood, his eyes will still be ones that witnessed death for a living, his heart would still beat to a broken drum, he would always be a ghost of a man on way or another

And so, no, he likely would not have said goodbye to Ghost that night, had he had much of a chance to continue thinking about it

But then again, fate has a way of making things fall into place right when they need to, doesn’t it?

For Simon had only just received his drink when a young woman had suddenly come crashing into his side, her hands unabashedly coming to grasp onto his bicep as she leaned her weight into him

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” She’d said, loud enough to be heard over the music, glancing not at Ghost, but rather at someone who’d come to stand just behind him

Prepared to swing around in his seat and size up the person behind him, Simon’s eyes had gotten caught halfway there, when they landed on the stranger holding onto him

Donned in a flowing white dress with long billowing sleeves, a single red rose tucked behind her ear to match the red painted across her enticing lips, Simon was surprised to find an almost perfect Christine from the Phantom of the Opera stood before him, though perhaps more so that the young woman was also wearing the Phantom’s half mask across her face

“You’re expecting me to believe that this is your boyfriend?” A gruff voice had spoken out from the din of the crowd, Simon’s gazing finally landing on a poor imitation of a superhero, the lad clearly wasted on one too many drinks as he tried stepping closer to the mystery woman

Simon’s gaze had fixed back upon the woman’s face, eyes locking for the first time that night, the music in the room suddenly no longer so intolerable, nor the heat so unbearable, not when she was looking at him like that

Simon was smart enough to catch onto what was going on here in time to step in, cutting into the man’s attempt to squeeze closer to the young lady still clinging to Simon’s arm, his tall stature alone enough to have the bloke taking a step back

“Husband. Actually.” Ghost had decided to clarify for him, slinking an arm around your shoulders and ignoring the spark he felt as he did so, blaming the drinks he’d had himself. “Best move on to the next one, mate. She’s taken.”

Luckily, the lad apparently still had enough common sense, or at least self preseration instincts, to know when it was time to back off, moving back through the crowd with his head hung low, not that either of you were still looking at him, instead turning to face one another again

“Jesus, he’s been hounding me all night, wouldn’t take no for an answer, but you say all of ten words to him and he’s over it? Ugh, men I swear.” You’d said, leaning your elbows against the bar top as you went to wave down the barkeep, before catching Simon’s eye again and sending him a playful smile

“Funny way to say thank you.” He’d said, ignoring the way the genuine widening of your smile at his words had sent a jolt through his heart

“Hey, I was getting there.” You had laughed, the sound barely making its way to his ears through the noise of the crowd, but even just the whisper of it has him unconsciously stepping closer to you. “Would a drink be enough to repay for you saving me?”

Simon had glanced back over his shoulder, the tosser nowhere to be seen amongst the flashing lights and ever moving mass of bodies strolling and dancing about

You’d been nearly blinding to him in the darkness of the bar that night, your pale dress and startlingly white mask illuminated by the moving lights, the fog of his drinks already catching up to him, you were an image to behold nonetheless

It’d been a long, long time since Simon had had a girl in his bed, let alone a bird as pretty as you, but Ghost however? If he was lucky tonight, he might be able to get you to come back home with him, and then never see you again when he took the mask off in the morning

“Only if you’ll have one with me.” He’d replied, watching as you lifted a single brow in amusement. “Got to keep up the appearance that we’re here together now, haven’t we?”

“Hmm, suppose so.” You’d agreed easily, hopping up onto the barstool next to him as it freed up, the blush on your cheeks apparent when he’d reached his muscular arm behind you to drag the stool closer. “So, what’s my knight in shining armour’s name, then?”

“Call me Ghost.”

Muahahaha

I’ve been dropping hints in the chapters for a while now, and quite a few of you have guessed it, but yes, it seems Simon might know the baby daddy better than he thinks he does

As an almost strictly fluff writer, the angst in this one was so tough to write! Luckily next chapter will be filled with lots of fluff and smut to make up for the fight

- M 🫶🏻

Harry’s head whipped to the frame once more with such speed he wouldn’t be shocked to feel a sharp pain in the morning. Sat on the sofa was now a witch who looked to be older than him, if only by a few years. She wore a white collared shirt with a red tie and a long grey skirt beneath dark brown overcoat. There was a scar on her left cheek that Harry believed he’d find intimidating on anyone else, but something in the way she smiled at him, the softness of her eyes, told him he’d struggle to find an off-putting thing about her.

He hadn’t even realised he’d been staring, lips parted, question ignored, until she let out a small laugh. Harry Potter had been laughed at before, he’d been laughed at before he’d even been born, he knew what it meant for two people to share a look and a giggle when you speak — or, more aptly, don’t speak. But the insult he was accustomed to never came. He felt no wave of shame, no cheeks reddened with embarrassment. In a strange act of fate, he found himself laughing with her.

“I’m Y/n Sallow. Pleased to make your acquaintance…” She paused and nodded for him to introduce himself.

“Harry. Harry Potter.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “I’ve heard many things about you. It’s good to put a face to the name. So, Harry, my question still remains; are you lost?”

“I have double potions.”

She laughed again and so did he. “I see. You know, I remember your professor when he was about your age. Terribly frightened boy, but wildly genius.”

“He hates me for something that isn’t my fault.”

“People tend to channel anger when their other feelings are too confusing. It’s easier for them. But I know how you feel, love. Believe me.”

“Nobody knows how I feel.” Harry didn’t like how self-effacing he sounded, but to him it was mere truth. Nobody else had lost in the same ways he had and been forced to live with its guilt, nobody else was thrust into the war of a world they didn’t understand.

“You only say that because you haven’t taken History of Magic yet.”

Harry looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Get comfortable.” The boy took off his robe and folded in the floor, sitting atop it and crossing his legs, elbows resting on his knees.

For the next three hours, Harry paid no need to the fact he had missed a charms lesson, as he found himself immersed in the stories she told. Of long-dormant repositories of ancient magic, of goblins, and poachers, and graphorns, and plight, the scale of what he faced seemed not dwarfed, but levelled by that of her own.

She told him of the fears she felt as she entered the Great Hall, how lonely she was on her first day, and Harry felt his heart swell at the fortune of meeting Ron as early as he did. When he said this, she smiled and said Ron reminded her of an old friend, a former Hufflepuff and renowned magiczoologist.

“She said she didn’t have many friends before I arrived, which caught me by such surprise, because I believed her to be one of the kindest witches I had ever met. One of the bravest too. In fact, she led me on one of the most remarkable adventures of my life…” She said, a melancholic smile on her face as she talked of Golden Snidgets and centaurs.

As their second hour drew to a close, she brought her storytelling to a sudden halt. “Enough of me. Darling, how has Hogwarts been for you?”

Harry paused, having barely reflected on the question himself. “It’s been good.” A moment of silence. “I think.”

“You think?”

“It’s just…” His breath caught in his throat, as millions of thoughts came to mind but to words followed suit. “I just feel so out of place. I found out about magic two months ago, and suddenly everyone has these big expectations of me because of what happened when I was a baby.” She nodded in understanding and felt her heart break in her chest.

When you looked at him, you saw him not as a prodigal son or a budding star, but as the child he was. His glasses slightly crooked, almost hanging off his nose, his cheeks red and rosy, his eyes downcast. He looked a mirror of you, and you hated it with a ferocity you hadn’t felt in years.

It was supposed to end with you, the torment of children, the horror of destiny. You still remembered the terror you felt when you first touched that portkey, when Fig told you more of those iron-clad knights would follow, when the fate of a world you knew naught about was thrust upon your fifteen-year-old shoulders.

When Ranrok was defeated and you were told you’d be safe, you were lied to. The poachers still came in droves, angrier, smarter, fit to kill with the taste of your blood in their mouths. More loyalists subscribed to Ranrok’s ideals and strived off the image of your head mounted on a wall. There was always new monsters to fight, new people in need, new reasons to run away and forge a new life.

But you never did, you never took the bait. You knew that if you left, if you abandoned your responsibilities that eventually they would fall onto another you. Another child born with your gift, and they too would know true loneliness and fear and you could not let that happen.

You graduated and became a freelance cursebreaker. If people felt unsafe, you were the first port of call. You risked your life with the sole mission of preventing another child from filling your shoes. You did all this, and it meant nothing. It meant nothing because now, over a century later, a young boy is being punished for actions he didn’t commit, tormented for events out of his control.

Harry Potter was cut from the same cloth as you, and so, you listened.

The bell tower tolled and sent a shock down Harry’s spine. Was it lunchtime already? He stood up and dusted off his cloak. “Do you ever get lonely?” He asked. “All the other portraits have others around them.”

“I rarely dwell in this frame, to be honest. I have a few others around, there’s one by the Magical Theory classroom on the fourth floor of the Astronomy wing. That’s where I spend most of my time, but I’ve got two in Hogsmeade, another in a run-down hamlet southwest of here, even have one in America.” You gave him a sweet smile. “The portrait of the old potions professor, Aesop Sharp, sends word for me whenever he sees someone come down this hall. Say hello to him when you pass, will you?”

He nodded his head, halfway down the corridor before he turned around and hoped you hadn’t gone yet. “Thank you for this. Is it—” he paused again and took a deep breath, “is it alright if I come here again? If I can talk to you again?”

His heart pounded in his throat, caught with a fear of you saying no. Of laughing at him for finding such comfort in a mere conversation. Harry Potter had long since accepted that he’d never truly know the feeling of being cared for, being heard. He had made his peace with such a thing. He was a child now, but he’d grow. He’d grow in his own and he’d grow to be a kind man who cared for others with kindness never afforded for him. He was okay with this, but now that he’d met you, he knew he couldn’t live that way anymore.

He’d never had enough material things to be selfish over, but he’d be selfish now if he needed to. He needed this again, this feeling of being truly seen and understood.

Ever since he came to the wizarding world, Harry had been told he had his mother’s eyes, her kindness and warmth. Looking at you now, he figured you were the closest to her he’d find. In the softness of your gaze, he shed the weight of his worries.

You smiled again and nodded. “Tell dear Aesop to send word whenever you need me, darling.”

His feet felt lighter as they travelled up the steps, eagerly searching for a portrait he hadn’t noticed before until he was outside the potions classroom and read the golden plaque. Aesop Sharp.

The man had a gruff face with rugged stubble and scars on his chin. His lips quirked up with a thin veil of remembrance. “I take it she arrived on time?”

“She said to say ‘hi’. And thank you.”

“She thanked me?”

“I’m thanking you.” Aesop only hummed and nodded.

“There’s nothing to thank me for, boy. Other than the fact that your potions professor will be kept uninformed of your detour.” Harry’s cheeks flushed a deep red and Aesop let out what could almost be considered a laugh. “It’s best you run along now. The rest—the first—of your classes will drag on an empty stomach.”

“I was wondering when you’d return.” Sebastian teased from the frame. “Almost four whole hours on my own with only Weasley for company.”

As you joined Sebastian in the portrait, settling comfortably on the sofa he’d been sprawled across, his arm found a comfortable place around your shoulders, holding you close.

Garreth, whose portrait was on the corner wall to the left of yours by his request, let out a hearty laugh at that. “You say that as though you weren’t the one recount all the old days, Sallow. No need to try impress the lady, you fooled her years ago.”

“Don’t be rude, Garreth. It’s sweet he cares so much after all these years.” Poppy chided from her frame beside his, appearing just as Natty did across from her.

“Where’s Ominis?” You asked, expecting a quip from your dear friend.

“He went to visit Feldcroft. Said he missed the place and wanted to see how ol’ Victoria is holding up.” You smiled as Sebastian mentioned Ominis and Anne’s great-great granddaughter.

“It’s is sweet that they stay in such close touch.” You smiled. “We must visit again soon. Adam is still in London, I think. His daughter is starting Hogwarts next year. Same with Sarah’s son.” Your heart swelled at the thought of the family of your own.

“It’ll be nice not to be the only one here with family visits in the castle.” Garreth said.

“My boy will be nothing like your Percy.” Sebastian defended.

“If he’s anything like you, he’ll be exactly like the twins, though.”

“I heard Imelda gave them an earful last week after they almost blew up her frame by the Trophy Room.” Natty laughed. “They’re definitely Weasley’s.”

“There’ll be more of them than there is Ravenclaw’s with the way things are going.” Poppy commented. “A young boy this year, and a girl next?”

“What can I say, we’re family people! I heard Ron’s befriended the Potter boy.” At this, your ears perked up.

“Harry?”

“Uh-oh.” Sebastian taunted, toying with a stand of your hair. “Something tells me you’ve taken someone under your wing again.”

You pinched his side as the others chuckled joked between themselves. “You say that as though it’s a bad thing. I thought you liked when I cared for people.”

“I do.” He smiled, putting his hand on the back of your head and pulling you close to press a kiss to your temple. “Just find it a bit funny is all.”

“I want all of you to keep an eye on him. I was talking him today and I could feel this— this— this loneliness hanging around him. He was talking to me and it felt like I was talking to myself at fifteen.”

A silence washed over the portraits. They’d seen you through it all. They saw you when Lodgok passed, when Fig passed, when everything worked against you and there was nothing they could do to help. Sebastian’s grip on you tightened, guilt stirring in the pits of his stomach.

It had been almost two centuries since everything with Anne’s curse had come to pass. He’d apologised countless times, kneeling before you with his head hung his shame and your hands held tightly in his, tears staining your skirts. You’d forgiven him just as many. You cradled his face and kissed his cheeks and told him that what happened then mattered no more than what you had for dinner the night prior. He was still your love, and you were the lone focus of his devotion, that was what mattered.

But time does not heal all wounds, and there would always be a part of you that remembered how he had to mean Crucio and how he didn’t write to you at all that summer, just as there would always be a part of him that yearned to go back and beat sense into the younger version of him who saw you as only a means of rescuing Anne.

They all knew how important the safety of the boy would grow to be to you, and made a silent pact to follow through with whatever you asked.

“I still remember when James and Lily were in first year.” Lamented Poppy. “She knew how to put a boy in his place. Could’ve learned a lot from her in our years.”

“She was so lovely, too. I always knew she’d become Head Girl. She reminded me of Amit. Always so smart but just as kind.” Natty sighed. “How’s Amit doing anyways, Y/n? You were the last to visit the library.”

“He’s well. Apparently a seventh year recognised him from his books the other day, he’s just as bashful as ever. Got red even recounting the story.” You grinned fondly.

“I remember how jealous Sebastian was on your first Astronomy lesson when Professor Shah volunteered Amit to share a telescope with you instead of him.” Garreth laughed, a deep laugh that came from the back of his throat.

“I was not jealous!”

“You were.” It seemed Ominis had a penchant for arriving just when Sebastian needed to be put in his place. “I couldn’t see it but I could sense it. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“I couldn’t tell, if that makes you feel better.” You attempted to console.

“He professed his love to you for a year and you couldn’t tell. That’s no consolation.” It seemed he had a penchant for catching you out as well.

“Easy, Gaunt.” Sebastian warned. “Let’s not forget five years of pining for Anne. Makes our thing look like a breeze.”

Your friend halted and shook his head, a breathy laugh escaping him. “You have me there, Sebastian.”

“How’s Vic?”

“She’s good. Really good. Asking after the lot of you, Poppy especially.” The former magiczoologist furrowed her brows. “Said your research papers on mooncalves have been an invaluable asset to her work on rescuing and rehoming them.”

“I always knew she’d do brilliant things.” Poppy beamed. “It was a guarantee given who her family is.”

You settled further into Sebastian’s embrace as the conversation rolled on, head on his shoulder and relishing in his warmth. This was the kind of peace you so desperately longed for in your girlhood, this was the home you fought so hard to protect, safe in the arms of your love and the company of your family.

You could only pray Harry found the same someday.

It became routine for the boy to visit your portrait over the months that passed, so much so that Aesop no longer needed to send for you when Harry passed because you’d be there already, waiting.

You felt a kinship with him that you could only compare to the bond you had felt with your own children all those years ago. You loved your great-grandchildren dearly, but they had inherited your wanderlust and seemed nearly impossible to get a hold of, a feat made even more difficult given your inability to do… anything, really. But Harry was here, in need of guidance, a service you were more than willing to give.

When you heard he won quidditch matches, you’d leap from your sofa and nearly wept with pride, just as you did with every assignment result he relayed to you. Harry seemed to preen to your praise.

You quickly became his confidant. He told you of his years with the Dursleys, his troll encounter at Halloween (where you had laughed at another similarity between the pair of you), his fears of Voldemort, and, eventually, his plans to find the Philosopher’s Stone.

“You must promise me you’ll be careful, Harry.” You warned. “It’s no small feat you’re about to undertake, do not underestimate it by any means. Without a doubt, you’ll be trialled before you find the stone, you have to keep a clear head. Do not let yourself get distracted, if only for a moment.”

There was a taught crease between your brows and your shoulders were tensed with worry. The boy seemed almost apologetic as he nodded. “I swear it. Ron and Hermione will help me too. I won’t be alone.”

You remembered how happy he was when he spoke of his friends, so similar to how you did. He seemed to glow with the joy of being accepted not despite being know, but because of it instead. “You keep an eye out for them as well. I don’t want to hear any stories of a first year sent to the Hospital Wing.”

An authoritative edge laced your voice that set Harry’s spine straight, heart clenching at the protectiveness you showed over him and those he held close.

“Harry,” your words were gentler now, softer, “you’re a brilliant wizard, destined to do great things, but you do not have to do them now. Not if you’re not ready.”

“I am ready. I have to do this. If I don’t, who else will?”

In a humbling moment, you realised there was nothing you could say to the boy that wouldn’t be wholly hypocritical. “Just—” you sighed, “promise me that you’ll come visit when you’re done, let me know you’re safe, tell me of your adventure.”

“I promise.” He smiled.

Later that evening, when curfew had long been set, you found yourself visiting the Trophy Room for the first time in many months. You smiled at Imelda as you passed through the portrait across from her.

“Hello, old friend.” You grinned warmly, stepping into the portrait of Eleazer Fig, tucked away behind the Goblet of Fire.

The man seemed to melt in your presence, a bright smile taking over his face as he pulled you into a tight embrace.

“It’s been far too long, sweet girl.” He said in your ear, still holding you close.

“I fear an apology is in order.” You said almost feebly.

“What ever for?”

“I believe I now know the torment you felt in our year together.” A laugh escaped you. “I’ve developed a friendship with the young Potter boy.”

Fig nodded his head in understanding. “You worry for the child?”

“With every dawn. To know he’s in such danger and I am unable to help— it’s a cruel torture.”

“I know.” His hands found your own. “No child should have to face what he will — what you did. But if you stand by him whenever he calls, know that is the help he needs. The support of someone who has seen what he has and come out to lead a better life will give him the hope he needs to persevere.”

You hadn’t realised there were even tears in your eyes until they dropped onto your cheeks. It was one of Fig’s many talents to draw the rawest, most powerful emotions from within you.

Over the years, you’d gone to him when the slightest problems left you upset. You’d run to his portrait whenever you didn’t want to sit through History of Magic and sit on the floor and tell him everything there was to tell, from your breakfast that day to the deepest fears in year heart.

“Believe me, child. If he is in any way like you, he will shock you with abilities. I know you shocked me.” He moved to cradle your face softly, resting his forehead against your own.

“I feel so helpless. None of what he stands before is fair. He’s only a boy.” He knew the truth of your words, for they’d been said to him before Harry Potter had even been born. I am so helpless. None of this is fair. I’m only a girl.

“All you can do for him is let him know that you will always be there, never to judge, only to support. The boy needs comfort and normalcy, so that is what you must remain.”

“You’ve always known just what to say.” You smiled at him, face wrought with melancholia.

“It has always been easy to speak with you, friend. You were the closest I’d ever gotten to a child of my own.” His own eyes shone now. “Miriam truly would’ve adored you. The pair of you would’ve driven me mad.”

You let out a watery laugh and pulled him into another tight embrace, your chin tucked over his shoulder, anchoring you to him as you stayed that way for an indiscernible about of time before making your way down to your lone portrait to anxiously wait for Harry’s arrival.

The end of the school year drew close faster than any of the others had, you were sure of it, and soon Harry was sat before you, still shaking with the excitement of winning Gryffindor the House Cup, telling you of how happy the last year had made him.

“I’ll miss you, though.” He frowned. “Don’t suppose you have any portraits near Surrey?”

“I’m afraid not, sweet one. But I’ll be here when you return, eagerly awaiting your stories of summer. Maybe I’ll have some new ones myself too.”

A comfortable silence passed through you both, Harry pulling at him fingers and you looking down at him warmly. “I’m so proud of you, Harry.” He looked up at you quickly, a flicker of shock on his face.

“You’re so brave, so strong, so kind. You’ve dealt with more danger this past year than most wizards do in their lifetime, and you’re still here to tell the tale, still smiling while you do it. It’s a remarkable thing. I hope you know that.”

A tear caught the light trickling in from the corridor’s high windows as it dropped from his eyes, irises swimming with gratitude and remnants of pain he was not yet willing to divulge. He thanked you once more with an earnest sincerity that was so rare to see, and then left to pack his things, swearing to visit you again on September 1st.

As Harry sat staring out his window in The Leaky Cauldron at the dull night sky, knees pulled to his chest and hands clasped tightly together, he wondered how it was possible for him to feel more alone than ever, exiled from the house he grew up in, waiting anxiously for his thirteenth birthday to come.

He wanted to be back in Hogwarts. People cared for him in Hogwarts. You cared for him in Hogwarts. Here the bed creaked and the pipes clanged and the wind whistled as it came through the windows and his loneliness made him feel sick. So Harry did what he always did when he needed a distraction, he went for a walk.

The floorboards groaned beneath his weight, a small sound seeming so mammoth when laid before a silent hallway. If he listened hard enough, Harry could hear the quiet drone of conversation and drunken laughter from lingering patrons downstairs, but he carried on his path away until it was just him and his steady breaths.

“Are you lost?” A portrait asked making the boy jump from his skin. A masculine voice, deep and authoritative but complete with a soothing edge Harry likened vaguely to Arthur Weasley or Dumbledore.

Harry turned to face his frame. It was a simple model, nothing fancy enough to seem out of place in its dwelling, but polished enough to know it was revered. The man was beautiful, Harry thought. With freckled cheeks, big brown eyes, and a slightly flattened nose. He smiled at Harry’s hesitation, a small, kind thing, as though he were welcoming an old friend or coaxing a fawn from hiding.

Sebastian Sallow. Auror. 1875-1938. The golden plaque beneath him read. The last name made Harry’s breath hitch. Sallow.

You’d told him stories of your lover many times, of how you found each other just as you needed it most, how you stayed by him when no others would and how he returned the debt in kind. Harry had almost been able to fall in love with the man through your words alone.

“You’re Y/n’s husband.” He blurted without thinking, and Sebastian’s small smile grew to split his face, a deep laugh rumbling from his chest.

“It is one of my grander accomplishments.” A confident content that could almost be confused for smugness settled on his face. “And you’re Harry Potter. I’ve heard many things about you. Seems you’ve managed to quite entrance my wife.”

A dark red flooded Harry’s cheeks. “She’s very kind.”

“She is indeed. Though, she’d kill me if I didn’t ask what brings you here.”

Harry paused. “I couldn’t stay home any longer.”

Sebastian clicked his tongue, humming in acknowledgment. “I understand. Are you alright?”

It was a simple question, one he normally would’ve brushed off without second thought, but Sebastian seemed to share your ability of coaxing out Harry’s deepest truth. “I don’t know.”

A tense beat passed between them, neither knowing exactly what to say, both knowing you would if you were there, until Sebastian eventually broke the silence. “I remember when I felt like that.” Harry looked at him inquisitively.

“Christmas in our fifth year, I had… a falling out with my uncle and sister. The thought of going back home made me feel ill, so I didn’t. For the first time, I spent the holiday in the castle, just as she did.”

December 22nd, 1890.

A grey cloud seemed eternally settled above Sebastian’s head and the sight of your friend’s unspoken torment made your skin crawl. Ominis had just departed for Gaunt Manor, making hushed comment on the fact he’d likely be back within a week. You wished he hadn’t left at all.

Your worry for Sebastian had been gnawing away at you ever since the events surrounding Salazar’s Sciptorium. You feared for the path he threatened to follow, the darkness settling into the far corners of his mind. His nose was always stuck in the damned book you found in that room, reading, searching, and scouring for anything that would help Anne.

A small part of you knew he would give his own life to absolve her of that pain, a larger part feared he would give yours too.

“Have you eaten?” You asked him, taking a gentle approach with deliberate steps towards his hunched-over frame, careful not to startle him.

“Hm?” He hummed in half-acknowledgment.

“I said, ‘Have you eaten?’” There was a smile evident in your voice as you pulled out the chair beside him.

“Oh— Uhm, not yet.” He brushed off your concern. You thought Sebastian was clever, but if he truly was, he would’ve known you wouldn’t let up that easily.

You sighed, standing up again and patting his shoulders. “Up.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Up. You’ve been sat here every day this past week from dawn till dusk and I will not let it carry on any longer.” He hung his lead low and shook it slightly and you could tell he was fighting a smile. “If you won’t move for the sake of yourself, do it for the sake of chivalry. I intend to go to Hogsmeade and don’t wish to go alone. For safety.”

“You and I both know you’d best any opponents that cross us before I could even ready my wand.” He laughed, but he was slowly gathering his things and tucking them beneath his arm.

“Not if my opponent is loneliness. Come on, Sebastian. Entertain me.” You didn’t even attempt to hide your smugness as he stood by your side, holding his arm out for you to take. “How charming.” You commented, your hand resting on his elbow as he guided you from Hogwarts.

After spending almost every day of the past three months in your company, Sebastian had come to think nothing of mindless affection.

He noticed it first in your interactions with Natsai. How you pulled her into a tight embrace after she won a round of Crossed Wands, only letting go when it was your turn to duel.

Then it was with Poppy. How the pair of you always seemed to sit or stand close enough to each other to touch in some way. How she’d place her head on your shoulder and you’d rest yours on top of hers.

Even with Anne, who you had only just met, you placed your hands on her shoulders ever-so-softly as she told you of her strife. It seemed to natural for you to touch those you cared for.

He realised you were more hesitant to show affection to your male classmates. You’d hold Garreth’s arm as you laughed at a joke, but always retracted after a few seconds. But the Scriptorium changed everything.

In the moment, he supposed it was mere adrenaline, that the way you tightly squeezed Ominis after his parseltounge display was a mere product of high tensions. But when he cast Crucio, he saw Ominis react in a way he never had before. Ominis grabbed you and held you close as you cried and thrashed in his arms, hands shaking as he fought every urge in him to leave you alone and fend off him own haunting memories.

After that, you and Ominis became more freely affectionate than ever, sparking more than a few courtship rumours that made Sebastian’s heart race more than they should have. The blond boy would let you lead him through crowded areas where his wand might have failed him. You’d let him lean against you in History of Magic.

Your closeness with Sebastian was forged from a moment of weakness on his end.

A week prior to the Christmas break, the day Sebastian decided not to return to Feldcroft, you’d caught him sat on a bench by the greenhouses, watching the wildflowers billow in the moonlight. His hands were clasped before him, his knee kept bouncing, and his brows were furrowed into a deep line.

You approached him just as you had in the library, with a soft tenderness, inviting him to the Room of Requirement for some space to clear his mind.

He took his anger out of conjured training dummies and yelled so loud you had to move your diricawls to a different vivarium so they wouldn’t get scared until, eventually, he collapsed onto one of the sofas you had set up in the middle of the room. The last thing he remembered of that night was your fingers combing through his hair. And then he woke up, his head resting in your lap, your hands still in his tresses. He sat up quickly, instantly aware of how compromising such a position could be.

You were fast asleep, head tilted back on the sofa in a way that must’ve been most uncomfortable. His cheeks warmed at the thought of you sitting through that for his sake. He took off his robe and draped it over your frame, smiling as you subconsciously curled around it.

From that night on, it felt like a barrier had been broken between the two of you. Sebastian’s hand would seek yours beneath tables, his touch would linger on the small of your back in Hogsmeade.

“She always made me feel welcomed.” He said to Harry, eyes glazed over as he stayed half-distracted is his reminiscence. “She did that for everyone.” A laugh bubbled out of his mouth. “I remember all of our daughter’s friends wanted to come stay at our home just to see her. No matter how busy she was with work, she’d make them food and sweets and entertain whatever stories they had to tell her.”

Harry found himself laughing too, a sense of longing rooting him in his spot. He watched Sebastian, who he’d read about as a formidable curse-breaker unafraid of anything, turn to nothing more than a smitten schoolchild at the recollection of your younger memories and wondered what it would’ve been like to hear such stories from his own father.

“When she passed, it seemed as though the world itself stopped to grieve. Our Annie didn’t know what to do and I didn’t know how to help her. I mean, how can you tell a child her mother is dead?” Sebastian was vaguely aware that he was preaching to the wrong choir, but he so rarely got to wallow in the pain he felt all those years ago and found himself swept into its storm all over again.

The word ‘child’ caught Harry’s ears and made him look at Sebastian in confusion. “How could Anne be a child when Y/n passed? She said you had her at thirty.”

Sebastian’s mind cleared, shock melting to realisation on his face as the fact you’d kept your death from Harry dawned on him. “She was thirty-eight when it happened.”

“How?” Harry found himself asking without care for how insensitive it may have come across.

“It was supposed to be her final mission before retirement. She’d been worked to the bone for over twenty years, and if I carried on in my post, we’d have had more than enough money to carry on comfortably while she minded Anne. She was promised an easy case to finish it off, something about a loose canon in the south of France. She insisted to bring me along for ‘aid’ but I knew it was because the year prior I’d made comment about wanting to visit.”

“The case itself was fine, an old witch had written a barely legible spell book centuries before our time and passed it down from generation to generation as nothing more than mantle decoration, but it fell into the hands of a reckless wizard. Between the two of us, he was contained easily, but he had a wife who didn’t know the full story. She saw none of his wrongdoings and only us defeating and detaining him. She cast a killing curse on me whilst my back was turned and—” His breath caught in his throat.

“Her valiance had always been both my most and least favourite trait of hers. She pushed me out of the way before anyone could blink.”

A heavy silence settled over them both. A pit weighed in Harry’s stomach, stoking a fire of anger at the injustice of the Wizarding World.

His mother was a kind woman. His father was a kind man. You were kind. And what kindness was afforded to you in return? A cold death by an uncaring wand? Is that what truly came from devotion? Is that what would come to him?

“I’m sorry.” Was all he managed to say to Sebastian.

“There’s no need. I’m with her now.” The man smiled back. “It’s funny, when we were younger, I would be so annoyed every time an artist requested to commission a painting of her because it took away from the time I could spend with her. But once she passed, I couldn’t have been more grateful for them, because it gave me infinite chances to speak with her again.”

It wasn’t long before Harry felt the gentle temptations of sleep crawl to the forefronts of his mind and he bid Sebastian adieu after making the portrait promise to say hello on his behalf.

Decades had passed now since that first fateful day in the potions corridor. Harry had grown from a feeble and uncertain boy to a man weathered by grief but uplifted by the love he gave and received in turn.

He recalled you saying once how you wished for him the same family you made with Sebastian and he liked to believe that he now did. His eldest son radiated a nervous energy as he hovered by the front door of his girlfriend’s parents house, his other children stood behind him, giggling at their brother’s anxiety, Ginny stood by his side and smiled up at him with a knowing look.

It was the first time they were meeting the girl’s family, having met her once or twice in passing when they dropped James Sirius off at 9 3/4, and Harry couldn’t have been more excited if he tried. The way his son seemed to glow at the mention of the girl put him in mind of how he did with Ginny, how Rob did with Hermione, how Sebastian had that night in the Leaky Cauldron.

He wondered how the two of you fared in the years since he last spoke with you. It seemed as he travelled for auror work, he found less and less time to spend in the Three Broomsticks speaking with a painting over a few too many firewhiskeys. He hoped you were well and that you’d be proud of what he managed to accomplish, that he carried on the ‘chosen one’ lineage with a happy ending just as you had before.

Before he could wallow any longer, the door swung open to reveal a woman with a warm smile and brown eyes. “Hello!” She beamed.

“Amelia?!” Ginny exclaimed with a bright before introductions could be made. The woman’s jaw dropped in shock.

“Ginny Weasley?!” The redhead ushered her children inside to give the other woman a tight hug. “Merlin, you’ve changed since Hogwarts.” She let out a breathy laugh, holding Ginny by the shoulders.

“We were in the same year.” Ginny explained to her husband while Amelia told the children her daughter was just ahead in the front room.

“Lovely to meet you officially, Harry.” Amelia smiled and shook his hand. “My husband’s just popped down to the shop to get some wine and I’m finishing up the dinner, so make yourselves comfortable. Food should be ready in about ten minutes.”

Ginny went inside to greet the girl her son was so besotted by while Harry stayed back to hang her coat. As he walked toward the front room, he took his time in admiring the artwork lining their walls. They were all nice pieces, although nothing seemed to grab his attention until he saw the plaque on the last one before the door.

He could hear the fire crackling and his family laughing, but there was only one thing he could focus on. Y/n and Sebastian Sallow.

He dared not look up for fear he’d somehow misremembered the name of the woman who saved his school time sanity and raised his hopes for naught. He kept his eyes firmly in the plaque until he heard that same soft voice once again.

“Hello, sweetheart. I thought you’d gotten lost.”

©voguesriot 2025

Timid footsteps pad across wooden floors of Satoru Gojo’s lavish penthouse. Unfamiliar eyes searching, prying into corners, examining the modern art on walls and abstract sculptures on shelves.

Finding…you.

You’re standing in the living room, dressed in loose-fitting slacks and a sweater with a leather portfolio folder held in the crook of your elbow as you watch her freeze, caught snooping. You smile professionally at the young woman in front of you, who blinks at you in surprise. She’s pretty, exactly Satoru’s type, with her striking features and model-like legs that go on for days. But, unfortunately for her, she’s outstayed her welcome for the night.

“Good morning,” you say, keeping that respectful, almost clinical smile on your face. You hand her a garment bag, keeping your eyes respectfully off her body as she leans forward and grabs it. She’s dressed in Satoru’s button-down shirt, rumpled and wine-stained, and nothing else. She, in turn, averts her eyes, fidgeting and looking slightly embarrassed to be standing there with you. “I had your clothes dry cleaned overnight; your belongings and shoes are by the door when you’re dressed and ready to go.”

Her eyes stay averted. “You his girlfriend or something?” she asks.

You let out a little laugh; it’s not the first time you’ve been asked, but it never fails to amuse you, the idea of dating that obnoxious man. “No,” you say, smiling kindly. “I’m just the help.”

She nods and seemingly relaxes, now that she knows she wasn’t just caught being the other woman. She turns over her shoulder and looks back towards the bedroom. “Can I… say goodbye?”

“That won’t be necessary. Mr. Gojo is very busy this morning.”

She looks strangely disappointed, and you feel a little bad for her. Every girl comes in here, even knowing Satoru’s history, and hopes she’ll be the one to change him, to make him want to see them again.

It never turns out their way.

You gesture to a guest bathroom near the entryway to the penthouse. “Please, take anything you need from the bathroom. There’s toiletries there for your use. There’s a car waiting for you outside to take you wherever you’d like.”

She just nods and turns away to get dressed. She shuts the bathroom door behind her, and you leave her to it.

As you make your way towards the dining room, the surrounding bodyguards make sure the girl leaves through the front door and gets into the car.

Satoru’s head pokes out from around the corner. “Is she gone?”

You turn to him and sigh, putting your hands on your hips. “You’ve gotta start taking care of your own problems, Satoru. I can’t keep kicking them out for you.”

He grins and finally fully emerges from the hallway, coming towards you dressed in only his form-fitting boxer briefs, his hair tousled with sleep and sex. You avert your eyes as he comes to join you in the kitchen. “You can do whatever I want you to. You’re my assistant, my little shadow; you’re supposed to do all the shit I don’t feel like doing.”

You grumble under your breath as you sit at the breakfast table, “Wasn’t in the job description.”

He just laughs and sits across from you, stretching his long legs under the table. He leans back against his chair and watches you for a moment with a slight smirk on his face. He nudges your leg with his foot. “You’re not really mad, are you?”

You sigh and look up at him, examining his insincere expression, and still finding that you can’t be angry at all, because this is, indeed, what you signed up for. So you just huff and look back down at your breakfast, and Satoru grins, taking it as a no.

You eat your breakfast in companionable silence, like you have ever since you were hired and moved into his penthouse. 

When you first started as personal assistant to Satoru Gojo, you tried to keep your old apartment, citing that it was only a twenty minute commute by train so why would you relocate your entire life to revolve around him? It was even nice to get your mandated time away from him. But one month into your new job, you realized how the odd hours were affecting you; you weren’t leaving until late into the night, and rising to be at his place before his morning alarm woke him up was exhausting.

So, you took his offer to move in, getting your very own ensuite and walk-in closet. It was a pretty good deal in return for dealing with his aggravating ass all day, every day.

“What’s the plan for today?” Satoru asks when he’s done eating, fingers interlocked behind his head, showing off his carved chest and biceps.

You keep your eyes firmly on the binder in front of you; you are all too aware of what kind of teasing one moment of staring could get you. “You have a meeting with the elders this morning about safety for local business owners. The higher ups are concerned that, with the rising tensions between us and the Hellhounds, businesses will take a hit.”

Satoru grumbles and grits his teeth. “This is a clan war; of course numbers will be down. At least we promise them safety and don’t throw them out on their asses to defend themselves.”

You give him a stern look. “Their loyalty and tributes pay our bills, Satoru. You need to respect their wishes.”

It’s a conversation you’ve had several times. Satoru, part of the recent movement that believes businessmen should honor the clan’s wishes and not the other way around, has never been soft on the wealthy populace like his father and grandfather once were, which frustrates those businessmen who feel they’re not being represented. Which, in turn, frustrates the leaders whose pockets they line.

He huffs and pushes away from the table. “I’ll go to the stupid meeting and put their minds at ease. Like I’ve done fifty fucking times.”

Despite his attitude, you relax into your chair. “Thank you.”

He nods, walking back to his bedroom to get dressed. You take the opportunity to watch him go, watch how his back and thighs move as he leaves…

“Stop staring!” he calls over his shoulder, and you curse under your breath as he laughs.

~

When Satoru returns, he’s dressed in his typical crisp suit, trying to cinch a silver watch on his wrist.

You set down your folder and come over, taking his watch and helping him buckle it. Your fingers brush against the warm skin of his wrist. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he grumbles, pulling away to fix his cuffs. “Is Suguru here?”

You shake your head. “He’ll meet us at the office, he said.”

You hear Satoru swear under his breath. “Can’t even meet him to brief on what we’re supposed to say?” he asks rhetorically, sounding more frustrated than he actually is.

“You know what to say,” you tell him. “Assure them that their profits will be protected while you and the Hellhounds battle, and everything will be fine.”

“I can’t guarantee that!” he argues, not for the first time. “I’m not a medium; I can’t see the future.”

“Neither can mediums, technically. Mediums only talk to the dead.”

He waves his hand. “Whatever. You know what I mean. I can’t tell them I’ll make sure they keep making money, not when there’s so much hostility from the Hellhounds. What I can guarantee is I won’t let them be slaughtered in the crossfire.”

You sigh and follow him down to the private garage, where his favorite cars are parked and free from threat of damage from tenants of the condos below his. He walks over to the black Bugatti and climbs in, the engine rumbling sensually as he turns the key.

You get in the passenger seat and sigh, clutching your portfolio to your chest as he rolls out of the garage. You stare out the window at the passing city. Abruptly, you ask, “Why do you hate them so much?”

“Hate who?”

“The businessmen, Gakuganji and the others. Even Senator Yaga.”

He takes a deep breath, eyes on the road. He says, “I don’t hate them. I hate what they stand for. I hate that they get to live in their pretty estates and watch my men put their lives on the line, and yet complain about inflation rising and profits falling. I hate that I have to bury some of my best fighters, and they get to dictate which rulings pass, which bills are signed. It’s not fair. They’re not out here dying for the clan. Why do they get to be the ones making the final calls?”

You can see the storm in the ocean of his eyes, the turmoil in their blue depths. It’s clear what the problem is; if he’s inherited all this power as clan leader and crime boss, why is he still beholden to everyone else’s wants?

Why isn’t he the god of his own destiny?

You don’t have an answer for him.

Satoru continues the drive to the office building silently, the only sound between you the music playing through the speakers. Finally, when you reach the Six-eyed Dragons headquarters, a three-story office space above local government offices, Satoru kills the engine and looks at you.

“You must think me childish,” he says softly, “whining about fairness and justice in a world like ours.”

You slowly shake your head, meeting his gaze. “I don’t,” you admit, just as softly. “I don’t think you’re a child. I think… you have an ideal of what you wish this world was. There’s no harm in that.”

He huffs, a smile curling his lips as he grabs the keys. He glances back at you ruefully. “Let’s get inside before Yaga throws a fit and comes to find us.”

You smile back and follow him inside.

Suguru is there, dressed in similar finery to Satoru. Where Satoru wears a button-down beneath his gray suit coat, top two buttons undone to show off his white gold chains, Suguru wears a black turtleneck, form-fitting across his chest. You try not to ogle as you make your way over.

Satoru glances over and rolls his eyes. “Get it out of your system,” he sighs dramatically, nudging you playfully with his elbow before he walks over to his underboss. Suguru just gives you a friendly wink, and you roll your eyes at both of them before they duck their heads together and speak in hushed tones all the way to the board room.

You follow after them, stopping right before the threshold of the meeting room. Then, as always, Satoru holds up a hand to you and shakes his head. “Not today,” he tells you, and you simply nod before retreating and taking your seat at one of the desks outside.

He wasn’t telling you that you were incapable of listening or understanding. Instead, he was protecting both you and the clan; you weren’t trained to sustain torture like other clan members were in the face of questioning. If he allowed you inside these meetings, you could be a weakness to the Dragons, and you could get yourself killed.

So you sit, and you wait, like a good little assistant as Satoru and Suguru attend their meeting.

~

“Sir,” Satoru says, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I’m saying–”

“I understand what you’re saying, young man!” Gakuganji snaps, pointing one gnarled finger at him from across the board room table. “You’re saying you can’t protect us in our time of need!”

The rest of the higher ups sit there, watching the argument unfold. Senator Yaga seems uncomfortable with the display.

Satoru tries again. “If I may–”

“This is the thanks you give us, those who push your legislation on drug control and violence?” Gakuganji continued. “Those who have paid tribute to your father, and to your grandfather before him? Those who–?”

Satoru stands abruptly and slams his hands against the table, shaking the wood with a low creak. This, finally, is what stuns the old man into silence. “It seems,” he says, his voice dangerously low, “that you and the others have forgotten why you pay tribute in the first place. It is not to garner favor from us, or to convince us to let you run free. It is in return for our protection during war time. It is to keep you safe, to save your lives. Not your profits, nor your businesses. That is why you pay tribute to the Dragons.”

He can feel the unrest in the room, the disapproving glances thrown towards him. He knows they don’t like him as clan leader; they wish he was still a simple underboss, a man under the rule of another, simply a weapon with no direct say over what violence he committed.

They’d rather answer to his father, but unfortunately for them, he was dead.

Satoru takes a deep breath and continues, calming himself once more. “Ryomen Sukuna and the Tokyo Hellhounds killed my father. It would call down his wrath to not retaliate. But wartimes will not treat us kindly; civilian foot traffic will decrease, as will spending at large. I am sorry to admit that. But we cannot let that be what stops us from taking revenge for my father’s death.”

The table remains quiet, but instead of frustration and indignation, Satoru sees begrudging acceptance in their gazes. Even Gakuganji nods, grimacing.

Glancing at Suguru out of the corner of his eye, Satoru sees that he’s smiling.

Then he returns his gaze to the men in front of him. “If you have any questions, please direct them to my assistant, and she will get you in contact with either Suguru or me. Thank you all for coming.” And with that he excuses himself from the meeting room, breathing a sigh of relief.

Suguru claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “Well done. You had Yaga shitting bricks in there.”

Satoru lets out a huff of a laugh, but he doesn’t respond as you stand from your desk and gather your paperwork. His eyes are fond as he watches you approach. “What do you have for me?”

You dutifully hand over a stack of papers. “I need you to approve these for me, and Senator Yaga already called; he wants a private meeting with you about the charity auction he’s having this weekend. He wants you to attend.”

“Damn,” Satoru sighs, “that’s right. That hardly gives me enough time to find a date.” He looks quizzically between you and Suguru, like he can’t decide which one of you he’d rather see dolled up as his date for a charity gala. Finally, with a shake of his head, he turns back to you. “Guess you’re coming with me.”

You give him an unimpressed look. “I have better things to do on a weekend than be your unwilling guest. Find somebody else.”

“It’s your job!” he replies indignantly.

“Dressing up like your date instead of your assistant is not in the job description!” you insist, equally disgruntled.

“Like we already established, your job description is to do whatever I need from you.” Satoru crosses his arms across his broad chest. “And this weekend, I need a date.”

You huff, throwing your hands up. “I don’t even have a dress to wear!”

So Satoru reaches into his pocket for his wallet and takes out a platinum card. He brandishes it towards you. “Get whatever you like. Just be ready for the auction.”

You growl under your breath and throw a look at Suguru, searching for sympathy. He just watches the exchange with an amused curl to his mouth. You sigh in response and snatch the credit card from Satoru. “Fine.”

Satoru flashes a dazzling smile, all teeth. “Great.”

“But I’m taking Shoko.”

Satoru rolls his eyes but concedes. “Fine.”

You smile back at him brightly. “Great. Am I relieved of my duties for the rest of the day?”

He sighs, but takes the folder from your hands and starts flipping through the pages. “I guess we can hold down the fort for a while without you for a few hours.”

Suguru chimes in, “Which means I’ll–” he grabs the portfolio, “–take care of this.” He winks at you. “I’ve got it, little shadow. Go have fun.”

You thank him, tossing one last questioning look to Satoru: Will you be okay? He waves you off. “Go have fun,” he repeats Suguru’s words.

And so, because you’re not one to disobey your boss, you turn and head out of the building, digging through your purse for your phone.

You hit Shoko’s number, calling the gang’s medical doctor. She answers on the third ring. “Something happen?” she asks, her usual greeting for you.

“Yes,” you say. “Satoru gave me his card. We’re going shopping.”

Immediately her attitude changes; you can hear her voice brighten up considerably. “Oh. Great. Come pick me up from the clinic; I’m treating a few of the kids.

You sigh. You hate it when the gang’s soldiers – the young members on the front lines day to day – get hurt. “I’ll be there.”

She hangs up without saying goodbye. As is her typical routine on a busy day.

You walk downtown to the clinic, and you tell the receptionist that you’re there to pick up Shoko. She smiles at you and nods, letting you know she’ll go tell Shoko you’re here.

So you sit in the waiting room, scrolling through your phone as you wait. A text from Satoru pops up.

|| Satoru Gojo: Miss you~ :( Suguru’s a terrible personal assistant

|| You: it’s been fifteen minutes

He doesn’t respond. You just shake your head fondly before slipping your phone back into your bag.

When Shoko appears, her face is drawn. “Ready to go?” she asks.

“Yeah.” You stand, examining the dark bags under her eyes. Your brows crease in concern. “You doing okay?”

She waves you off. “Just need a smoke. Let’s get out of here.”

You follow her out, watching her shake free a cigarette from the box. “Rough day?” you ask.

She chuckles quietly. “You could say that.” She puts the cig between her teeth and pulls out her lighter. “Itadori, Fushiguro, and Kugisaki were all injured by Hellhound soldiers. I’ve had to stitch all three of them up.” She sighs, letting out a breath of smoke. “I’m just tired.”

You look at her sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Sho.”

She waves her hand, dismissing your apologies. You’re the only one who’s not actually involved in the crime organization, having no say or action to do with the Six-eyed Dragons besides doing the paperwork and scheduling meetings.

You're not the one to be angry with.

“Anway,” she sighs, starting to walk down the street towards the shopping center. “What are we shopping for?”

You make a disgusted noise in the back of your throat. “A dress. Satoru’s making me go to a gala with him this weekend.”

“Why haven’t you two just fucked already?” she asks dryly.

You choke on your own spit.

As you cough and splutter, drawing attention from the passing people on the street, Shoko just smirks at you. Finally you croak, “What?”

“You heard me,” she says. “Why haven’t you–?”

“Don’t say it again!”

She laughs, glee written in her brown eyes for the first time since you picked her up. “I’m serious, though!”

“Shut up, Sho!”

She just shakes her head. “Aren’t you even a little curious?”

“Curious about what?”

“What he’s like in bed! Christ, you guys even live together, don’t you ever hear him with someone else and wish it was you?”

“No!” you cry.

She laughs again. “Fine,” she says, waving off the topic, “I’ll drop it. For now.”

You groan and lead her into the dress shop, listening to her chuckle under her breath the whole way in.

~

“Satoru!” you call from your bedroom.

“What?” comes his muffled reply.

“I need help with my zipper!”

There comes a begrudging sigh from the other room, and then you hear Satoru’s dress shoes on the hardwood floor as he comes down the hall. When he walks in, he’s adjusting his cuffs, looking at them instead of you. “You know, for my personal assistant, you sure are–” And then he looks up, and the words die in his throat.

You’re dressed in a mauve dress, with your hair down and makeup expertly applied. The sleeves of the dress are off the shoulder, accentuating the expanse of your throat to the top of your chest. The bodice fits you perfectly, and at the waist the fabric spills over, running off of you like a waterfall. You’re reaching backwards to try and tug the zipper further up, but it’s caught around the bottom of your rib cage.

You huff. “Can you stop ogling and just help me?”

He shakes his head free of the thoughts swirling there and steps up behind you. He wiggles the zipper a little. “Damn, you really got this stuck.”

“Don’t force it, you’ll rip the dress.” You try to ignore the sensation of his warm hands at your back, his skin brushing against yours.

Now it’s his turn to scoff. “You think I’m stupid or something?”

“Sometimes,” you tell him.

“I should punish you for that, you know.”

“Please, spare me,” you say dryly.

You can’t see him smile behind you, but you can hear it in his voice when he says, “That’s more like it.” Finally, with one last little wiggle, he gets the zipper free, and he slowly slides it up, his fingers tracing up your spine as he does.

You shiver.

He likes that, it seems; he leans a little closer, his warm breath tickling the hair at the back of your neck. “Shadow–” he says, using his little nickname for you.

You step away, trying to catch your breath. “We should go.”

His hands, frozen in air where they had once been resting on you, slowly fall to his sides. He nods and clears his throat. “Let’s go, then,” he says, and he gestures for you to lead out the door.

You do, grabbing your clutch on your way out. Your heels make an impressive sound on the hardwood. “Is Ijichi driving us?”

“Yes.” Satoru, who would usually be chattering about god knows what, is unusually quiet.

You don’t have much to say, either. So your ride in the backseat of the sleek black sedan is silent. You watch the city as it passes by.

When you pull up to the charity auction, it feels like a red carpet event. There’s journalists and photographers lined up along the entrance, and suddenly you feel a swarm of nerves in the pit of your stomach. But Satoru puts his hand on yours, and when you look at him, his ocean eyes are soft and encouraging. “It’ll be okay,” he says. “I got you.”

Then he comes around and opens the door for you like a gentleman, and you can’t help but think of what Shoko said.

“Why haven’t you two just fucked already? Aren’t you even a little curious?”

Well, now you are.

He holds your hand tightly as he leads you past the photographers, a dashing smile on his face as you head into the venue.

The entranceway leads right into a grand ballroom.

Satoru leads you to the front of the room, where a table is reserved for him and other notable members of society, including Senator Yaga and Gakuganji. Satoru pointedly ignores them in favor of speaking to you instead.

The dinner goes by quickly, with Satoru slowly learning more about you than he ever has, about your family and your childhood and your friends outside of work. 

You find that, despite the fact he likes to run his mouth, he’s actually an attentive listener.

Then, once the dinner is completed, the auction starts. Satoru himself bids on a couple art pieces for the penthouse and his office, and once the last piece is sold, the ballroom starts to fill with dancing people.

Satoru looks at you. “You wanna dance?”

You shrug, holding your wine glass. “Not really a dancing person.”

He grins. “Liar. I’ve seen you at the club.”

You scoff, smirking. “That’s different. I’m not drunk.”

“I can change that.” And without another word, Satoru grabs your hand and tugs you up from your seat.

“Satoru–”

“Shh. Just trust me.”

And so, because you do, you follow him. And he buys you both a round of shots, letting you slowly sink into a tipsy stupor.

Once you’re happy and swaying to the music, he smiles and takes your hand, leading you to the dance floor. “I don’t think those moves of yours from the club would really match the vibe here, shadow,” he says, smirking at you as he wraps you up for a slow dance.

You smile and let him, resting your hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, I’d probably give Gakuganji a heart attack.”

“Actually, on second thought, I think you should.”

You giggle and rest your head on his chest as the two of you sway back and forth. He tightens his arms around you. “Thanks for bringing me tonight. I was a little pessimistic but…I had fun.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for being my date on such short notice.” He bends down to put his lips near your ear. “And for looking so beautiful doing it.”

You let out another giggle, not moving from his chest. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” you tell him.

He huffs a small laugh, and he rests his cheek on your head. “I know.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Ever the humble one.”

“You know it,” he teases warmly. And as you continue to dance, you feel yourself sinking into him further.

It’s over too quickly.

He nudges you lightly, breaking you out of your thoughtless dancing. “C’mon, my pretty girl,” he says, and your heart flutters with the compliment, and the ownership of what he said. “Let’s go home.”

As he does, his words wrap round and round your drunken, fuzzy brain.

My pretty girl.

~

It’s quiet between you as you walk back into the penthouse.

Satoru quickly sheds his shoes, and you reach down to do the same, but he stops you with a hand on your arm. “I’ll do it,” he murmurs, his voice hushed in the darkness of the penthouse.

He kneels down and starts unstrapping your heels, his fingers warm and gentle on your ankles. You hold his shoulder as you step out of your shoes, finally letting your aching feet rest bare on the hardwood.

Satoru looks up at you, blue eyes shadowed. His hand trails up your ankle, up your leg, feeling the muscles of your calf. His touch is warm, like a blaze of fire up your leg, burning into your core. Looking at him down there, on his knee for you, if he wanted to he could just lean in and–

“Satoru,” you breathe, hand moving from his shoulder to his hair.

His breath catches, and he removes his hand from your leg and stands, rising to his full height in front of you. He pulls you close, his hands on your waist. “Little shadow,” he whispers, his lips pressed against your ear, “I need–”

You’re breathless. “Satoru–”

He groans at the sound of his name on your lips. “Please.” 

“We shouldn’t–”

His hands come to cup your cheeks, and your breath catches as he leans in, his eyes fervent on yours. “I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. I need to touch you, to feel you, I need–” His words break off, his shoulders heaving with each breath, pupils blown wide.

You stare at him for a long moment, long enough that he’s starting to look desperate, aching. Finally, you whisper, “Okay.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

His lips crash against yours, claiming and totalitarian. It’s like he’s trying to merge the two of you into one entity, to crush you so hard into his chest that he swallows you whole. He moves his lips so deliciously against yours, so dextrous, so demanding, that it makes you weak in the knees. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you up as your legs threaten to give out. His tongue brushes against your lower lip, and you open up for him readily, breathing a soft moan into his mouth.

He grins at the sound. At the proof that you want this as much as he does. He threads his fingers into your hair and holds you there, opening your mouth further for his exploration. You sigh softly, letting him hold you right where he wants you.

His other hand roams your body, gripping at your hips, your waist, your thighs. Gathering up your long skirt and inching beneath it. Then both his hands move back to your zipper, slowly inching it down and opening the back of the dress.

“Satoru,” you whisper, pulling back slightly to look at him.

“I never should’ve even zipped this dress up,” he says, letting the fabric fall down your shoulders, off your body, pooling at your feet. He helps you step out of it, right back into his arms. “I should’ve laid you down and fucked you when you called me in, shouldn’t have gone to the stupid fucking auction in the first place.”

You huff a laugh, tilting your head back as he starts kissing down your neck again. “You had to go,” you say, eyes falling shut.

He grumbles, “I don’t have to do anything. I’m the leader of this fucking clan; I can do what I want.”

You smile at how petulant he sounds. You don’t say anything, you just let him believe he has his own free will as boss, and let him lick down your neck, sucking little marks into your flesh. He takes a step forward, forcing you to take a step back, then another, until he’s guiding you down the hall to the bedrooms. He shrugs off his suit jacket and drops it in a heap on the floor, then moves his hands to cup your tits, kneading them and thumbing over your nipples.

He steers you into his bedroom, nudging you backwards onto the bed.

You crawl backwards up the bed, watching as he undoes his tie and tosses it aside, before climbing up after you. He returns his lips to yours in a mess of tongue and teeth, and you both laugh when your teeth catch in your fervor.

“Sorry,” you whisper, head falling back as he starts kissing down your throat again.

He shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry for, pretty girl.” He pushes you down against the mattress and kisses down your chest, starting to suck on your nipples.

You hum, fingers dipping into his hair. You tug softly. “Kiss me.”

“I am kissing you,” he mumbles around your nipple.

You shiver at the vibrations of his words. “You know what I mean.”

He hums and lets go with a pop, before looking up at you. “I don’t know what you mean,” he teases. “Can’t know if you don’t use your words.”

You groan and tug on his hair. “Kiss me on the mouth.”

He moans as you pull his hair and willingly comes up your body to kiss you. His mouth is fervent on yours.

He kisses you for a while longer, tongue tangling with yours, before he pulls away, a string of saliva connecting your mouths as he breathes heavily. “Can I go down on you?” he asks.

Your pupils dilate. “Are you sure?”

He chuckles, leaning in to quickly kiss your mouth one last time. “Yeah, baby. I’m sure.” And then he slowly inches his way down your body. “Can I?”

You nod, watching him as he kisses his way down your stomach, towards your pelvis. He slowly drags your lace panties down your legs, keeping his eyes on you the entire time. Then he tosses them aside, and he’s kissing up your thigh, throwing your legs over his shoulder as he mouths his way closer and closer…

Then he slowly licks a line up your pussy, stopping when his tongue gently nudges your clit.

“Fuck,” he groans, his tongue flicking over your clit again, “your cunt tastes even better than I imagined.”

You’re starstruck, barely able to comprehend what he’s saying. And yet, “Y-you imagined this?”

“All the time, pretty girl,” he says, sucking at your clit, gazing up at you through thick white lashes. “All the fucking time.”

Your head falls back, a soft cry escaping. Your hand tightens in his hair. “Oh, fuck, Satoru.”

“Oh, you like that, huh?” he teases. “Like when I suck on your clit like that?”

“Y-yes!”

“Such a good fucking girl.” He wraps his lips around your swollen clit and sucks again, repeating the same amount of pressure as before. He continues to babble between slowly working you up, eating you out like he’s savoring you. “Fuck, so goddamn pretty like this.”

“You really are, you know?” he asks after a moment.

You stutter, “A-are what?”

“A good girl. Such a good girl. You always do exactly what I need, when I need it, don’t even have to fucking ask you twice. And you take my attitude and throw it right back at me – fuck that’s so hot. You’re perfect, little shadow, just perfect.”

“Satoru?” you say, gripping his hair.

“Yeah, pretty?”

“Shut up and eat me already.” And with that you shove his face further between your legs.

He groans loudly, lapping animatedly at your cunt. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “So fucking bossy all the goddamn time, so fucking sexy.”

“Satoru, stop talking.”

He glances up at you, showing off a shit-eating grin. “I’m talking to her, not you,” he says, and then he presses a kiss to your outer lips, and it’s clear he means he’s talking to your pussy.

You go to roll your eyes, but then he moves one of his hands and slowly pushes a finger inside you.

You yelp, not expecting the intrusion. His finger is long, and it’s immediately searching, trying to find a spot that’ll make you see stars, to make you cry out his name over and over…

When he finds it, curling his finger up against the top wall of your pussy against the spongy tissue there, you gasp. Your hips jump at the sensation. He chuckles quietly. “There it is,” he whispers, diving back in to start flicking his tongue against your clit again. He adds a second finger and starts gently stroking your g-spot as you writhe and cry out, hips bucking. His free hand comes to steady your hips. “Now, now,” he teases, eyes glinting as they gaze up at you again, “behave, pretty girl, or I’ll have to put you over my knee.”

You scoff and say, “Like to see you try– ah!” Your words cut off when he starts fingerfucking you with fervor, moving his hand hard and fast against your g-spot until your body is writhing beneath his. He keeps you pinned to the bed, grinning at you as he laps at your clit, riding each wave of pleasure with you.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he says, “cum for me.”

His fingers don’t stop working, and neither does his tongue, and all of a sudden you gasp, head flying up to look at him in panic. “Satoru, stop, I-I–”

He shakes his head. “Not happening.”

“Satoru, I’m gonna–”

“Give it to me, pretty.”

And as his fingers hit your g-spot again, and again, your back arches off the bed, and you’re shaking so fucking hard, and he’s wearing that same grin, and then–

A rush of white-hot pleasure, and then your thighs feel hot and wet.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers in surprise.

“S-Satoru, I tried to warn you,” you pant, body still locked in ecstasy, eyes rolled back.

“Warn me? Baby, that was so fucking hot.” He licks his lips. “Let me see it again.”

So he starts slamming his fingers, the same way he did before, into your g-spot, until your walls are fluttering and you squirt again, orgasming so hard your vision goes black for a moment.

He groans, and he looks like he might cum right there in his pants. “Fuck, baby, so fucking good.” He pulls out his fingers and licks them clean, keeping his ocean eyes locked on yours.

Your gaze is hazy, pleasure-ridden. Dazed.

He grins again and crawls up your body, kissing you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue. You moan and kiss him back enthusiastically, sucking on his tongue.

He groans back before pulling away, panting. “You think you can take my dick now, pretty?” he asks.

You nod, already reaching for his belt.

He huffs a laugh and lets you unbuckle the belt, one hand coming up to gently stroke your jaw. “Such an eager thing, huh? You want my cock that bad?”

You growl under your breath. “You’re getting a big head.”

He winks. “I’m big everywhere else; it’s only fair.”

And when you finally get his pants down his thighs, you realize he’s not lying.

He is big, long and girthy and beautifully imprinted against his tight boxer briefs. You’re practically salivating at the sight of it, and your fingers dip into the elastic band of his underwear and slowly push those down, too. 

His cock springs free, hard and blushing a pretty shade of pink.

You moan at the sight, eyes flickering from the pink tip to his face, where he’s still smiling down at you. “Ready for it?” he asks.

You nod again.

So he grabs your hips and puts you where he wants you, on your back with your legs hitched around his hips. He takes his dick in hand and slaps your clit with the tip, watching your body jolt at the stimulation. Then he gathers your wetness and slowly pushes in.

Both of you moan in time with each other, heads bent together as you both watch the intrusion. He pushes past the first ring of resistance slowly, gently, and then the rest of his thrust is effortless until he bottoms out.

You feel like he’s about to come out of your mouth with how deep he is.

Then he starts moving his hips, and it’s like he’s ravaging you.

He’s moving so fast it’s nearly blinding, drawing cries from your lips as he fucking demolishes you. Pleasure arcs up your spine as he thrusts into your dripping pussy, pornographic sounds filling the bedroom as he pulls out and slowly pushes back inside, groaning and praising you the entire time.

“Good girl,” he grunts, hands roaming your body. “Good fucking girl.”

Satoru grabs one of your legs and throws it over his shoulder, stretching you out until your hips are perfectly aligned. At this angle he hits something fucking devastating inside you, thrusting his beautiful cock up against your g-spot with every thrust. Each roll of his hips draws another cry from between your lips, another “Oh yes! Fuck, Satoru!”

He’s wearing a cocky grin as he fucks you into the bed.

He turns his head, licking a line up the side of your calf before leaving a quick kiss to your ankle. “That feel good, pretty girl?” he asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious.

You can’t even reply at this point, fucked so good on his dick that you’re seeing stars. You just reach down and grip his muscular forearms, nails digging into flesh as you gaze at him, eyes hazy and lips parted.

He grins a little wider, clearly pleased with himself.

“F-fuck, Toru,” you whine, eyes rolling back, “I’m gonna cum. I-I’m gonna cum again!”

He’s never heard you call him that before. He can’t deny that he likes it. “That’s it, pretty girl, cum for me. Cum for your Toru.”

Your Toru.

At his words, your body convulses and shudders as you orgasm again.

He groans as you grip him so fucking hard it almost milks him dry. “You’re so fucking tight,” he grits through his teeth. “Feels so goddamn good.”

You whimper, eyes still rolled back. “Oh please.”

“Please what, baby?” He kisses your ankle again.

“Want you to cum.”

He laughs softly, his hand coming down to rub at your clit again. “Give me one more and I will, okay?”

You sob, head falling back. “I-I can’t,” you cry.

“Yes, you can,” he says, his voice low and soothing instead of mocking. “You want me to cum, you’re gonna have to work for it. Now, give me another.”

As if he commanded it, you climax, your thighs shaking around him as you squeeze him once more. He throws his head back, the rhythm of his thrusts finally starting to falter.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, eyes screwed shut. “Gonna cum. Where you want it, pretty? Can I cum on your gorgeous face like a good girl?”

You just nod, eager to give him whatever he wants in return for him fucking you so goddamn well. And so he shuffles up your body until his knees are by your shoulders, and you watch him jerk himself off as he moans over you.

“So fucking pretty,” he whines, and he pumps his hand up and down his length over your face. “Close your eyes, pretty girl, close your eyes and open your fucking mouth. Open it, please open it–”

You do, letting your eyes fall closed and dropping your jaw to stick out your tongue. You hear him moan again, high and pathetic, before he cums, spurting heat over your cheeks and mouth. “Fuck, good girl, good girl, baby,” he chants as he fucks his fist over your face, squeezing out the last few drops of cum onto your lips.

You can hear him panting, and you open your eyes slowly to see him staring down at you. He groans. “Close your eyes, baby, I can’t take looking at you; I’ll cum again.”

You giggle softly before reaching up and dipping your fingers into one of the strings of cum. You gather the sticky warmth from your cheeks and dip your fingers into your mouth, sucking them clean.

He whimpers again. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

You smile up at him around your fingers.

He slowly lowers himself down beside you. His arm wraps around your shoulders, and he tugs you towards his chest until your head rests on his shoulder. Both of you are breathing heavily.

“Satoru,” you whisper. “I have to clean my face off.”

He hums, closing his eyes. “Just give me a second; I’ll get you a washcloth. Need a second to recover.”

You huff a laugh, but let him take his breather. Finally, after a moment, he pats your hip. “Lemme up,” he says.

You roll over onto your back, letting him stand from the bed. He walks to the ensuite bathroom, gone for only a few moments before he comes back with a warm washcloth. He sits on the end of the bed and leans over you, gently cleaning off your face, quiet and thoughtful as he washes you off.

You watch him the entire time.

Then he tosses the washcloth into the hamper and climbs back into bed, tucking you against his chest once more. He takes a long, deep breath, closing his eyes once more.

“Satoru,” you whisper.

He opens one eye and looks down at you. “What, baby?”

“We’re not gonna…wake up in the morning and regret this…right?”

He lifts his head, suddenly realizing your question is serious. “Of course not,” he says, sounding a little stung. “Is that really what you think?”

You examine the look in his eyes. “I-I don’t know. It’s just…you’re my boss, you know? I’m just your assistant, I–”

He takes your jaw in his hand and tugs your face towards his. You blink in surprise. His eyes are hard and emphatic. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. Get that thought out of your mind now. You’re special, and I already told you I thought of doing this for ages. I should’ve done it before, but I was too chicken shit to do anything about it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He throws up his other hand, laughing. “Cause you’re you! You’re perfect and beautiful and give me shit all the time, and I didn’t want to ruin what we had. But you, in that dress tonight… I couldn’t not.”

You giggle.

He smiles at the sound and pets your hair, tucking a lock behind your ear. “I want you, baby,” he says, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Trust me on that.”

And so you do, and he holds you for the rest of the night, crushed against his chest. And every time you start to doubt his feelings, he tightens his arms around you, holding you a little bit closer.

You suppose you can trust him, just this time.

thanks for reading! -luna link to ao3 | next

He thinks it was worse that you seemed to be so chipper the entire time. You smiled with a halo, skin shining with the light. You also seemingly did no wrong, judging by the praises you received from his mother and grandfather. But, who was he kidding, of course they fucking loved you, they chose you to be his prison keeper.

You did not press him once, not when you were preparing for the ceremony, not when you were at the feast, not even after the Queen encouraged you to dance.

Anyone with eyes could see from how he slumped on his chair during dinner that Aegon would rather die than circle around the room to this grating noise echoing in the chamber.

The band begins to play another song and another round of dancing ensues.

He stares at the food on the table. Oh, to be a suckling pig.

The relief that coursed through him when he could finally leave was enough to knock him out. Except, he really wanted, no, needed a drink.

He crashes on his bed, belly down, and reaches for the cabinet door on his bedside table. He feels for his bottle, hand knocking into the corners of the compartment, but he sits up when he finds nothing.

He growls in frustration upon realizing this was definitely his mother's doing. Thief!

"I managed a cup."

Aegon struggles to look over his shoulder from his position. He rolls on his back as you walk to the side of the bed.

He stares at you. You offer a glass holding burgundy liquid. Your voice is soft and kind as you explain, "your mother would suspect me if I took a whole bottle."

Aegon pushes himself up and sits on the edge of the bed, facing you. He gulps at the wine you were offering.

Sure, he may not be the brightest, but anyone could tell this scene was the epitome of ulterior motives. Aegon leans on his thighs, "why are you doing this?"

You stare a moment. You clutch the cup in both hands and examine it. Again, your voice is gentle, "you are clearly in torment. It hurts my heart."

His eye twitches.

I see. It seems you were a fucking saint.

Aegon rips the glass out of your hands, some of the wine spills over. He downs the contents in one go, then chucks the glass across the room once he finished.

He looks back at you, glaring with watery eyes. He was exhausted, he was angry, and he wanted you to know it. But you don't flinch at the sound of the glass breaking. You didn't flinch at all when he showed aggression. Why didn't you flinch?

You press your lips and sigh. You step towards him and reach out.

He nervously straightens up and tilts his head back as you approach. His breath hitches when your warm hand touches his cheek. He blinks rapidly.

"It's been a long day. Would you like me to help you change?"

Again, his eye twitches.

And then he realizes what you mean.

Ah. So, this is what you wanted?

He releases a breath, eyes lowering. Your face falls into a slight frown.

He thinks about it for a moment. I mean, sex was sex and he was game. It didn't matter how he performed, his completion was all that mattered, really. And you were pretty enough, albeit irritatingly good.

When you stroke his hair, Aegon pulls at your skirts, causing you to squeak and topple, hands flying to his shoulders for support. Your faces are inches apart. He pulls you down until you have no other choice than to sit on his lap.

You can smell the remnants of the wine he just drank on his breath. Aegon brings his face closer to yours, and you let out a soft 'hmp'. You mutter, "I gather you don't want to change, but want to get out of your clothes."

He narrows his eyes as you shift on his lap and undo the buttons by his chest. He mutters dumbly, "this is what you wanted."

With knit brows, you retort, "I've not yet told you what I wanted." You shift on his lap again as you peel his top off. Amidst it, he asks, "what do you want?"

You grunt after ridding him of his top. You fold it in your arms then set it aside on the bed. You turn back to him. Aegon's breath hitches when you fondle with strings of his undershirt. He watches your lips as you mumble, "I want you to give me a ride on your dragon."

He furrows his brows. But that's what he just said.

You stand, only to lift your skirt and take your place back on his lap. This time, you straddle him.

Aegon gulps, hands coming to your hips like a magnet. He feels you grind on him; shaky breaths leave his lips in response. His hands scratch up your back and a moan escapes him when your nails trace his collarbones.

"Allow me one trip on Sunfyre, and in return, I'll be your magic lamp," you whisper, taking one of his hands, bringing it to the side of your ribs, "you may rub me where you like-"

His heart skips when you kiss his cheek.

"-and I will grant you all your wishes."

Aegon ticks.

The next moment, he pushes you down on the bed. He doesn't bother getting either of you naked, nor does he prepare you at all in fact. Thankfully, you were already wet.

You don't have the opportunity to ask him to be gentle, to explain you were a bride after all, and it was your wedding night.

Aegon grips your skirts as he fucks you like he means to prove a point. He snaps his hips roughly into you to assert dominance, to exemplify control. Sure, you offered yourself to him, but he was the one doing the work, and you were the one beneath him.

In truth, the pace he set gave you more pain rather than pleasure. And with how pent up he was, the rough tempo he set burnt him out way too quickly before it could make any of you feel good. And when he begins to lag, you start to feel good.

You notice this change and rub your nose against his. He recoils, unused to affection when fucking. It snaps him back into an aggressive trance.

You yelp. Aegon convinced himself it was a sound of bliss.

You kiss his jaw and work your way to his ear, hoping to calm him down. He tenses at the feel of your tongue on his lobe. It stokes flames in his belly and makes him involuntarily roll his hips slower to focus on the attention you're giving. In return, his pace is just enough for him to hit that spot that makes you throw your head back.

Aegon is startled by the scratchy groan that leaves your throat. He finds himself lifting his head to spectate, but you pull him into you by the nape and groan, "like that. Please- gods - that feels good."

His brows tense and he rolls his hips again, finding the same reaction.

You wrap your arms and legs around him, uncaring of how hot and sweaty you were getting. In the heat of the moment, you reach for his lips, needing them, needing something to wrap your own on.

Aegon kisses you. He kisses you with a strange twinge in his chest. He kisses you until he has to pull away and reposition himself to catch his building climax.

In a second, he's back to his fuck-loving self, only self-serving and lustful. As he gazes upon your writhing body, catching the beads of sweat on your skin, the concentration on your face, and the way you chant his name as you part your legs for him, he's overcome by another spirit. To watch you break, to watch you coil and collapse around him felt just as urgent as his need to come.

And so Aegon rubs your clit and forces you to peak first; you do it so well he curses loudly and comes after.

He lays on top of you for a moment, the overwhelming need to be held ripples through his body. He recalls how his whores shoo him away after he's done fucking them though. Before you can cradle him in your arms, he rolls off you.

You close your legs and and watch him strip himself and sequentially change. You watch him get back in bed and bring himself underneath the covers. He goes to sleep.

He fucking goes to sleep.

You feel hollow after this, but tell yourself it's nothing personal. You repeat this as you, yourself, get up and change, sequentially sleeping too. Or at least you try. You have fight the urge to cry for hours before you do.

The next morning, you bring up dragon riding to Aegon, and disappointed as you are, you are unsurprised to find that he was unwilling to give you such a thing.

It was a plain thing you were asking for, you explain. And it's exactly why he doesn't want to do it. It's clearly some trick, something to trap him, something he's going to regret. It was probably some ploy orchestrated by his mother.

Oh gods, he thinks, it's worse. It's a bonding experience so you can make him into your puppet. Fuck. No.

So, he does what he does best, and makes an excuse, "I don't feel like riding today. I'm still exhausted from the festivities."

You purse your lips and nod, "that's understandable. Would you like for me to get you something?"

Wait. You weren't going to argue about him not keeping his end of the deal?

You seem to catch this, considering your response and the way you take his hand. You place his palm on your chest. He can feel your pulse quicken as you mutter, "I am your magic lamp, husband. I wish to please you. I will prove this until you trust me enough to grant me a ride on dragonback."

He narrows his eyes, "you would grant me wishes, all in return for a ride on Sunfyre?"

You smile softly at him, "in return for respite, yes."

He doesn't trust your smile.

"I want to visit the Grey Cliffs. I have for a years now. I went there once as a child and long to go again."

"Why?" he knits his brows at your explanation, "what's there?"

You lower his hand and rub his skin, "respite, my prince."

Aegon pulls his hand away.

Very well. If that is what you want, then he will wear your wishes dry until you find it no longer worth the trouble.

Aegon wishes on his lamp everyday, and his wife sequentially plays entertainer, jester, servant, and slave.

He makes you bring a bottle of wine with you everywhere, and pour him a cup when he wishes. He loathes how you seem unbothered by it. He loathes how you don't even correct a visiting Lord who mistakes you for a cupbearer and simply serve him some wine. The Lord is mortified when he realizes you are his wife, a fucking princess. Aegon hates how you tell the man you were unbothered because you spent your whole life being a cupbearer to your father anyway.

He makes you do trivial tasks as well, sometimes tasks meant for more than one person at a time, and yet you still manage to do them, annoyingly better than the maids. When he demanded you cook him a full course meal, you did so all by yourself, and had the servants looking at you like you were some goddess.

He ripped a hole in his clothes then made you mend it. You covered the hole so seamlessly that he poked a bigger one right in front of you. And even then you don't give him the satisfaction of getting angry. You tell him you will embroider something on top of the hole and he storms off. He overhears you telling the servants, who applaud your level-headedness, that you were used to angry men, because your father was just the same.

You use each of these moments to somehow tell him you were the perfect wife and he had to oblige your stupid request at some point.

But then he found your flaw.

Aegon asked you to play the harpsichord for him, and you told him you did not know how. The woman who knew all did not know something? He would then proceed to hang this over your head. When he asked you for food, he'd tell you how much better it'd taste if he had entertainment. If he asked you to do something physically taxing for him, he's say that he wouldn't have asked you to do it, had you known how to play his 'favorite' instrument. He would use this as the reason why he could never bring you to Grey Cliffs.

It was all fun and games, but then you had to snitch, hadn't you?

"What are you doing to that poor girl!" Queen Alicent barked, making his ears ring.

Aegon groans from where he lies in bed. His mother rips the blankets off him, making him wake in a sour mood.

"She is your wife!" Alicent yells, "not your slave! Fine, you wish her to do tasks for you, tasks for your betterment. But to insult her standing by treating her like a maid is beneath a prince, Aegon!"

Aegon feels his throat tighten at the sight of his angry mother's face, "she is my wife," he growls, "I do with her as I please."

She strikes his cheek.

Aegon's head whips to the side. He doesn't have the energy to look back at her.

"You will no longer parade her as a cupbearer. I will have it decreed you are not ever served a drop of wine if you don't."

Alicent leaves after this. Aegon's anger explodes when the door closes.

He screams and rips at his hair. He kicks furniture around and eventually drops to the floor, exhausted, furious, and hurt. This was all your fault.

He screams again and claws the tears on his face. He slowly exhales through tight lips. His cheek is hot with saltwater. Who was he joking, this was all him.

This was all Aegon's doing.

His breathing is impeded by snot. He walks over to his window and stares at the ground below. If he jumps head first, not even the best maester in Westeros could fix him.

Before he can lean on the ledge, he is paralyzed in his spot by the sound of the door opening.

"I did not know she would be angry with you," you say.

Aegon looks back.

You see his red eyes and wet skin. He is a mirror to your younger self. You feel sick to your stomach. You try to explain, "I only asked if she could find a harpsichord teacher. I did not realize she would take offense in wanting to learn to play for you."

Aegon's heart aches at your naïve response. You were a stupid, perfect wife, and he, a stupid, petulant husband.

"I'm better off dead," he mumbles, looking back out the window. The call of the fall felt inviting, "want to push me, wife?"

You don't respond.

Aegon looks back at you, and suddenly you're only inches away. He tries to evade you, but you manage to catch his hand.

"We could jump together."

"What?"

Your face is blank. You part your lips, and for a moment, your eyes seem desperate, but then it's gone. You sigh, "dying is quite lonely," looking down, "I could keep you company."

Aegon stares at you. Tears stream down his face. "You're mad," he sniffles, yanking his hand away.

He walks over to his bed and collapses on it. He wraps himself in a blanket and feels sorry for himself, and angry at you for suggesting such a thing. Even now you want to be perfect by dying with him?

"I am," you mutter.

Aegon watches as you walk over to him. You sit on the floor beside his bed and look at your hands as you rub them.

"I cannot play the harpsichord, because my father does not like noise," you explain, "I was not allowed to make a sound or else I would be punished."

Aegon covers his head with a blanket but keeps his face visible, "he beat you, didn't he?"

You look at him, eyes melancholy, but still, he is the only one crying, "he beat everyone."

Aegon does not respond.

"I can sing though."

His brow raises, "how can you sing?"

"I would practice whenever he was gone, and sing for my mother in secret. It made her happy... happy enough."

He knew there was more to this confession, but he was too tired to ask about it, too tired to shed more tears.

"Would you like me to sing for you?"

"No."

"..."

"..."

"Would you like me to hold you?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

You stand from where you sat and get on the edge of the bed. Aegon watches as you slowly lie beside him. You bring an arm over him and pull him close. Aegon closes his eyes as you bring him into your chest.

You hold him until he falls asleep. Later that night, he asks you to hold him again. He also asks you to sing to him.

Aegon nestles his face in the crook of your neck. He wraps his arms around your torso, digging his fingers between your flesh and the bed. Your hushed voice reverberates in the bedroom, the song you sing is haunting and soothing. The vibrations from your chest lull him to sleep. You feel wetness pool by your clavicle but you make no note of it.

Aegon asks you to hold him the next morning after breaking fast. He asks you to stay with him in bed and to sing to him some more. When you have to leave his side, he asks to join you and waits until he can have you in his arms again.

Aegon becomes your shadow, and follows you around, under the promise of getting to share in your embrace. As you read and review letters or ledgers, your seat becomes Aegon's lap. He sleeps against you while you work without a fuss, cheek pressed against your back, arms fastened around your waist.

Sometimes, he notices the line that forms between your brows while you read and at some point, asks about it. You explain what causes it, and he is unmoved, as he is uninterested in politics that stress you. But when you read out to him, he finds comfort in your voice and asks you to read some. He falls asleep to your calm droning of circumstances he could not care less about. He groans and groggily awakens when you stop. He mumbles against your skin that you continue, pleadingly so.

When you had to leave the Keep for business, Aegon insisted that he joined you. When you brushed his cheek and explained to him why he could not go and that you would not be long, Aegon pushed you away and stormed off. You left without him anyway, and the treachery he felt was so great, he realized then how he could no longer go day to day without you. What was there to do, if you were not there?

And so Aegon desperately rubs his magic lamp and wishes upon you.

He wishes that you never leave without him again once you return.

He wishes that you promise to no longer make plans without him.

He traps you beneath him on your shared bed and wishes to be inside you. He kisses you and wishes to see you completely bared to him.

Aegon's mind is dizzy as he gazes upon the glory of your skin. He kisses your thighs, your hips, your breast, your lips.

Aegon wishes to surrender to you. He wishes that you undress him. He wishes to pull you on his body like a blanket. He wishes to see you take control. He wishes to see you cast your eyes upon him and lay your weight on his body.

He wishes to see you use him, to take what you need from him, to pleasure yourself, and to make him yours. He squeezes your thighs desperately when you moan out his name. This was much more maddening that what he imagined it would be.

He wishes to feel you come undone around him. He wishes he could forever feel the pleasure he did when he comes right after you do.

He wishes to hold you after. And when he holds you, when you lay on his chest and kiss him there, he wishes to never leave this moment ever again. He wishes to sing to you like you've sung to him.

"What are your plans tomorrow," Aegon asks as he draws nothings on your back.

You lift your head from his chest. He looks at you. You smile, "whatever you wish them to be."

He rubs your back and smiles, "I wish to take you to the Grey Cliffs."

Your expression drops, "what?"

He raises a brow at your reaction. You shift on your place. You straddle him again.

He looks up at you, noticing the line between your brows. He rubs your thighs, "you've granted me all my wishes. It's time I grant you yours." He shifts on his elbows and sits himself up, "it's time you meet my mount and-"

"We don't have to," you cut him off, placing your hands on his shoulders.

Aegon examines your expression. He listens to you sigh.

"I'd like to keep you-- wish to keep you..." you correct yourself, pushing him back down.

He looks up at you, feeling your hands rake up his body.

"...just like this," you finish, eyes solemn, lips curving into a soft smile, "I've not felt a thing like this in my entire life."

Aegon takes one of your hands and places it on his cheek. He whispers it like a secret, "neither have I."

You lean down to kiss him, "I wish to keep like this."

He kisses you back.

He is blindsided by how his wishes came to bite him in the arse. It's all crashing down on him. Suddenly, he wishes he didn't actually do any of those things with you.

He most of all wishes he heard you wrong. He wishes you didn't repeat yourself when he stupidly said, "what?"

"I'm with child," you speak slower, less excited yet excited still.

Aegon wishes you didn't look so excited. He wishes he fucking pulled out, but gods, you felt so good-- you feel so good around him, he felt so good inside you.

He realized the next moment, it couldn't be helped. You were going to have to bear his spawn at one point or another. He wishes you didn't have to. He wishes his seed wouldn't take completely. He wishes you don't take it to term. He wishes he won't have to be a father. Fuck.

He realizes he's been too quiet and you were waiting for a response from him. Your face began to twist. Your smile fades.

"Congratulations," Aegon musters. He feels like he swallowed a metal ball. His eyes wander to your belly. He mumbles mindlessly, "I suppose."

Your face falls.

Aegon looks back at you. Your face is devoid of any semblance of the glow it normally holds. You look sick. You feel sick.

"I see," you say, unintentionally allowing him to hear your voice break. Aegon's brows furrow at it.

He shakes his head, "you will be a great mother," he chuckles dryly, "you mother me so well."

You offer him a smile, but Aegon can see how disconnected it was from your eyes. You say, "thank you."

When you leave him after this, he wishes he hadn't said a word. He wishes he just left it at congratulations. He wishes he just pretended like the idea of having a child didn't mortify him and make him sick to his stomach. He wishes he wasn't so ill-suited to be a father.

Ageon no longer wishes for anything after this.

He no longer wishes to hold you, though he so badly wanted to. He no longer wishes to hear you sing, nor does he wish to hear you read to him. He no longer wishes to be around you, though his body urged him to follow you around like the lost soul he was.

He wishes he didn't wonder what you were doing at every moment of the day. He so desperately wishes to rid you from his mind completely that he drowns himself in his first and only true love, alcohol.

Fuck. He wishes he hadn't taken this route to his room. He wishes you hadn't taken this route to wherever it was you were going. He wishes he just turned around and fled like the coward he was, because then, you wouldn't have spoken to him.

"Husband," you curtsey.

Aegon stiffens and uncomfortably avoids your eyes.

You catch it, feeling your chest tighten painfully. You clear your throat and take a deep breath to steel yourself, "I thought you should know that I will be travelling."

Aegon looks at you.

"I have a ship ready and I'll be visiting the Grey Cliffs. Do not wait up for me."

His face falls. He opens his mouth, but doesn't have an opportunity to speak.

"I thought you should also know that I am no longer carrying."

His eyes widen.

"It's not an uncommon occurrence the first few months," you say simply, "I suppose the gods do not wish me to be a mother."

Aegon feels like a murderer. He wants to say something, to apologize, to comfort you, but he can't. He's too taken aback to do a single thing.

He turns into stone when you take his hand. You step forward and place his palm on your chest. Your heart is slow as you speak, "you won't have to worry about anything anymore, Aegon. Today is the end of our shared torment."

Aegon's stomach drops when you kiss him.

His eyes are glassy. You pull away before he can kiss you back. He wants to hold you, but the sadness in your eyes reminds him he is undeserving. You kiss his wrist, "goodbye, my love. I love you."

His heart thumps as you walk away.

Aegon is manic. He basks in the mess he's made and feels crushed by it all.

He finally acts after wasting so much time feeling sorry for himself. You were long out of his sight by the time he started running. This is why he headed to the dragonpit and got on Sunfyre.

"WAIT!" he screams, just as your boat leaves the dock.

Aegon watches as you run to the edge of the boat. He lands Sunfyre and runs as far to the edge of the docks as he could.

"Aegon-"

"Take me with you!" he pleads, "let me be the one to take you to where you must go!"

You look back. The ship stops. The crew brings down a boat and on it, you are rowed back to the dock.

He crushes you in his arms once he reaches you.

"Aegon," you mutter.

"Forgive me," he shudders, "I... I wish you let me do this for you."

"Aegon," your voice croaks. You push him away, "go home."

His heart drops. He breaks away to look at you. Your words feel like a stab at his thorax. It was presumptuous of him to assume you'd want him back, but it doesn't kill him inside any less.

"I've come to realize this is a trip I must go on myself," you mutter.

He shakes his head, "no. Please." He motions an arm out to his mount, "one wish. That I grant you one wish before you throw me away forever is... is--"

Your throat constricts at his words. Tears rush down your eyes, "I'm not throwing you away--"

"Please," he squeezes both your hands in his, "please, let me do this for you."

The flight to the Grey Cliffs is quiet, save for the whoosh of winds and the roars of the golden dragon you both rode. You always imagined it would be freeing, but only now did you know how it freeing it truly felt to fly. You knew now you'd forever chase the euphoric crush of air against your skin.

Aegon, who sat behind you, looks at your form as you outstretch your arms and close your eyes. Your body presses against him, and in this moment, he is unable to hold back from wrapping an arm around you and sparing a kiss on your shoulder. You are snapped out of your trance because of this.

The Grey Cliffs are dark and gloomy when you get there. Aegon realizes when you land that it got its name from the weather conditions.

He helps you down and surveys the area, trying to make out which part of this drear land was so special to you that you wished to go here.

You catch his expression and squeeze his hand.

Aegon turns to you.

You give a solemn look, "the view is better on the edge."

Aegon strokes Sunfyre's cheek, commanding him to stay before you lead him by the hand to the edge of the cliff. Once you get there, he feels queasy looking down at the crashing waves far beneath him. In contrast, you seem comforted by the view. His brows furrow at the deep breath you give out.

When you look at him, his stomach feels it, the comfort you felt upon witnessing the violent waves. Whatever it was that compelled you to this place was the same force that compelled him to kiss you.

He reaches out for your cheek, his other hand coming to you back. He pulls you close. His heart twinges when you stop him from kissing you.

"Aegon-"

"Forgive me," he cuts, "I beg."

You gawk at him. He brushes your hair which was wildly flinging with the breeze.

"You must know by now that I am craven. I lack the spine and the wit to be of any use to you."

Your eyes water. Your lips quiver.

"I would be a hopeless father, worse than my own, no doubt."

"Aegon," you babble as sobs overtake you.

Aegon, himself, succumbs to tears. He wipes the ones streaming down your face before taking a breath, "but you made me feel a love I do not deserve."

You swallow a heavy lump in your throat.

"I love you," he confesses.

"No," you pierce his heart. You shake your head in disagreement, "Aegon, this is a mistake. Bringing you here was a mistake."

"No!" he blurts louder than needed, "this was a choice," he looks down, "I choose to rip my insides out for you to devour. I am miserable, much more in the heat of your hate, but most of all without you."

His downturned eyes land on your face when you grab his wrists. You croak, "I do not hate you."

Aegon is not relieved by the admission, but he chooses to believe you mean it. He smiles softly, "good."

"But I do hate this life I live."

He clenches his jaw. Of course you do.

"You saved me," you press a hand on his cheek, taking your turn to wipe his tears, "even if for a moment."

"I made you miserable."

You chuckle. The sound makes his heart skip.

"You filled my life with purpose," you smile softly, "even when you did not mean to."

Aegon knits his brows deeply and takes your hands. He brings them to his lips and kisses them.

"But accidents happen. You must remember that accidents happen all the time."

Aegon shakes his head, "this is not an accident. Believe me when I say I chose to do this, I- ... I choose to love you."

You sob and turn to your feet.

"Please... believe me."

You sniffle and nod, slowly looking up at him, "I believe you."

You lunge into his arms and seal him into a tight hug. He hugs you back like it's his only way of surviving.

A crack of thunder startles Sunfyre. He becomes restless and steals away Aegon's attention, panicked that he might flee and leave them here.

He pulls away and takes a step towards her. He holds your hand, urging you to follow, "we should go before it rains."

You hug him from behind and press your face into his back, "thank you for taking me on Sunfyre."

"It was a long time coming."

"I've always wondered what it would be like to fly. And now that I know how peaceful it is, I'm ready to fly one last time."

He turns to you as you slowly come to his side. You hold his hand. He looks at you as you turn to Sunfyre. He promises, "I will take you on dragonback as many times as you wish."

You smile, but your eyes are fixed on his dragon. You release his hand and wrap your arms around yourself, "he is beautiful. You must never tire looking at him."

Aegon gazes upon Sunfyre. He takes in his golden scales and has newfound appreciation.

You take a step back.

"He is. To be honest, it's been long since I, myself, took him out of the pit. He must enjoy this day as much as you do."

"Aegon, you must understand that what I have to say has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me."

Aegon turns to you. He watches you tighten your arms around yourself. You must be cold. He rubs your shoulders.

You shake your head and turn him back to his dragon, "look at Sunfyre."

He knits his brows, "I'm looking."

"For so long," you release him, "I've wanted to fly free, to find my peace here in the cliffs. This was before I even met you." You point at the golden dragon, "I choose to love you too, but accidents happen, like if Sunfyre were to fly away, and you were to be left here alone."

Aegon stares at his ride for a moment as you lower your hand. He tries to makes sense of your words, but he cannot for the life of him understand.

He sighs, "what accident? Why do you keep-"

Aegon is flooded by confusion when he turns and finds you nowhere behind him. A split second later, he lets a horrified scream and the fear that claws into him makes his knees buckle. He crumbles to the ground and crawls to the edge of the cliff. He screams so loud that Sunfyre roars back and comes towards him.

Aegon watches as the red seafoam bubbles at the foot of the cliff. He watches as the crimson waves slowly slosh back into its original tint.

Rain begins to pour, and his tears taste no longer salty.

Was this the flying you ached for? Was this the relief you sought?

When he returns to King's Landing, dripping wet, he breaks down in front of his mother, weeping as he clutched his skirts.

Queen Alicent is obviously disturbed. She instructs her servants to get his son a change of clothes and some towels. She looks down at him, "what's happened? What's wrong, Aegon?"

"An accident-" he barely manages to say, "there's been an accident."

"An accident?!"

Aegon's mind goes blank. A bitter taste

Even if your mornings during your first week had been reserved for learning from the maids about Helaena and the rest of the royal family’s personal preferences - an education meant to prepare you should you ever need the knowledge - you much preferred learning from the original source themselves. The maids spoke in hushed tones, reciting details as if they were immutable rules carved into the old stone walls of the Keep, there were no life in their words, no understanding, they couldn’t fathom the reason you wanted to know the ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ behind every predilection of all members of the crown.

Learning from Helaena, however, was different. There was warmth in her voice when she spoke of things that stirred her soul - a soft, glowing ember that kindled with every word. Whether she spoke of her love for soaring through skies astride Dreamfire, her beloved dragon, or of the delicate insects she studied with endless fascination, her entire being seemed to brighten. Her eyes, usually so distant, would light up with a brilliance no secondhand tale could ever capture. It was a radiance born only of true passion, even when you asked her the simplest of questions - like her favorite dessert - that same spark would flicker to life, as if every answer carried a piece of wonder stitched into it. To witness it was to glimpse at a piece of her spirit that to whispered rumor, no distant retelling could ever hope to mirror. Perhaps, in time, you would come to know the other members of the royal family in the same way - not through whispered instructions from servants, but through the sound of their own voices, the weight of their own truths. You would see them not as distant figures draped in silk and expectation, but as people - complex, flawed, and painfully real - revealed not by duty, but the quiet confessions and unguarded moments that only patience could earn.

That was why, when you suggested taking Helaena to the gardens the next morning, you felt a quiet satisfaction when she agreed, knowing you were one step closer to understanding Helaena the way she deserves.

The morning sun hung low on the horizon, casting a tender, golden glow over the sprawling gardens, where dew still clung to the petals of colorful flowers like a scattering of tiny jewels. As the light warmed the flagstones beneath your feet, a soft breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the delicate sweetness of primroses and the rich, honeyed perfume of lilies, a blend so soft it seemed to wrap the garden in a tender, dreaming haze. The gentle rustling of leaves combines with the distant, melodic chatter of birds hidden among the trees, their songs weaving a tapestry of sound that felt almost sacred. Within the high stone walls of the Keep, the gardens cradled a rare and delicate tranquility, a sanctuary of peace untouched by the noise of courtly life.

Helaena walked beside you with measured steps, her gaze fluttering across the greenery, searching. You watched as she slowed near a flower bed, crouching carefully beside the petals of a bright golden yellow marigold, her pale fingers hovered just above a petal where a ladybug crawled along the edge of a leaf, its tiny legs moving methodically. The princess didn’t touch it - she just observed, as though memorizing every detail.

“You always see the insects in books or on your embroidery,” you said softly, crouching beside the woman beside you, “But this way, you can see them as they truly are.”

She tilted her head, watching the bug as it stretched its delicate wings.

“Did you know,” Helaena murmured, almost to herself “If you whisper a wish to a ladybug before it flies away, it will carry it into the heavens? But the wish always comes at a cost. The wings are too small to carry it for free.”

The ladybug fluttered its wings and lifted off, vanishing into the wide blue sky, before either of you could consider to make a wish. You stared at it and, without quite meaning to, your mind slipped away - back into a memory.

It had been winter.

The world outside your father’s manor had been locked in ice, the windows clouded with frost.

Inside, the great hall rang with the loud clatter of voices, the heavy trudge of music - a gathering of important men and women, cloaked in velvets and furs, their laughter strident.

You had not been among them.

Instead, you had crept away, slippers on cold stone, into the only place that ever felt truly yours.

The library.

It was not a grand thing, not the sort that awed guests into silence - it was small, even a little crooked, the shelves built to fit the odd shape of the room, but it felt peaceful. The air was filled with an aroma you would know until your dying day: a mingling of aged parchment, the dry, slightly bitter, leather scent and the cool, damp mineral smell of stone that would always linger faintly, especially in winter.

You remembered moving between shelves, your fingers trailing lightly over cracked spines, looking, not for anything in particular - only for something to hold the loneliness at bay.

Your hand had fallen on a small green volume, half-buried behind heavier tomes, its leather was worn, the gold lettering almost rubbed away.

You pulled it free and sank to the carpet before the hearth, the fire throwing long, sleepy shadows across the floor.

‘The Secret Garden of the Little Folk.’

You opened it and were immediately caught by the fine ink illustrations: Beetles with shells like garnets, butterflies with outstretched wings like bruised petals, moths with the color of the sunset.

You remembered training the lines with your fingertips, marveling at the careful notes written in the margins by some long-forgotten hand.

‘Each wing, each shimmer of color, tells a story that would vanish with the wind if not given the gift of stillness’

‘Through careful hands and the art of patience, even the most fragile filigree of a moth’s wing can be granted a second life beyond decay’

‘Preservation is not merely the halting of decay, it is a tender rebellion against oblivion, a promise that such delicate marvels will not be swallowed by forgetting.’

You had turned the pages slowly, absorbing the knowledge hungrily, perhaps feeling you would need it eventually, but years later you couldn’t remember the exact steps written in the book, only the handwritten notes, you kept wondering who had read such a book and fell in love with the subject.

‘Without care, the wings shatter; without patience, the colors fade’

Outside the library door, the music had swelled again - a wild, brassy sound you had no wish to be part of.

But here, among faded books and the dust motes dancing in the firelight, you had been content to be still in your little piece of heaven.

The memory faded suddenly, leaving a taste of ash in your mouth.

“I read once,” you mused, almost to yourself, now back at the gardens with Helaena “That some people preserve insects… treating them in a way that keeps them intact forever.”

“Preserve them?” the princess repeated, as if testing the weight of the idea.

You nodded.

“Yes, so they can be studied. Or admired. I suppose some just want to keep them close”

Helaena’s head whipped toward you with such starling speed that, for a fleeting second, you worried she might’ve hurt her neck. Her violet eyes were wide, filled with something raw, unfiltered that shimmered just beneath the surface. Not the gaze Helaena had whenever she is on her inner world, cloudy and unemotional, nor the stare she gave her embroidery when she successfully transferred the image of an insect she had on her mind at the time to a simple piece of fabric, simply using colorful threads and a needle, with pride and satisfaction, her eyes were filled with excitement, pure and vivid, lightning her delicate features.

“Do you have it?” The princess asked, leaning in slightly, as if desperate to hear your answer “the book?”

You winced apologetically. “Unfortunately, no. But maybe one day, we could go to the royal library and see if we can find it - or at least something similar.”

For a moment, Helaena simply stared at you, the wheels turning in her head while her gaze was still locked on you. Then, without a warning, she reached for your hand, gripping it with a surprising urgency.

“‘Then we must go now. We cannot waste time.”

You barely had time to react before she was pulling you up with her, Helaena’s fingers were cool and firm around yours.

“Helaena-” You started, but the princess was already striding toward the inside of the palace.

“I saw a beautiful butterfly in my window this morning,” Helaena said over her shoulder. “I want to keep it”

A soft laugh escaped your lips before you could hold it back - light as silk and bright as morning sunbeams, it danced in the air, carried effortlessly by the breeze. The sound shimmered with something rare - unrestrained joy, sparked by the sight of Helaena’s eyes alight with wonder, enchanted by the idea you had shared.

“Alright” You murmured as Helaena stopped walking and turned towards you, a small smile tugging at your lips as you leaned in slightly, as though sharing a secret. “But… You owe me the story of this butterfly. That’s my price for helping you find the book - a fair trade, don’t you think?”

The princess froze, blinking at you as though she had never heard such a sound before, the sound of a genuine laugh. Her grip on your hand remained firm, but her lips parted slightly in astonishment. Then, to your surprise, a soft laugh escaped her own lips, quiet, breathy, but undeniably real.

Helaena had expected yet another lady-in-waiting—another well-bred shadow cloaked in silks and false smiles, someone who would nod along with wide eyes and flatter her with empty praise. She had met so many of them before, all trying to gently steer her toward embroidery or courtly gossip, trying to mold her into what they believed a princess should be. They never truly listened. Not really. They smiled, they blinked at her riddles with polite confusion, and then quietly changed the subject, as if her thoughts were something to be tolerated, not understood.

But you had listened.

Not just with silence, but with presence.

When she spoke—her voice trailing into strange metaphors, her words threading through meanings most dismissed—you did not flinch or laugh or exchange awkward glances with the others. You leaned in. You stayed. Your brow furrowed not in judgment, but in thought. You asked questions, not to correct her, but to understand.

It startled her, at first. That stillness in you. That patience.

She had not expected a mind that met hers halfway across the fog. And in that quiet, in that rare moment of being seen without being studied, something within Helaena shifted—delicate, tentative.

For the first time in a long while, she felt as though her voice did not vanish into the walls.

It landed.

And it mattered.

That’s all she ever wanted.

“A fair trade… okay.”

And as the princess tugged you toward the palace, her fingers still wrapped around yours, Helaena realized something else - she was incredibly happy you were the one chosen to be by her side.

The royal library was a realm unto itself - a place where time held its breath and the world outside seemed no more than a distant whisper. Towering shelves loomed like ancient sentinels, rising endlessly toward a vaulted ceiling painted with dust and shadow. Their carved wooden spines groaned softly beneath the weight of centuries, as if murmuring the stories they held in secret.

Here were the sacred texts of the Faith of the Seven, their gilded spines dulled by dust, parchment corners curled with age and reverent use. War chronicles, meticulously penned by long-dead maesters, lined the shelves like silent sentinels—each bearing the weight of kingdoms risen and fallen, of banners sundered and alliances sealed in blood. Tales of rebellions fought beneath skies blackened by dragonfire lay preserved within cracked leather bindings, their ink faded but their horrors still breathing between the lines.

In shadowed alcoves, tucked beyond the reach of casual eyes, lay half-forgotten volumes buried beneath time itself. Scrolls curled in on themselves like the dying, their edges singed as though rescued from flame—perhaps even from Valyria itself. One bore the seal of a lost maester whose obsessive study of the Doom had driven him to exile or madness, his margins inked with desperate theories and frantic crossings-out.

And there, stacked haphazardly beneath an old reliquary, were prayer books—worn thin by trembling hands—each page scribbled over with a septon’s unraveling mind. His words wavered between holy verse and apocalyptic visions, ink splattered like blood across prophecies no one had read, let alone heeded.

The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, cracked leather, and melted candle wax - a perfume of knowledge and memory that clung to your skin like pages of a forgotten tale. It wrapped around you in a strange embrace, warm and stifling at the same time, like being cradled by something ancient.

You walked in silence, dwarfed by the grandeur, compared to this cathedral of stories, your father’s modest library felt more like a bedside table stacked with bedtime tales. Here, every corner whispered of kingdoms long fallen, of lives between ink and vellum, of ancient kings and queens long dead.

Helaena moved like a dream through the aisles, her steps soft against the ancient stone floor, her fingers gliding over gilded spines of books that caught her eye. Now and then, she paused and slipped a volume from its resting place and with eyes bright and eager, she turned through delicate pages with election. But each time, her expression faltered.

Hope flickered, then faded.

With reverent care, the princess would return the book to its shelf, disappointment veiled in grace, only to reach for another.

You watched her, heart tightening with each sigh, each near-invisible slump of her shoulders. There was a kind of nobility in her persistence - a soft, stubborn fire that refused to dim no matter how many times it was met with strong winds.

Around you, you had gathered a modest collection - A Whisper of Wings: The Language of Butterflies, The Art of the Hive: On Bees, Order and Royal Queens, The Lore of Moths and Madness, Web-Weavers and the Spider’s Wisdom, A Court of Ants and Empires - beautiful books but not a single one held the knowledge you and Helaena sought. Not a single page spoke of how to preserve such fragile marvels.

With every fruitless search, the air grew heavier. Helaena’s quiet disappointment coiled in your chest like a living thing, a phantom weight pressing against your ribs. You wished you could pull the answers from the shelves with sheer will alone.

The silence of the library answered only with dust.

But not for long.

A voice - smooth as silk yet firm as steel - cut through the heavy quietness.

“What are you doing?”

Startled, you turned too quickly, your foot catching on a pile of books. Your breath hitched as the world tilted, and your hands scramble for balance - but before you could hit the cold stone floor, a strong arm caught you.

A steady warmth against your waist.

A sharp intake of breath that was not your own.

Your gaze snapped upward, and you found yourself inches away from Aemond Targaryen.

‘The bitter one.’

‘If you ever cross him, even unknowingly, he will remember it.’

‘You will do well not to stand in his way.’

The younger prince was as striking as his sister, with the same mystical features that embodied the beauty of old Valyria but instead of the soft traits that made Helaena look like a porcelain doll, his features were sharp, almost severe: High cheekbones, strong jawline, and straight nose that lends him a regal, statuesque quality. His long silver-white hair, characteristic of House Targaryen, cascades past his shoulders in soft waves was immaculately kept. Aemond’s lone purple eye burned with quiet intensity, flickering between you and the precariously stacked books beside your feet, the other one was covered by an eyepatch made of leather.

How did the prince lose his eye? That was the question no one knew the answer to but it must have been brutal enough for this side of his face to be marked by a scarred flesh that runs from his brow to his cheekbones.

Clad in dark leather and a book on his free hand, Aemond looked like the scholar warrior you heard so much about.

For a moment, there was only silence.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, as though suddenly aware of his proximity, Aemond released his hold on you, stepping back, you couldn’t help to notice his jaw tightening and his hands shaking slightly as he let go of you.

You swallowed thickly, heart hammering against your ribs. “I - apologies, my prince” you murmured, hastily smoothing down your skirts, willing yourself to regain composure. Aemond said nothing at first, merely tilting his head slightly, studying you like an unread manuscript. Then, he cleared his throat and turned his attention to Helaena.

“What are you looking for?”

Helaena, unfazed by the tension still humming in the air, answered without hesitation.

“Books on insect preservation”

Aemond’s lips twitched, and almost-smile.

Then, a quiet chuckle - a sound so soft, so unexpectedly pleasant that it sent a shiver down your spine.

“At this rate,” the prince said, amusement dancing in his tone, “You will find them in a few years.”

The man looked back at you and turned, walking deeper into the library. “Come”.

Helaena followed without question, and after a beat of hesitation, you did too.

Aemond led you both through rows upon rows of towering bookshelves, navigating the vast labyrinth with ease, with the certainty of someone who had memorized every inch of this place.

Within moments, he stopped. Reaching up, the prince pulled a book from the shelf and handed it to his sister. “This one”

Then another.

And another.

Helaena’s face lit up, eyes wide with new found excitement as she clutched the books to her chest and without another words, she carried them to a nearby table, settling in immediately, already engrossed in the pages.

And just like that, you were left alone with Prince Aemond.

“Why are you doing this to her?”

You frowned at the question. “I am her lady-in-waiting.”

“You know this is not what i meant” his voice was soft, almost gentle, but beneath the calm lay something sharper - something that scraped like steel against stone, assessing, measuring, weighting every word.

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully.

“She deserves to be heard,” you said, your voice steady but tight with conviction. “Helaena deserves someone who’ll actually try to understand her - someone who cares enough to listen… really listen”

You could feel the heat blooming across your cheeks before the words had even left your mouth. It was a slow, creeping warmth—betraying you before you had a chance to hide behind practiced indifference. Speaking like this, voicing the raw, unvarnished truth, felt unnatural. Like learning to walk again on unsteady legs, each step uncertain, each word teetering on the edge of too much.

But there was something about Aemond—something in the way he stood so still, eye fixed on you with that piercing, unreadable calm—that made it feel almost safe. Not soft, not comforting, but safe. Like he would not flinch from your honesty. Like he might even respect it.

And that, somehow, was more terrifying than scorn.

You knew who he was. Aemond Targaryen—the One-Eyed Prince, the kinslayer, the warrior with a dragon beneath his command and blood on his hands. But none of that seemed to matter at that moment. Because he wasn’t looming. He wasn’t cruel. He was just… watching.

So you spoke.

You let the truth slip past your teeth and hover in the air between you, fragile and exposed.

‘Do not mistake him for honorable’

‘She was wrong about Helaena, she must be wrong about Aemond too’

You looked away, pretending to study the floor, your voice quieter now, rough at the edges.

“Someone who’ll be… a true friend”

Aemond’s eye never left your face even if you weren’t looking at him.

Not even once.

He stood perfectly still, his hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture immaculate as always—an echo of the discipline burned into him since childhood. But his gaze, that single, searing violet eye, tracked your every movement with unnerving precision.

And when at last you dared to lift your eyes to meet his, it was like being caught in the center of a storm.

His stare locked onto yours, silent and steady. There was no anger in it, no softness either. Just sharp, glacial stillness. A silence with teeth.

It held you there.

Pinned.

Frozen in place beneath a weight you couldn’t see but felt all the same—like the edge of a blade pressed gently against your throat. Testing.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

As though blinking might mean missing something crucial. As though you were something crucial.

The silence that grew between you wasn’t empty. It was charged. Heavy. Like the stillness before a sword is drawn—or the space between two notes in a song where the air holds its breath.

Then he spoke, and the world around you seemed to narrow.

“And you,” he said at last, his voice low, smooth, deliberate—carefully measured like everything else about him, “you’ll be the one to make that effort? To understand her?”

It wasn’t a challenge, not quite. But there was something in the way he said it—like he didn’t believe you could. Like part of him wanted you to prove him wrong, even if he’d never admit it aloud.

Your throat felt dry, constricted. Still, you nodded, and when your voice emerged, it was quieter than you expected—but certain.

“Yes.”

There was a beat of silence, a flicker—barely perceptible—across his face. A twitch of the jaw. A shift in the way his lips parted, like he was about to say something else. Something that might've mattered. But whatever it was, he swallowed it. Locked it behind his teeth and cast it away.

When he spoke again, it was softer.

“Most would not care to try.”

You held his gaze. You didn’t look away. “I am not most.”

The air between you shifted. Not warmer. Not colder. Just… different. As if some barrier had thinned.

Aemond regarded you for a long moment, that calculating stare narrowing ever so slightly—not in suspicion, but in interest. And then, to your surprise, his lips curved.

It wasn’t a smile, not truly. Just the ghost of one. A flicker of something not quite amusement and not quite respect. A private reaction, barely there, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to let it show at all.

“I suppose we shall see,” he murmured.

Before you could respond, a new voice broke through the tension like a ripple across still water.

“Come help me read, (Y/N).” Helaena’s voice floated from across the room, light and unbothered. “Two heads think better than one… or perhaps two pairs of eyes read faster than one.”

You blinked, the moment breaking, and turned toward her. But instinct pulled your gaze back over your shoulder—one last glance.

Aemond was still watching you.

Still carved from shadow and silver, still unreadable.

You gave a faint nod before turning to join Helaena, sliding into the seat beside her as she eagerly opened a new book. Her hands fluttered excitedly over the pages, a soft hum escaping her lips as she mumbled about butterflies and beetles. You tried to focus on her voice, on the ink and parchment in front of you.

But the hairs on the back of your neck still prickled.

From across the room, Aemond lingered for a breath longer. Watching.

Then, without a word, he tilted his head—the gesture so small, so subtle it could’ve been imagined—and turned toward the door.

You thought nothing of it.