A scrapbook of my obsessions

he hadn't been playing a game.

you had just seen right through the defense mechanism he had been using his entire life.

the heavy front door thudded open behind him, letting out a brief burst of blaring music before closing again.

two sets of footsteps crunched on the gravel.

"hey, man."

a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.

dean flinched, snapping his head around to see tucker standing there, his face tight with a mixture of pity and disappointment.

right next to him was beau maxwell. his arms crossed over his chest and his usual laid-back energy completely gone, replaced by a rare, dead-serious frown.

"i told you, dean," tucker said quietly, looking down the empty road. "i warned you that she doesn't do the whole half-in, half-out thing."

"i wasn't half-in," dean snapped, his voice suddenly raw, a dangerous edge cracking through his usual easy-going demeanor.

he ripped his shoulder away from tucker's grip, running a frantic hand through his blonde hair. "i was going to tell her tonight. i was waiting for the house to clear out so i could ask her to stay. permanently."

beau let out a low, heavy sigh, shaking his head. "then why didn't you say it in front of everyone? why did you let her watch you flirt with some sophomore if she's the one you wanted? you can't treat a girl like a secret and then expect her to treat you like a priority."

tucker nodded in agreement. "beau's right. you let her think she was just another hookup that half the campus has already been with. you can't blame her for cutting you off."

dean quickly opened his mouth to defend himself.

he wanted to explain that the girl by the keg meant absolutely nothing, that it was just muscle memory.

it just the casual persona he put on so nobody looked too closely at how much he actually cared.

but the words died in his throat.

i know when someone is just trying to win over a crowd.

you had called it.

every single bit of it.

he had been so terrified of admitting, even to himself, that he had finally found the right girl. the one he had been passively waiting for his entire life.

but he had treated her like a secret and in doing so, he had completely destroyed the only real thing he had.

"i fucked up, guys," dean whispered, his voice dropping into a register they had never heard from him before.

it was entirely stripped of pride, heavy with a terrifying, sudden desperation. "i really, really fucked up."

beau looked at tucker, then back at dean, his expression softening into something deeply sympathetic. "yeah. you did. and if i know her? she's not the type to give you a second chance just for the sake of it. you're going to have to actually work for this one."

dean didn't go back inside the party.

he walked straight up the stairs to his room, locked the door, and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark.

the scent of your coconut shampoo still lingered faintly on his pillow.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only sound inside suni's car for the first three miles.

after the oppressive, vibrating bass from earlier, the silence inside the sedan felt less like an absence of noise and more like a physical weight, settling deep into your bones.

you blankly stared out the passenger window, watching the streetlamps bleed past in long, blurry streaks of amber.

"do you want me to say it?" suni asked quietly, her brown eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.

her hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel, still vibrating with that protective adrenaline.

"say what?" you murmured, your forehead resting against the cool glass.

"that you are an absolute fucking badass," she said, a small, fierce smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"i mean it. people don't just walk away from dean. girls usually dissolve into a puddle when he looks in their general direction, and you just destroyed him on his own driveway."

you let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, feeling the tight knot in your chest loosen just a fraction. "i don't feel like a badass. i feel hollow."

"that's just the detox," suni promised gently, reaching over to give your knee a supportive squeeze before putting both hands back on the wheel.

"it's the sugar crash after two months of eating nothing but empty calories. it'll pass."

she was right.

it was a crash.

but as you pulled up to your apartment building, the relief you expected to feel was shadowed by a lingering, dull ache.

you had drawn the line. you had won the argument.

so why did it feel like you were the one recovering from a blow?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

four days passed in a tense, quiet limbo. you stayed away from the standard student hangouts.

you kept your head down, and entirely avoided the athletic side of campus.

which was much easier said than done.

it was actually hannah wells who broke the radio silence when you bumped into each other at work.

you two weren't particularly close outside of your shifts, but you had always been good coworkers, and she gave you a sympathetic look the second she saw you.

she admitted right off the bat that garrett had practically begged her to feel you out and see if you would be willing to hear dean's side of things.

but hannah made it clear she wasn't actually pushing his agenda.

you let her know, gently but firmly, that you just didn't want to hear him out right now.

she nodded immediately, completely understanding.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you were halfway through your shift at malone's when the bell over the front door chimed and beau maxwell walked in from the cold.

the dinner rush hadn't started yet, leaving the restaurant washed in a warm, lazy quiet.

soft music drifted through the speakers. behind the bar, hannah was busy polishing glasses, while allie was sitting in one of the booths near the window. she was seemingly looking over her homework but clearly tuned into the room.

you looked up from the hostess stand and immediately narrowed your eyes.

beau rarely came here unless dean dragged him.

and judging by the guilty, deeply uncomfortable look on his face, this definitely wasn't a social visit.

"it's that bad, huh?" you asked dryly before he could even open his mouth to speak.

beau blinked. "what?"

"you drew the short straw." you crossed your arms. "dean sent you to talk to me."

hannah stopped wiping her glass, an amused smirk spreading across her face. the fact that beau's expression instantly gave him away nearly made you laugh.

"oh my god," you said, an incredulous smile finally breaking across your face. "he did."

"to be fair," beau said carefully, raising his hands in surrender, "i volunteered. mostly because i couldn't take another night of him pacing the living room floor like a caged animal."

allie leaned out of her booth slightly. "wait. dean di laurentis is sending representatives now?"

hannah leaned her elbows on the bar, looking entirely entertained. "please tell me he at least prepared a speech."

beau groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "you people are evil."

"no," you corrected lightly, grabbing a stack of menus from the counter beside you, "he's pure evil."

that earned you a reluctant laugh from beau. he shoved his hands into his pockets, looking both amused and slightly helpless.

"okay," he admitted. "maybe this does look a little pathetic."

"a little?" allie echoed from her booth, shaking her head. "beau, i don't know why you're doing this for him."

hannah pointed a bar towel at you. "his approval ratings are in the toilet."

you pressed your lips together, fighting another smile.

it was ridiculous.

dean was apparently moping around because you stopped answering his texts.

a month ago, the idea would've satisfied you.

now it mostly just felt surreal.

beau's expression softened as your smile faded slightly. "i've known dean a long time," he said quietly. "and i've honestly never seen him like this before."

you focused on straightening the menus in your hands even though they were already perfectly aligned. "beau—"

"no, seriously." he leaned against the hostess stand, dropping his voice. "the guy is a disaster. garrett says he's playing like crap at practice because he's distracted all the time. coach yelled at him so hard yesterday his face literally turned purple.”

“and logan threatened to throw dean's phone into a lake because he keeps checking if you texted him back every thirty seconds. he doesn't sleep. he just... he stares at his phone."

a reluctant laugh slipped out before you could stop it, but it died quickly.

"this is insane," you muttered, covering your face briefly with your hand. "he's literally running a pr campaign."

"that's actually exactly what tucker called it," beau admitted.

the amusement faded entirely after a second, though, something heavier settling back into your chest. because underneath all the ridiculousness... there was still hurt.

a deep, aching bruise left by a boy who thought everything in life came easy.

you slowly lowered your hand. "did he send you because he thinks if enough people tell me he's miserable, i'll magically forget why i left?"

the teasing atmosphere immediately evaporated. beau straightened slightly, his voice turning serious.

"no." he shook his head.

"i came because he knows he hurt you. and because for once in his life, he's too scared to make it worse. he's terrified that if he pushes you, you'll completely erase him."

that caught you off guard.

even hannah went quiet behind the bar, returning to her glasses. you looked down at the menus in your hands, tracing your thumb absentmindedly along the edges.

beau hesitated before continuing. "he's not trying to charm his way out of this anymore," he said carefully. "honestly? i think that's freaking him out the most. he doesn't know how to exist without his armor."

before you could respond, the front door opened again and a group of customers entered, breaking the moment apart. hannah immediately pushed off the bar, professional mode clicking back in. "right, back to it before della catches us."

allie slid back into her booth to give the customers room. beau stepped away from the hostess stand, giving you one last careful look. "i'm not saying you should forgive him," he said gently. "that's your call. but i do think losing you finally forced him to become a person instead of just a personality."

and annoyingly enough, that line stayed with you long after he left.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the end of the week, the hurt had hardened into a reckless, heavy spike of anger.

suni practically forced you out the door to the pre-game mixer at the phi kappa house. "you need to show up, look stunning which isn't hard for you, and prove you aren't hiding in your room crying over a some hockey player," she insisted.

the house was a sensory overload—a wall of thumping bass, sticky floors, and sweat-fogged windows.

it took exactly five minutes for the room to feel subtly dialed into your arrival. across the crowded living room, the hockey team was gathered near the back patio.

and right in the center was dean.

he looked exhausted, his gaze drifting aimlessly until logan nudged him, pointing in your direction. the moment dean's blue eyes locked onto yours, his entire posture changed.

his chest rose sharply, and he took an instinctive step forward, completely abandoning his conversation.

his eyes flared with a sudden, desperate hope.

you felt the invisible weight of the room watching, waiting for the classic fallout. a dark, defiant spark ignited in your chest.

dean had spent months keeping your relationship a secret, acting like a casual observer while he entertained a crowd.

two can play that game.

you deliberately tore your eyes away from him, turning your gaze toward liam. liam was a handsome football player who had been hovering in your orbit since the start of the academic year.

he was tall, built, and more than happy to have your sudden, undivided attention.

out of the corner of your eye, you saw dean freeze. the hope on his face shattered.

you leaned in close to liam, letting your laughter trail off into something softer, low and intimate.

you stepped directly into his space, your hand sliding deliberately up his arm to rest against his shoulder, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck.

liam's eyes darkened instantly with surprise and heat. his hand came up, wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

across the room, dean looked like he had been physically struck.

you could see his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek, his knuckles turning stark white as his grip tightened around his red cup.

garrett muttered something in his ear, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder, but dean brushed him off as his eyes burned into you with a raw, bleeding agony.

you didn't look back at him. instead, you leaned up on your toes, your eyes dropping to liam's lips.

"you're incredibly beautiful tonight," liam murmured, his voice thick, his thumb sliding beneath the edge of your top, tracing the bare skin of your hip.

"thank you," you breathed out, tilting your head up slightly. "liam?"

"mhm?"

"kiss me."

he didn't hesitate. liam leaned down, slanting his mouth over yours.

he didn't hold back at all. his lips were warm and demanding, his hand pressing firmly into the small of your back to hold you tight against his chest.

you let your eyes close and leaned into the weight of him, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss into something slow, deliberate, and deeply sensual.

you made sure it lingered, playing your part perfectly for the crowd.

and for the specific boy breaking apart by the doors.

a low ripple of whispers washed through the immediate room. the kiss was thick with heat, but it didn't ignite that familiar, electric ache you only ever felt with a certain stupid idiot.

when you finally pulled back, liam was breathing heavily, a dazed, smug smile tugging at his lips.

you offered him a quiet, heavy-lidded smile before finally looking past his shoulder.

the satisfaction immediately turned to ash in your throat.

dean looked physically ill. the fierce, possessive anger had completely drained out of him, leaving behind a hollow, entirely defeated devastation.

his face was completely pale, his eyes wide as he stared at you. it was like he was looking at the end of his life.

watching you give someone else that kind of intimacy had entirely undone him.

dean's fingers slacked. his cup slipped from his hand, clattering against the floor and splashing beer across his shoes, but he didn't even notice.

he turned on his heel and blindly pushed through the crowd, fleeing out the back doors into the freezing night air.

beau shot you a heavy, disappointed look before turning to follow him out.

you stood frozen beside liam, the adrenaline completely evaporating, leaving behind a bitter, hollow ache in your chest. you had hurt dean exactly the way he hurt you.

so why did you feel like throwing up?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

dean didn't find you until two weeks later. it took him two full weeks after that party to gather the courage to approach you again. when he finally did, it wasn't at a party, or in his bedroom, or under dim lights where he could press his mouth against yours and make you forget.

it was the middle of the afternoon in the campus library.

you were sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs near the back windows, a stack of annotated articles spread across the table beside you.

for a long minute, he just stood at the end of the aisle.

god, he looked awful. the sharp jawline you used to trace was covered in a rough, uneven stubble. his signature silver-tongued confidence was entirely absent.

you sensed him before he even spoke. your eyes lifted slowly from your laptop. no warmth or softening. just... nothing.

dean flinched. "hey," he said, his voice raw and stripped of its usual smooth cadence.

you looked back down at your laptop screen, your voice flat. "dean."

he swallowed hard, stepping closer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if to keep himself from reaching out. "can we talk for maybe a second? please. just... two minutes. i'll leave right after, i swear."

"i'm really busy right now, dean."

"i know. i know you are." his voice cracked. he hesitated, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp spike of residual pain from the party. he swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, but his voice shook. "are you... are you seeing him? liam?"

you didn't even look up from your screen. "that's really none of your business."

"none of my—" dean let out a bitter, breathy laugh, his eyes swimming. he leaned slightly over the table, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. "that was low, you know. even for you. putting on a show like that in front of everyone just to rub my face in it?"

you finally shut your laptop softly, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms.

you scoffed at him, a cold, mocking sound that cut right through his defense.

"low?" you repeated, your voice slicing through him. "you should worry less about who i'm kissing, dean, and worry a lot more about yourself. you don't get to lecture me about public displays when you practically pioneered them."

the reality of your words hit him like a physical punch to his ribs. he actually took a half-step back, his chest heaving as the hypocrisy collapsed on him.

he was desperate to know if you were talking to liam. he was paralyzed by the thought that you had moved on, but he knew he had no right to ask.

"i'm sorry," he whispered, the defensive edge completely evaporating, leaving him entirely exposed. "you're right. i have no right. i just... i think i genuinely don't know how to handle this."

"i think you genuinely don't understand why you hurt me in the first place," you countered calmly, the honesty of it cutting deeper than your anger ever could.

"you understand that i left. you understand that your bed is empty and your ego is bruised. but i don't think you actually understood what it felt like to stand next to you and constantly feel temporary. to feel like a placeholder until someone better, or flashier, caught your eye."

dean went completely still.

"i liked you so much, dean," you admitted quietly. it made you almost sick to say it. the words tasted bitter and heavy as they left your tongue, but unfortunately it was true.

"it was enough to make excuses for things i normally wouldn't tolerate. i let myself believe you actually cared, and you made me feel stupid for it. you treated my feelings like they were disposable. i'm not doing it anymore. i'm done."

"please," he whispered, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate plea. "don't say it's over. just give me something to fix. tell me what to do."

"there's nothing to do," you said, your heart aching behind the wall you had built, but you forced your voice to remain steady. "i just need you to leave."

he stood there for a long, agonizing beat, looking at you like a man watching his life sentence being handed down.

finally, he closed his eyes, took a shaky, ragged breath, and nodded.

"okay," he sighed, his shoulders hunched in complete defeat. "okay. i'm sorry."

he turned around and walked away, his heavy footsteps fading down the library aisle, leaving you alone with a crushing, heavy silence.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

two more weeks passed. then three.

if dean's initial reaction to the "breakup" was a loud, messy public moping tour, his reaction to the library confrontation was a total blackout.

the campus gossip machine slowed down because dean stopped giving them material.

he wasn't partying.

he wasn't hovering at the edges of your vision.

but he hadn't given up instead he had just changed his tactics.

the loud gestures were replaced by quiet, undeniable consistency.

every tuesday and thursday morning—the days you had an 10.00 am seminar on the opposite side of campus—there was a large vanilla latte waiting for you at the barista counter, already paid for.

no note.

just your exact, complicated order.

when you tried to refuse it, the barista just shrugged. "he said if you don't take it, i have to throw it out. every day."

you left it on the counter the first three times.

by the fourth time, the cold winter air bit too hard, and you took it.

it tasted like an apology.

then came the hockey games. suni dragged you to the friday night game against yale.

you sat twelve rows up, determined to look indifferent.

but the moment the team skated onto the ice, it was clear dean wasn't playing for the scouts or the crowd anymore.

he played with a brutal, self-punishing intensity. and when he scored the game-winning goal in the third period, the stadium erupted.

normally, dean would skate a lap, flashing his devastating smile to the student section, soaking in the god-like adoration.

instead, he skated straight to the center line, stopped, and looked directly up into the stands. right at you.

he didn't smile. he just held your gaze for three agonizing seconds, chest heaving, before skating back to the bench.

"okay," suni muttered beside you, watching him go. "that was... actually kind of miserable. he didn't even wink at the girls."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the next afternoon, you were heading out of the science building when a shadow fell over you.

you braced yourself, expecting to see blue eyes and a desperate expression, but when you looked up, it was tucker.

he stepped right into your pace, unceremoniously slinging his heavy arm over your shoulders, pulling you briefly into his side to shield you from a sudden blast of freezing wind.

"hey," tucker said quietly, giving your shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze before letting his arm drop back to his side. "you got a minute? i'm not here on his orders, i swear. he doesn't even know i'm talking to you."

you didn't walk away, but you still kept your guard up. "tucker, if this is about dean—"

"it is," he interrupted gently. he gestured toward a quiet bench under a bare oak tree.

once you both sat down, he leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at you with complete sincerity.

"i'm not here to tell you he's miserable, because you already know that, and honestly, he deserves to be. but he's always been the guy who keeps one foot out the door because he thinks if he doesn't fully commit, nothing can actually hurt him."

you let out a bitter, breathy sigh, looking down at your boots. "so i'm just supposed to wait around while he plays psychologist with himself?"

"no," tucker said firmly, catching your eye.

"absolutely not. you did the right thing by walking away. you forced him to look in a mirror, and he hated what he saw. but what i'm trying to tell you, as your friend he's not trying to trick you back. he's genuinely terrified because he realized his own cowardice cost him the only real thing he's ever wanted."

tucker leaned back slightly against the bench. "i've never seen dean look at a girl the way he looks at you. he's not trying to smooth things over anymore, he's just trying to figure out how to be a man you could actually trust. i'm not asking you to take him back. i'm just asking you not to completely write him off before you let him speak."

you sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of tucker's words sinking deep into your chest.

tucker wasn't an enabler. he was your friend, and he was the moral compass of that friend group.

if he was defending the sincerity of dean's change, it had to mean something.

"thank you, tuck," you murmured softly.

he gave you a brief, supportive nod, standing up from the bench. "just think about it, okay? see you around."

you watched him walk away, your mind a chaotic blur.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

a few days later, you were sitting on the couch in your apartment, staring blankly at a textbook, when suni dropped a mug of tea onto the coffee table in front of you.

"you're thinking about him," she said flatly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the back of the chair.

you let out a long sigh, rubbing your temples. "i don't want to be. but it's been a month, suni. he's not stopping. every time i turn around, there's a coffee, or he's clearing out of a room the second i walk into it so i don't feel uncomfortable. and his friends are trying to reason with me. it's infuriating."

"why is it infuriating?"

"because it's working," you admitted, your voice cracking. "it's making me remember why i fell for him before he started acting like a coward. but i'm terrified. if i let him back in, what happens when he gets bored of making amends? what happens when the crowd calls his name again?"

suni searched your face, seeing the deep, defensive armor you had built. she slid onto the couch next to you, pulling your hand into hers.

"then you make him earn the right to even ask that question," suni said softly, squeezing your fingers.

"you don't fold just because he's acting like a human being now. that's the baseline expectation, not a reward. if you want to talk to him, talk to him. but don't let him off the hook until you are 100% sure he knows he's lucky to breathe the same air as you."

just promise me you walk away if he slips back into his old habits." she sighed holding onto your hands.

"i promise," you whispered, a sudden wave of clarity washing over you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you didn't go to the rink to find him.

it was close to midnight when you found yourself walking toward the athletic center to drop off a borrowed, heavily annotated textbook for hannah.

but as you stepped into the corridor, the muffled, echoing thwack of a puck against boards drew you toward the main arena doors.

armed with suni and tucker's advice echoing in your head and a tug in your chest you couldn't ignore anymore, you pulled open the heavy side doors of the rink.

the stadium was dark, except for the bright, stark floodlights illuminating the pristine white sheet of ice.

dean was alone.

he was stripped down to his practice jersey and skates. there was no crowd to impress, no scouts watching, no teammates to joke with.

it was just him, a puck, and a net.

he was doing suicide drills—skating full sprint to the blue line, stopping hard enough to spray a cascade of ice shavings, skating back, and doing it again.

he was panting, his blonde hair soaked with sweat, his movements driven by a furious, desperate energy.

he was trying to skate away from his own head.

you stood by the player's bench, your arms crossed, watching him coolly.

"you're slacking on your defense di laurentis," you called out. your voice echoed sharply in the cavernous, empty arena.

dean froze.

his skates dug into the ice with a harsh screech, breaking the silence.

he snapped his head around, his chest heaving as he stared at you.

for a second, he looked entirely paralyzed, as if he thought he was hallucinating.

"you're here," he breathed, slowly skating toward the boards. he stopped a few feet away, looking up from the ice.

"i'm here," you said softly, your tone steady, giving him absolutely nothing to work with. no smile or softness. you unlatched the heavy wooden door of the player's bench. "i think you've done enough pacing around campus, dean. come here."

before he could answer, you took a tentative step out onto the ice. you were wearing regular winter boots, completely unequipped for a freshly zambonied sheet of ice.

"wait, wait, hold on—" dean warned, his eyes widening in alarm.

naturally, you didn't listen. your heel hit a patch of smooth ice, and your balance instantly vanished. your arms flailed as you slipped backward, a short gasp escaping your throat.

but you didn't hit the ice.

dean moved with the terrifying speed of a professional athlete. in a fraction of a second, he closed the distance, his strong gloved hands catching you right around the waist. he hauled you against his chest, his skates digging hard into the ice to anchor both of your weights.

you gasped, your hands automatically flying up to grip his broad shoulders. you were pressed flush against him, the cool scent of the ice and his familiar cologne enveloping you completely.

"gotcha," dean whispered, his breath puffing white in the cold air.

he didn't let go.

his hands stayed firmly clamped around your waist, pulling you so close that you could feel the rapid, thumping beat of his heart against your chest.

he was looking down at you like you were the only thing left in the entire world, his eyes intense, wide, and bright with unshed tears.

no armor. just dean.

but even wrapped in his arms, you kept your gaze sharp.

you didn't melt….. just yet.

"you're a fucking idiot," you murmured, your voice level and direct. "you really messed up, dean."

"i know," he whispered, his voice cracking as a tear finally slipped down his cheek, cutting through the sweat on his face. he didn't even try to brush it away.

"i'm the biggest idiot. i ruined everything. the night you left... i sat in my room and i realized i've spent my whole life making sure nobody could ever reject me by making sure i never fully committed to anything.” he continued.

“and then i met you. and i was so terrified of how much power you had over me that i tried to make you small so i could feel big."

he took a shaky breath, his grip tightening around your waist as if you might vanish if he let go.

"seeing you with liam? it nearly killed me. but the worst part wasn't jealousy. the worst part was realizing i was the one who drove you into his arms. i am so sorry. i am so, so sorry for making you feel like a secret. i swear to god, i love you. i don't want anyone else. i just want you."

you stood steady in his hold, letting the weight of his words hang in the freezing air.

your heart was pounding, but you kept your hands firm against his shoulders, maintaining your boundary.

"words are easy for you, dean," you said quietly.

"you've always been good with a crowd. you've always known exactly what to say to smooth things over. i don't want a public spectacle. i care about what this is."

"this isn't a performance," he choked out, his shoulders hunching in complete defeat, entirely exposed to you. "tell me what to do. anything. i don't care how long it takes."

you looked at him for a long moment, watching the genuine, stripped-back desperation in his eyes. only then did you let a very small, guarded smile touch your lips. it wasn't a total surrender, but it was a crack in the ice.

"i'm not ready to give you a second chance," you told him firmly, your voice unwavering.

"and i'm definitely not ready to forget how you treated me. but i am willing to stop running so if you want to try and earn my trust back, you can start by taking me on a real date. next friday. and if you slip back into your old habits even once? i'm gone. do you understand me?"

a breathless, stunned laugh escaped dean's lips. it wasn't his usual confident chuckle.

it was a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, heavy with the realization of just how close he had come to losing you.

"yes," he whispered fiercely, his eyes shining as he looked down at you. "yes, absolutely. whatever you want. however long it takes. i'll be exactly who you need me to be."

you let your eyes drop to his lips, then back to his eyes, finally allowing yourself to relax against his chest. "show me."

dean didn't hesitate.

he leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, desperate, passionate kiss.

it wasn't the smooth, practiced kiss of a guy trying to charm his way into a girl's room.

it was heavy with weeks of longing, raw with the terror of almost losing you, and overflowing with a profound, aching relief.

he poured everything he couldn't put into words into the press of his mouth against yours, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as if he could bind your paths together right then and there.

when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. both of you were breathing heavily, the white puffs of your breath mingling together in the cold air.

dean let out a soft, shaky laugh, a brilliant, breathtaking smile finally spreading across his handsome face—the first real smile he had had in weeks.

"so," dean murmured, his thumb gently tracing your jawline, though his eyes still held that cautious, vulnerable edge. "does this mean my approval ratings are finally going up?"

you let out a genuine laugh, but you didn't let him entirely off the hook. "don't push your luck, di laurentis. you are still on probation."

"i'll take it," he whispered, before leaning right back down to kiss you again, your laughter echoing beautifully in the empty arena.

“Logan drives like he learned in Grand Theft Auto.”

Garrett smiled slightly before pressing the keys into your palm.

“You just need it for groceries, right?”

“And coffee.”

“And coffee,” he repeated patiently.

You grinned before kissing his cheek quickly.

“Thank you, baby.”

That alone made it worth it.

Garrett watched you leave through the front door a second later, his stupid smile still stuck on his face.

Tuck noticed immediately from the couch.

“Oh, he’s in love.”

Garrett flipped him off while sitting back down beside Logan with his controller.

“She called me baby.”

Tucker looked blankly at him. “You’ve been dating for eight months.”

“Yeah,” Garrett sighed happily. “Still nice though.”

Logan physically gagged.

The game resumed.

Twenty minutes later the front door slammed open hard enough to shake the walls.

Dean stumbled inside, breathing hard. Garrett looked up immediately.

“…woah D, what’s wrong? Why do you look like that?”

Dean looked weirdly pale.

And suddenly something cold twisted low in Garrett’s stomach.

“Dude,” Dean said quickly. “Oh thank God you’re here.”

Garrett sat up straighter immediately.

“What happened?”

“We just drove past what I thought was your Jeep in like a horrible accident and I tried calling you but-”

Garrett didn’t hear another word.

Not one.

The controller hit the floor loudly as he was already moving.

His chest seized violently before his brain could even catch up.

“GARRETT,” Logan yelled after him.

The front door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle.

Then he was running.

Actually running.

Straight down the street toward the flashing police lights visible from blocks away.

His heartbeat thundered violently in his ears.

Every worst-case scenario imaginable crashed through his brain all at once.

You crying.

You hurt.

You trapped.

Dead.

His lungs burned by the time he reached the intersection.

Then suddenly there it was.

His Jeep. Or what was left of it.

The entire front end was crushed inward violently.

Glass everywhere.

Metal twisted almost beyond recognition.

Garrett stopped dead in the middle of the street.

His whole body went numb, because that was your side.

Somebody was talking nearby.

Police radios crackled.

People stared.

Garrett couldn’t hear any of it over the blood rushing in his ears.

The Jeep was destroyed. Absolutely destroyed.

And for one second, Garrett genuinely thought he might throw up right there in the street.

“Sir?”

A paramedic touched his arm lightly.

Garrett yanked away immediately.

“Where is she?”

“Sir, I need you to-”

Then he heard you.

“I said I’m okay.”

His entire body nearly gave out from relief.

He turned so fast it almost hurt.

Sitting in the back of the ambulance wrapped in a blanket.

Garrett physically stopped breathing for a second.

The second you saw his face, fresh tears filled your eyes immediately.

“Oh my God.”

Garrett climbed into the ambulance before anybody could stop him.

His hands grabbed your face instantly. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily. “I’m okay.”

“You hurt?”

“No.”

“Anywhere?”

“No, Garrett, I’m okay.”

You looked devastated though.

“Garrett,” you whispered tearfully. “I’m so sorry.”

His brows pulled together immediately.

“What?”

“The Jeep. I wrecked your car.”

Garrett stared at you for a second like he genuinely couldn’t process what you were saying.

Then immediately:

“Don’t.”

“Don’t apologize right now.” His voice shook slightly. “Jesus Christ, baby, thank God you’re okay.”

Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks immediately. “It’s totaled.”

“I don’t care.”

“You love that car.”

“I love you.”

You physically froze.

So did Garrett honestly.

Because okay, maybe neither of you had technically said that part out loud yet.

But sitting there looking at you alive and crying and safe while his destroyed Jeep sat outside in pieces, nothing had ever felt clearer in his life.

Your bottom lip trembled. “You’re not mad?”

Garrett looked horrified by the question. “Mad?”

“I crashed your car.”

“Baby, if that car did its job and kept you safe, then I couldn’t care less what happened to it afterward.”

Garrett brushed shaky fingers through your hair carefully.

“I thought…” He stopped briefly, swallowing hard. “Dean said horrible accident and I thought…”

“Oh, babe...” You reached for him immediately.

Garrett folded into you without hesitation, arms wrapping around your waist so tightly it almost hurt.

His face buried into your shoulder while he exhaled shakily against your neck.

“I’m okay.”

“I know.”

But his grip tightened anyway.

Outside the ambulance, Logan, Tuck and Dean finally caught up, all breathing hard from apparently chasing Garrett down the street.

Dean looked into the ambulance carefully.

“Oh thank God.”

Logan stared at Garrett hugging you before glancing toward the totaled Jeep.

“…he’s taking this shockingly well.”

Garrett didn’t even look up. “Shut up, dude.”

You laughed wetly against his shoulder.

Garrett pulled back just enough to look at your face again.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded softly. “The airbags went off.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked briefly toward the wreck outside then back to you.

“That Jeep did good then.”

You brushed your fingers lightly against his jaw.

“I’m really sorry, G.”

Garrett leaned into your touch automatically.

.

Clark’s suit was still damp with the couple’s blood when he peeled it off.

He worked methodically, the way he always did after a bad day. Boots off. Belt unhooked. Cape folded along its seams. He slid the soiled suit onto a hanger above the tub, eyeing the brown-black stains crusted along the S, the streaks down one sleeve where he’d braced the gurney.

Gary’s got his work cut out for him, he thought, faint and tired.

After a long, scalding shower, Clark pulled on a T-shirt and sweats, toweling his curls dry as he turned to face his TV.

It was near midnight, and every channel was the same. Footage from the disaster looped—smoke, twisted metal, the tram hanging at a bad angle. Superman landing. The Justice Gang. Bodies on stretchers. A dozen angles of the moment he’d stepped between you and the crushed couple.

A talking head gestured at a freeze-frame of his cape blocking the camera’s view of you.

“—and the question on everyone’s mind tonight: did Superman deny care to two critically injured civilians?” she pressed, sharp wtih outrage. “Was this about medical ethics, or was this about control?”

He changed the channel. The crawl at the bottom had already burned into his brain.

SUPERMAN REFUSES MIRACLE HEALER — TWO CRITICAL TRANSPORTED INSTEADJUSTICE GANG FRACTURE? LORDTECH SILENT ON ‘ROGUE CALL’IS METROPOLIS’ GREATEST HERO PLAYING GOD?

Another channel. A man in a suit leaned toward the camera.

“Look, all I’m saying is, you’ve got this metahuman medic on scene—which, by the way, nobody’s even started unpacking—and Superman says no?” he argued. “I didn’t think he could make calls like that on a team he’s not even part of.”

Another cut. Another angle.

“In the footage, it’s clear Hawkgirl and Mister Terrific back Superman’s call,” this anchor noted. “Could this be a deeper rift inside the Gang? A sign of new leadership?”

LordTech’s logo flashed at the bottom with the words NO COMMENT.

Clark scrubbed a hand over his face. Every clip felt like sandpaper. Not because they were wrong about the conflict—he had yelled at Guy in the middle of a crowd with his crest on—but because none of them showed what he’d seen when all eyes were on you.

Your shoulders locking. Your hands shaking. The way your heart sounded like it was trying to kick its way out of your chest.

A chyron scrolled by: SUPERMAN: SAVIOR OR LIABILITY?

He snorted, humorless. “Why not both? Why stop there?” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he lowered the TV volumn.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Ma & Pa.

He stared at the name for a moment, biting back a groan. They’d have seen the coverage. Of course they had. Maybe Pa had already muted the TV, too, muttering about pundits who didn’t know the first thing about their son.

As he reached for the phone, there was a knock.

Not a neighbor’s half-hearted tap or the building manager’s impatient rap. Three quick, familiar knocks—your rhythm. 

His hand froze over the screen.

His hearing had clocked your heartbeat the second you stepped off the elevator, if he was honest. He’d felt your presence on the edge of his awareness, moving down the hallway, hesitating a fraction outside his door.

He hadn’t believed it. Not until the knock.

“Clark?” Your voice, muffled through wood. “It’s… it’s me.”

He grabbed the phone, thumb flying over the screen.

Can I call you guys back? he typed. Everything’s okay.

Three dots bubbled up, then:

We love you, Clark. Call when you can.

He swallowed, turned the ringer off, and set the phone down. Then he crossed the room and opened the door.

You stood in the hallway, drenched.

Rain had soaked your jacket and scarf through, fabric clinging to your shoulders. Your hair stuck to your cheeks in dark, wet waves. Your cap and sunglasses were gone; dust still lingered in the edges of your lashes, in the lines of your throat. You held your arms tight around yourself, shivering.

It hit him all at once: you at his door. On purpose.

“Hey,” you managed, clearing your throat. “Um. Sorry, it’s late, but I wanted to….”

“Come in,” he blurted, stepping back before you could change your mind. You kicked off your damp shoes by the door.

It was the first time you’d been here since before everything broke apart. He saw the moment it landed—your gaze flicked to the bookshelf where your paperbacks still perched, to the corner where your shoes used to pile up. Your shoulders drew in, like the room had hands.

He shut the door gently as you walked to the center of his living room.

“I was just watching the news,” he offered as he came up behind you, because the silence felt like it might swallow him.

“I know.”

You were already facing the TV. The screen showed the tram wreck from above, smoke and twisted metal, then cut to the tight shot he’d become familiar with: his cape flared as he planted himself in front of you and the bleeding couple. The frame that caught Guy pointing, veins standing out in his neck. 

Over all of it, the pundit’s lips moved soundlessly—questions and accusations he’d already heard in every possible wording.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. Your eyes tracked the images with a still, intent focus that made his stomach knot.

“They’re… intense,” you concluded finally, gaze still pinned to the screen.

“Putting it mildly,” he managed.

You turned then, slowly, peeling yourself away from what you’d just seen, and looked back at him. He felt the weight of your eyes as you studied his face, as if you were searching for the man in the footage and checking whether he matched the one standing in front of you now.

“Standard question, but are you okay?” you asked, teeth catching your lower lip.

He almost laughed. It came out more like an exhale. “I’m… adjusting,” he answered, mouth twisting. “To being the villain of the week.”

You made a small, wounded noise at that. “You’re not the villain,” you answered earnestly immediately.

“Could’ve fooled half the city.” He huffed. “They think I let someone almost die because of… pride. Or ego. Or some turf war with the Gang.”

Bitterness crept into his voice, sharp and sour. He heard it, winced at himself, and cut off before it curdled further. His hand scrubbed down his face, palm rasping over stubble.

Focus. Not on the footage. On you.

His hands came up again, hovering over your shoulders, your arms, close enough to feel the cold radiating off your jacket but not quite landing.

“Are you hurt?” he pushed, the worry cracking straight through whatever composure he’d managed. “Any debris? Burns? You were in the middle of it—I saw you with that guy, the head wound. Are you okay?”

You let out a short breath that was almost a laugh. “You always worry too much, Clark. I’m fine.”

The phrase cracked something open in him.

His hands dropped for a second, then surged back up before he could overthink it. This time they didn’t stop hovering—his palms cupped your face, large and steady, thumbs brushing the cold, damp skin just under your eyes.

“You scared me,” he confessed, the words roughened at the edges. “I could’ve really lost you. Seeing you there. Hearing Guy—”

Your eyes flicked up to his. Rain clung to your lashes, making your gaze look even darker, deeper.

“I’m okay,” you repeated, softer now, voice wobbling. “I promise. No lingering fractures. No new holes.”

But you held his stare a beat too long, and he saw it—the way something tight and complicated rippled behind your eyes.

“I was terrified,” you admitted, the words shrinking in volume but growing in weight. “When Guy called me up to the plate. When that man begged—for him, for his wife. When everybody was staring at me like I was… the answer.”

His stomach dropped. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

His thumbs swept along your cheekbones again, more to soothe than to check this time. Up close, he could see the faint tremor in your mouth, the clench in your jaw you got when you were holding yourself together by force.

“For a second,” you said, swallowing, “I was back in that bathroom with Jimmy freaking out. Or on the gala floor, kneeling over Lois. Everything in me went straight to that place it always goes: you can fix this, you can take it, you’re supposed to be quiet and just do it.”

You swallowed again, throat bobbing against his fingers, your voice trying to steady and not quite making it.

“And then I thought about Dr. Foster,” you went on. “About all the hours we’ve spent talking about my body. My boundaries. How my worth is not measured in how much pain I can swallow for other people.” Your fingers slid up, wrapping around his wrists, grip tightening like you needed something solid to hang onto. “I thought about you, too.”

His chest pulled tight. He matched your next inhale without meaning to, lungs syncing with yours the way they always did when things got too big.

“And I froze,” you said, the admission dropping between you like a stone. “Because I could hear all of it at once—the old script and the new one—and I almost said yes again. Because that’s who I’ve been. That’s how I’ve survived. By saying yes and being quiet and letting my body take the hit.”

Clark’s jaw flexed, anger on your behalf flaring and curling into his fists where they cradled your face.

“For half a second, my mouth was ahead of me again,” you went on. “I felt myself about to step forward, to put my hands on her. And I knew that if I did, I’d knock myself back in therapy by… months. Maybe years. If I even survived it.” A brittle laugh scraped out of you. “One reflex, and I’d undo so much work.”

You looked up at him then, dead-on, like you were pinning him in place.

“And then you put yourself in front of me.”

Apologies left Clark like a flood, barreling past every dam he’d tried to build.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, the word too small for the weight behind it. “I’m so sorry I made a choice for you again. In front of everyone. In front of the Gang. I know what that looked like, and I—”

“Clark—”

“I told myself I wouldn’t do that anymore,” he rushed on, tripping over his own voice. “Wouldn’t decide for you, wouldn’t step in unless you asked. I just—there were cameras, and Guy was yelling, and people were bleeding, and you looked—”

His throat closed up. The next word scraped out. “Honey, you looked so scared.”

Your hands rose, slow and careful, and wrapped around his wrists. Your fingers were icy against his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat roaring in his chest.

“I wasn’t scared of them,” you murmured, gaze dropping briefly. “I was scared of… me. Of what it would do to me if I laid my hands on them.”

He tightened his grip on your face just enough to steady himself, thumbs still resting against the chill of your cheeks. His hands were shaking; yours steadied them.

“I know,” he answered, softer now, the urgency shifting into something rawer. “I was worried too. They didn’t know. They didn’t see it the way I did.”

You blinked hard, lashes spiking with damp, a shuddering breath escaping you. “Clark, I—”

“I’m sorry if I made you mad,” he cut in, because the words were already tumbling and he didn’t know how to stop them. “I’m trying so hard to be better,” he insisted. “For me, not just for you—I know that matters, I know I can’t make you my project—but I keep thinking I’m backsliding, that I’m still this… mess you have to manage, and the last thing I want is for me to be another problem you’re stuck healing, and—”

His chest heaved. He was too warm, too close, every feeling he’d been trying to file neatly away bursting out of the drawer at once.

“I love you, and I—”

The world stopped.

The words hung there, heavy and undeniable, like he’d carved them into the air.

Your fingers tightened around his wrists, nails digging in just enough that he felt it.

Heat rushed up his neck, into his face, mortification slamming into fear and relief so hard it made him a little dizzy. “I’m… sorry,” he croaked, the apology automatic, reflexive. “I didn’t mean to dump that on you, I just—”

You moved.

Not away. Forward.

You stepped into him, closing the last useless inches between your bodies, and wrapped your arms around him.

It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t cautious. It was full-body, decisive, like you were trying to climb under his skin and lock yourself there. Your cheek pressed firmly against his chest, right over his racing heart. One hand slid flat between his shoulder blades and stayed, fingers curling in the fabric. The other hand climbed higher, curving around the back of his neck, fingertips settling at the warm, vulnerable spot just under his hairline.

Every muscle in him seized, then gave out.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed this—missed you—until it was happening. Your warmth, your weight, the quiet.

His arms came down around you slowly, like he was afraid a sudden move would spook you. One hand spread wide over your back, fingers feeling the damp cling of your sweater, the rise and fall of your lungs. The other curved protectively around the back of your head, palm cradling your skull, fingers threading gently into your wet hair.

His shoulders shook once, hard. He squeezed his eyes shut. A sound that left his throat wasn’t a sob, exactly, and not a laugh. It was something in between relief and grief and longing all tangled up, and he pressed his mouth into your hair to muffle it, holding on to you.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the words muffled into your hair. They felt useless and necessary all at once. “I didn’t mean to make tonight harder. I just—I’m trying, I swear, I’m trying—”

“I know,” you murmured into his shoulder.

Your voice wobbled, the sound a little frayed at the edges. Your breath warmed the damp patch on his shirt where your cheek was pressed. One of your hands shifted, fingers spreading wider between his shoulder blades like you were trying to cover more of him, to hold him together from the outside.

“I see you,” you went on, quieter. “I notice how hard you’re working. I see the way you are with Lois now. The way you check on me without hovering.” You swallowed; he felt the motion against his chest. “…I came here to say thank you.”

He stilled in your arms, and you somehow held him tighter, refusing to let him pull away.

“I’ve been wondering,” you said, words barely above a whisper now, “what you’d do. What you’d choose when you were scared and someone was begging you and the easiest option was right there.”

His throat closed. He couldn’t look at you yet, so he nodded against your hair, a jerky little movement that felt inadequate to the weight of what you were saying.

“You chose me,” you breathed.

The words went straight through him.

“Against your image,” you continued, each clause another hit. “Your reputation. Maybe even that couple’s future opinion of you. You chose to save me from bleeding for a stranger, even when it would’ve been the simpler narrative—for them, for LordTech, for the cameras. You did that, for me. When no one else did.”

His vision blurred, and for a second he thought he might actually fall to his knees. 

“You’re… thanking me,” he managed, voice cracking, “for getting you dragged on national television alongside me? For making it look like I let people almost die because I—because I overstepped your decision to help? For—”

“For stepping in when I couldn’t find my voice,” you cut in, gentle but firm enough to stop his spiral dead. For taking the hit that was going to be mine,” you went on. “For proving, to both of us, that the next time someone says, ‘I don’t care what it does to her,’ your answer is ‘I do.’”

His eyes stung. Tears spilled over before he could blink them back.

“I don’t want you to have to wait forever,” he confessed, the sentence tearing its way out of him. “I keep thinking you’re going to wake up one day and decide you’re done waiting around. That you’ll… you’ll realize I’m too slow, too broken, not worth the—”

You pulled back just enough to get a hand on his cheek, your thumb swiping away his tears.

“I’m not waiting for you to be perfect,” you told him. “I’m waiting for you to be honest. And today? You were. In front of everyone. You didn’t hide behind being Superman. You were just… Clark. Stubborn, caring, trying-his-best Clark, and....and that’s the man I fell in love with.”

The words were soft, but they slammed into him like ten semi-trucks.

His breath caught. He pulled back just enough to actually see you, his hands still framing your face like he needed visual proof you were the one who’d said it.

“What?” he blurted with disbelief and shock.

Your lips quirked, wet and wobbly. “Don’t make me say it twice, Clark,” you muttered. “It’s been a long day.”

A broken laugh punched its way out of him.  “You… you still— You can’t—”

“Yes, I can.” You didn’t let him wriggle out of it. “I told you months ago how I felt about you,” you reminded him, eyes holding his. Your hands slipped higher, cupping his jaw now, thumbs brushing away fresh tears as quickly as they gathered. “You’re not the only one who gets to be honest.”

He leaned into your touch without even trying to play it cool.

“I’m here to say thank you,” you repeated, voice steadier. “For choosing me. For… making me see the truth.”

He swallowed hard, brows pinching. “What truth?”

Something flickered across your face—pain, resolve, fear. Whatever it was, you kept it to yourself.

Instead, you dropped your gaze for a heartbeat, lashes lowering as you looked at his lips.

He watched you swalllow. Watched your fingers flex where they still held his jaw, like you were bracing yourself against him. Then you looked back up and rose onto your toes, closing that last bit of distance he’d been trying not to think about.

You leaned in.

Your nose brushed his, a soft, bump that made his breath stutter. Your hands slid a fraction higher, fingertips curving around his ears. Your lips hovered a whisper away from his, close enough that he could feel the shape of them without touching—close enough that your exhale ghosted over his mouth, shaky and warm.

Every nerve in his body screamed yes.

Every instinct, every second of missing you, every night he’d lain awake staring at the ceiling replaying your laugh, the way you said his name, the feel of your skin under his hands—all of it surged up at once, reaching for you like a tide.

You stopped.

It was tiny. A catch in your movement. A falter in your breath. That barely-there moment where your momentum died a half-inch short. Your fingers twitched away from his jaw. Your brows pinched a second.

Old Clark—the one who believed he could fix anything by doing more, giving more, being more—would’ve closed the distance. He would’ve swallowed that hesitation with his mouth, convinced that if he just kissed you hard enough, gentle enough, right enough, it would erase the doubt.

This Clark—this version who spent Tuesday evenings in a small office picking apart his reflexes, talking about consent, about safety, about not asking the people he loved to climb ladders they weren’t ready for—felt the drag in your body and forced himself to breathe.

“Sweetheart, you’re not ready yet,” he rasped.

Your eyes opened, surprised, a little guilty and a lot pained.

It hurt. Of course it did. It landed in the same place as every bruise he’d earned over the last few months. But it didn’t feel like a door slamming. He let out a careful breath, loosening his grip enough to give you space.

He offered the smallest, saddest smile. “It’s okay,” he added quickly, before you could pull away or trip over an apology. “You don’t have to be. Ready, I mean. I’m not… I’m not going to take a half-second of courage and turn it into a decision you’re stuck with.”

Your shoulders slumped, relief and frustration tangled together. “I’m sorry, Clark,” you whispered anyway. “So sorry. I keep—”

He shook his head, thumbs sweeping gently under your eyes, catching the damp there. “Don’t,” he urged. “Don’t say you’re sorry for taking the time you need to feel safe.”

You inhaled, shaky but deeper this time. “You’re… thank you. For looking out for me,” you said, like you weren’t entirely sure how that made you feel.

“I try,” he replied. It was all he could offer without overpromising. “I’m going to keep trying. Whether you ever call me anything more than your friend again or not. I’ll always be here for you.”

“You could never be just my friend,” you blurted, the word just practically a curse.

He blinked, thrown. “No?”

You huffed out a wet little laugh, like you couldn’t believe he needed that spelled out. “Have you met you?” you asked. “You’ve been my… everything since moving here, Clark. Friend and partner and pain in my ass and… and more. So much more. There’s no version of you where you’re just the guy I get coffee with.”

His heart climbed into his throat.

“Okay,” he managed. “Then… whatever I’m allowed to be, I’ll try to be the healthiest version of it I can.” He drew a breath. “I’ll be ready when you’re ready to tell me what the truth is. Or if you never are. I’m still going to keep doing the work. For me. Not as a… down payment on us.”

Your eyes shone, sniffling. “I'm really proud of you, you know that?” you murmured, tipping your head toward the direction of Dr. Foster’s office.

He smiled, tired and proud. “Gold star worthy?”

You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone again, like you couldn’t quite stop.“Definitely gold star,” you said, a watery laugh catching at the end.

There was a pause, a tiny pocket of quiet where it felt like the whole apartment was holding its breath with you.

“Can I…” You swallowed. “Can I stay? Tonight. Not to… do anything more. Just… be here. With you. I don’t want to be alone with my head, and I don’t want you to be alone with yours.”

He stared at you. Heat flared in his chest, immediately followed by a disciplined, careful calm. He thought of every boundary conversation, every warning about using intimacy as a bandage.

But you weren’t asking for escape. You were naming what you needed, clearly, quietly: company. Presence. A place to exist where your brain wouldn’t eat itself alive.

“Yeah,” he answered softly. “Of course. You can stay.”

You let out a breath you’d been holding.

He cleared his throat. “Do you… want to shower? Or borrow something dry?”

A faint, real smile tugged at your mouth. “I won’t say no to dry.”

He nodded, finally forcing his hands to leave your face. They slid down reluctantly, fingertips trailing over your jaw, your shoulders.

“I’ll grab you some clothes. You… still have some here,” he said, turning toward the bedroom. “Towels are under the sink. Shower knows you by now.”

“Shower and I go way back,” you agreed.

He walked to his bedroom, heart pounding, and pulled open the drawer where he’d tucked your abandoned clothes. Soft T-shirts. Leggings. Shorts with tiny lightning bolts. The sweater you’d “borrowed” once and never returned—he hesitated, then grabbed that and a pair of leggings.

On his nightstand, the folded scrap of paper with your half-finished sentence sat where he’d left it. He glanced at it, then shut the drawer a little harder than he meant to.

Later. That was a later problem.

.

You disappeared into the bathroom with a small, tired smile and a murmured, “Thanks, Clark.”

The door clicked shut. The faint rush of water followed a second later, pipes rattling in the walls.

He stood in the middle of the living room for a beat, hands empty, heart pounding. Part of him wanted to lean back against the door and slide down it like someone in a movie. Instead, he headed for the kitchen.

Busy hands were safer.

He filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and clicked the burner on. While it heated, he wiped nonexistent crumbs off the counter. Straightened the dish towel. Re-aligned the salt and pepper shakers. Anything that required motion and not thought.

His brain ignored that memo and replayed the way you’d almost kissed him anyway—the warmth of your breath on his mouth, the moment your body leaned in, the tiny hitch when you stopped. The way it had felt to say you weren’t ready and not have you flinch away.

He shook his head, reached for mugs.

Your crab mug for you, obviously. His chipped Metropolis U mug for himself. Muscle memory took over as he dropped teabags in each, squeezed honey into yours, sugar into his. The kettle whistled softly; he killed the flame and poured, watching the steam curl up into the quiet apartment.

By the time the bathroom door opened, the mugs were cooling on the coffee table.

You stepped out, hair damp and curling around your face, sleeves of his sweater hanging well past your wrists. The fabric swallowed you in a way that made something in his chest loosen by degrees he could almost feel.

You looked… at home.

There was water still beading on your collarbone, your bare feet leaving faint prints on the hardwood, his sweater hanging off one shoulder because that’s how you always wore it. It hit him with a jolt—this was a sight he’d convinced himself he didn’t get to see anymore.

More than he deserved. But here.

You padded over to the couch and let yourself flop down with a tired, ungraceful groan, like gravity had finally won.

He picked up your mug and followed, handing it over.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he warned automatically.

You snorted, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. “You say that like I don’t touch scalding things for a living,” you muttered. Even so, you blew on it before taking a sip.

He sat back down, his own mug in hand.

For a minute, neither of you spoke. The TV flickered in front of you, the news crawl scrolling past more shots of twisted metal and talking heads you ignored. You tilted your head after a few sips, eyes finding his over the rim of your mug. You studied him like you were checking for cracks.

“Do you know how they are?” you asked. “The couple.”

He sank into the cushion beside you, leaving a careful inch of space—a tiny strip of upholstery that felt like a canyon and a tightrope at once.

“Stable,” he said. “Last I heard from MetroGen. Surgery went well. They’re talking prognosis and physio now, not… not memorials. Doctors are optimistic, but cautious. It’s going to be a long road.”

Your shoulders dropped. A slow, visible uncoiling of a weight you were still carrying all evening.

“Oh,” you breathed. “There’s hope.”

He watched your face soften around the word.

“You don’t regret it?” he asked before he could talk himself out of it. “For what I did?”

You looked down into your cup. The steam fogged the lower half of your face, curled around your lashes, blurred you at the edges for a second.

He waited. His hand tightened a little around his own mug, porcelain creaking faintly.

“No,” you said finally. “I’m… grateful,” you went on. “And traumatized. And… seen. All at once. It’s a lot. Do you regret it?”

You kept your eyes on the tea as you spoke. He could hear the layers in that. Gratitude for him, anger at the situation, pain from everything that had come before tonight. It made sense. It still hurt.

He nodded, throat tight. “No,” he confessed. 

You leaned back against the couch, tipping your head so it rested on the cushion. Your eyes slid shut, mug still cradled in both hands against your chest.

“Wake me up if I start screaming,” you mumbled, exhaustion leaking into every word.

He huffed a soft laugh. “We’ll take turns,” he promised.

That tugged the corner of your mouth up, just a little. You didn’t open your eyes.

The TV’s low murmur turned into background noise, all harsh angles smoothed out by the volume drop. At some point he stopped tracking the footage and let the light wash over the room instead.

His head tipped back against the couch too. Your shoulder brushed his.

He could have moved. The safe thing—for his brain, for his heart—would’ve been to shift an inch away and keep that careful gap intact.

He didn’t.

A minute later, your fingers slid across the cushion. They brushed his where his hand rested, a light, tentative touch.

He didn’t know if it was deliberate or just gravity and fatigue. He also didn’t move his hand.

Your fingers stayed warm, real, and present against his. 

He let his eyes drift shut. His breathing slowed, matching the cadence of yours without him trying. Inhale when you did. Exhale when you did. A rhythm they’d fallen into so many times before, in so many rooms.

It felt dangerously, achingly like old times—the good parts, the quiet hours no one else saw. Two people on a couch at the end of the day, holding hands half by accident, refusing to say out loud how much they needed each other there.

You were both still bleeding, in your own ways, but you were also both still here.

In the same room. Breathing the same air. Letting yourselves lean, just a little, without asking what it meant.

Clark let that be enough for the night.

.

Clark woke to sunlight.

For one disorienting second, he thought he’d dreamed it—the knock, the hug, the way your voice had cracked on that’s the man I fell in love with.

Then he smelled coffee.

The couch was empty when he blinked fully awake, a blanket he didn’t remember fetching draped over his legs. The TV was off. The apartment was quiet in that early-morning, post-storm way.

You were in his kitchen.

You stood barefoot by the counter, hair pulled into a loose knot, still in last night’s clothes—his sweater, your leggings. Sunlight from the window caught the steam from your mug, turning it into a pale, twisting column. The mug itself was familiar: the crab one stamped WORLD’S MOST MEDIOCRE MORNING PERSON.

You hadn’t used it in months.

On the coffee table sat your old peacock plate. One piece of peanut-butter toast waited there, cut diagonally.

“Morning,” you called over, turning with an easy little half-smile, like this was any Wednesday. “I stole your peanut butter. And your bread. No regrets.”

His chest did something stupid and warm. “You’re forgiven,” he managed.

You crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside him, close enough that your knees brushed. You handed him half the toast. 

For a while, you just… existed. You sipped coffee; he chewed toast. The cheap local news station flickered silently on screen, but neither of you really watched. It was the kind of quiet you used to fall into without thinking—no pressure to fill it, no fear of what the other person was thinking if you didn’t talk for thirty seconds.

He didn’t push. Didn’t reach for labels or promises. He just watched the way the light hit your face in his apartment again, the way your shoulder leaned into his like muscle memory that hadn’t quite learned it was supposed to stop.

Eventually, you drained your mug and set it down with a soft clink.

“I should go soon,” you said, drawing the words out, reluctance threaded through every word. “I have a… thing.”

The hesitation around “thing” snagged at him. He tamped down the instinct to ask, to pry.

“Yeah, okay,” he replied instead.

You rose and disappeared into his bedroom to change, door left half-open the way you always used to, like you trusted him not to look and trusted him enough that it wouldn’t matter if he did.

He busied himself with the coffee maker again, pretending his first cup hadn’t been fine. The drip and hiss of it filled the space where his thoughts wanted to spiral.

When you came back out, you were in the clothes you came in with. His sweater was folded over one arm, your fingers curled around it like you weren’t ready to let go of all of it at once. He followed you to the door, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his sweats, because if he didn’t give them something to do, they’d reach for you. And if they reached for you, you might stay for the wrong reasons—or feel like you had to go for the same ones.

You slipped your shoes on, tugged your coat tighter, then turned.

“Clark,” you said.

His name in your mouth like that—quiet, full—made his heart stumble. 

“Yeah,” he answered, voice coming out softer than he meant.

“I…” You started, stopped. Your gaze dipped to his mouth, then climbed back up. “I’m… I need to tell you that I—”

“I’m…” You blew out a small breath, some other sentence dying on your tongue. “I’m so grateful,” you finished, for what felt like the hundredth time—but this one landed deeper. “For last night. For… everything.”

He shook his head. “No. Thank you,” he countered. “For coming over. For… letting me be there with you. For being here with me, too.”

For a heartbeat, you looked like you might say something else—something big and heavy and irreversible. Instead, you stepped in and pressed your forehead to his chest, right over his heart.

He closed his eyes, resting his chin lightly on your crown, and let himself have that, just that.

“I’m here if you need anything,” he murmured when he could trust his voice, easing back enough to look at you.

You nodded against him, squeezing once more before you let go. Then you opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

"Hey!” he called before you got too far. "I'll see you Monday?"

You tured and stared past him for a beat, eyes unfocused, like you were looking at something far away. Then you nodded. “Yeah,” you answered. “I’ll see you around, Clark.”

Around landed… oddly.

He searched your face, brows knitting. “Okay,” he nodded with a small smile when you smiled at him first. “I’d like that.”

You held his gaze another second, then turned and walked down the hall, the soft pad of your footsteps fading toward the elevator.

The apartment felt bigger when the door clicked shut behind you. Emptier, but not in the old, hollow way. More like a space waiting for an answer he hadn't heard yet.

He stood there for a second, hand still resting on the knob, listening to the quiet. Then he exhaled, turned, and drifted back toward his bedroom to get properly dressed.

The dresser drawer stuck when he pulled it. He frowned, jiggled it, then yanked it open. His T-shirts sat where they always did. So did his sweats, his running shorts, the sweater you’d “borrowed” and never really returned.

His nightstand, though, was different.

The folded scrap of paper wasn’t on it anymore.

He blinked, startled, then spotted it—no longer tucked half under a book, no longer easy to ignore.

It lay on top of Little Women, smack in the center of the cover like a deliberate bookmark.

He picked it up carefully, smoothing the crease with his thumb. Blue eyes scanned the familiar scrawl.

When I’m with Clark I feel…

Still blank after the words. Still no answer he could hold up to the light.

But it had moved.

You’d seen it. Touched it. Chosen not to shove it in a drawer or crumple it into the trash. You’d placed it somewhere visible, on top of something you only reached for when you needed comfort.

Clark stood there in the thin, bright light of morning, the city just starting to stir outside, and let himself hope—not wildly, not recklessly, but quietly, all the way to the bottom—that someday, when you were ready, you’d pick up a pen and finish the sentence.

Until then, he folded the paper back along its creases, set it gently on the book where you’d left it, and went to make himself another piece of toast.

It was going to be a long weekend. He could at least start it the way he had this one—with peanut butter, sunlight, and the memory of your shoulder pressed against his, a reminder that whatever “around” meant, it wasn’t nothing.

.

Monday started absurdly bright.

Clark woke before his alarm, sunlight spilling across the bedroom floor like the city hadn’t watched him fight with his own team in the street forty-eight hours ago. The slip of paper was still on top of Little Women where you’d left it. He brushed his fingertips over it once Sunday evening and left it there.

Shower. Slacks. Glasses. Tie that mostly cooperated. Coffee in his chipped Metropolis U mug. For a few minutes, it almost felt like the universe had shifted an inch in the right direction. He buttoned his dress shirt, caught his own stupid, hopeful smile at the thought of you in the mirror, and rolled his eyes at himself.

“Calm down,” he muttered. “It’s Monday. It’s just work.”

Still, he walked to the Planet a little faster than usual.

The bullpen was already buzzing when he stepped out of the elevator. Clark’s gaze went straight to your desk, hoping to see you, to walk by and say good morning.

Your plant was gone.

The pale blue pot that had become his unofficial mood ring—the leaves he checked whenever he needed to reassure himself that some things were quietly thriving—wasn’t there. No pot, no plant, no little painted smiley stone.

Your desk was… neat. Neater than usual. Stacked pens, closed laptop, a small pile of sticky notes lined up like they’d been considered and culled.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair. A mechanical pencil stuck behind your monitor.

Not cleared out, but not lived-in, either.

Clark stopped dead in the middle of the bullpen, traffic flowing around him.

Across the room, Jimmy lobbed a rubber band at Steve’s head. Lois rifled through a stack of printed pages. Cat was mid-story at someone’s desk, hands slicing through the air.

No one else seemed to notice the glaring absence where your plant should’ve been.

He made himself move. Two steps toward your desk, heart thudding, then—

“Kent! Lane! Olsen! Everybody with a pulse and a paycheck!”

Perry’s voice boomed across the room.

The bullpen quieted in that specific, wary way that meant the Editor-in-Chief was about to deliver news, either good or terrifying.

Clark tore his eyes away from your empty corner and joined the loose circle forming around Perry’s office door. Jimmy materialized at his side, coffee in hand, eyes bright with curiosity. Lois slipped in on the other, arms folded.

Perry stepped out, glasses low on his nose, paper in hand. His jaw looked tighter than usual.

“First order of business,” he barked. “We’re not the only circus in town today, but we are the only one I care about, so listen up.”

A ripple of dry chuckles moved through the crowd.

Clark’s gaze snagged past Perry’s shoulder to your desk again. The missing plant felt like a missing tooth. He forced his eyes back.

“As of this morning,” Perry went on, “we are short one copy editor on the day shift.”

Clark’s throat cinched. His eyes jerked back to your desk, then to Jimmy.

Jimmy was already looking at him, expression shocked and confused. He gave a helpless shrug. She never said anything to me. I got nothing!

Perry continued. “She has taken a leave of absence, effective immediately. She’ll be off the schedule for the foreseeable future.”

The bullpen shifted, chairs creaking, low murmurs starting up. Someone swore under their breath near Metro.

Lois’s head snapped toward Clark. “Clark,” she murmured, his name a soft warning.

He barely heard her.

Leave of absence. The phrase echoed, too close to that awful Monday after the gala—Perry offering you time, breathing room, and you shaking your head, insisting you were fine, you could work, you needed to work. That was months ago.

Perry kept rolling. “In the meantime, anything that would normally go across her desk gets routed to backup staff. That means if she usually proofed you, you triple-check your own work and then send it to Morales or Avery. We will not let standards slide just because we are down one hawk-eyed heartbreaker of dangling modifiers.”

A strained ripple of laughter went around the circle.

Clark’s heart was pounding loud enough he was half-surprised no one commented.

Leave of absence. After staying over. After that’s the man I love. After toast and coffee and your paper on the book.

He looked at Jimmy again. He was openly worried. He shook his head once, small and sharp. No heads-up. No late-night text. Nothing.

Perry moved on to assignments—op-eds about the tram disaster response, LordTech comment-chasing—but Clark’s brain had stopped translating words.

When Perry finally landed on, “Kent, Lois, you’re on the ethics angle of the superhero dogfight. I want clean, I want fair, and I don’t want any anonymous source crap. We clear?” Clark just nodded on autopilot, not caring what he was being asked to do.

“Good,” Perry concluded. “Back to work, people. This paper doesn’t put itself out.”

The circle dissolved. Clark didn’t.

“Clark,” Lois tried again, closer now. Her brows pinched together, her mouth soft in a way it rarely was. “Hey. Look at me.”

He forced his eyes to hers.

“You didn’t know?” she observed.

He swallowed. “Did you? Jimmy didn’t.”

She shook her head. “No. I knew she was… weighing some stuff. But this?” She flicked a glance toward your desk. “This is new.”

His stomach twisted. He set his jaw, turned on his heel, and headed straight for Perry’s office. He rapped on the glass harder than he meant to.

“Come,” Perry called.

Clark pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Perry didn’t look up right away. He finished scribbling something on a legal pad, underlined it twice, then capped his pen with unnecessary care.

“Whatever you’re about to ask me,” he remarked finally, “the answer might be ‘none of your business.’ So choose your words.”

“Where is she?” Clark blurted as professional and neutral as he could.

Great, Kent. So much for choosing.

Perry’s eyes lifted, pinning him. There were a thousand things in that look—annoyance, concern, the bone-deep tired of a man who’d shepherded too many young lives through too many disasters.

“She’s on leave,” Perry replied evenly. “You heard me tell the room.”

“I know,” Clark forced out, hearing the edge in his own voice and sanding it down. “I mean— Is she with family? Out of the city? Is she—” He stalled on the word safe and veered. “Is she coming back?”

Perry exhaled through his nose. “From what I understand? She’s as okay as anyone can be after… all this. And yes, the door’s open. How long she stays on the other side of it is up to her.”

Clark’s jaw flexed.

“She… decided this when?” he pressed, voice thin. “Out of nowhere?”

Perry snorted. “Nothing like this is out of nowhere. I offered her time months ago, remember? Monday after the gala. She finally took me up on it. That’s all.”

It didn’t feel like all. It felt like the floor shifting under his feet.

“Did she… give a reason?” he pushed, hating himself a little for it.

“She said she’s got things to deal with,” Perry replied. “Life, health, the usual reasons people step back. She didn’t owe me details, and I didn’t ask.” His brows knitted. “Does she owe you details?”

The question landed harder than any of the others.

Clark opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I…” He swallowed. “I just… I want to make sure she’s…alright.”

Perry let out a long, tired breath and leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving Clark’s face.

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “You running in here right now—is this about making sure she’s alright? Or making sure you are? Because those aren’t the same thing.”

Heat crawled up Clark’s neck. He sounded like Dr. Foster.

He thought of waking up with you in his sweater on his couch, of the paper on your book. Of the plant missing from your desk. His thoughts started to loop, ugly and fast.

She regretted it. She freaked out. She ran. You pushed too much. You scared her off. 

His pulse kicked. His palms went damp.

“Both,” he admitted quietly. “I’m… worried about both.”

Perry’s expression softened a fraction. “She needs time,” he replied. “She asked for it. You hunting for a forwarding address so you can swoop in and ‘fix’ whatever she’s working through?” He shook his head.

Clark flinched like the word had teeth.

“I’m not saying don’t care,” Perry added, voice gentling. “I’m saying sometimes caring looks like sitting on your hands and trusting the other person to know what they need. You got that in you, Kent?”

Clark wanted to say yes. His brain supplied a list of arguments instead.

What if she regrets it and thinks she can’t come back? What if she’s hurt and no one knows? What if this is her way of pulling away for good and you just stood here and watched it happen?

Perry must’ve seen some of that panic on his face, because his mouth flattened.

“Look,” he went on. “I like you, Kent. I like her. I’ve watched you two orbit each other for months. You don’t have to tell me this isn’t easy.” He tapped his pen against the desk. “But—if she wanted you in the loop, you’d be in the loop. You following?”

The words stung. But they didn’t feel wrong.

Clark stared at the edge of the desk, jaw clenched, waiting for the freefall in his chest to stop.

It didn’t. But it slowed enough he could breathe around it.

“Yeah,” he managed finally. “Yeah. I… get it.”

Perry studied him another beat, then nodded once. “Good. Now either go write the piece I assigned you, or take a walk around the block and pull yourself together. I don’t particularly care which happens first. But I do care that you’re not useless to me the rest of the day.”

A humorless puff of air escaped Clark. “Yes, sir.”

Perry jerked his chin toward the door. “Out.”

Clark obeyed.

He didn’t go straight back to his desk. The bullpen felt too loud, too bright, too full of the potential for someone to ask are you okay? and crack the thin layer he’d just poured over the panic.

He veered into the stairwell instead. The heavy door swung shut behind him with a thud.

The echo swallowed the newsroom noise. In the concrete quiet, his heartbeat sounded huge.

He wrapped his fingers around the railing, knuckles whitening, and let the spiral have a minute.

She left because of you. She finally looked deeper into the news, the fight, saw a preview of a life where you’re always a problem. She panicked. She grabbed the plant, the only living thing you ever gave her, and got out.

She regretted saying she still loved me this deep into her healing. She regretted staying. She moved the paper so you’d see it and read into it, and then she left so you’d know better than to hope.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

The thoughts kept coming. Familiar grooves. Easy ruts to slide into.

You’re too much. Too loud. Too dangerous. Too dramatic. If you’d just been smarter, better, she wouldn’t need time off from her own life just to recover from you.

His chest tightened. He realized he was holding his breath, shoulders locked.

Stop.

It wasn’t a gentle word. It was a hard one, hurled like a rock into the middle of the whirlpool.

He forced himself to inhale.

In. Two. Three. Four.

Hold.

Out. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Again.

The railing dug into his palm. The concrete under his feet stayed solid and unmoving. Somewhere above him, a door opened and shut on another floor. Life went on.

He thought about last night. About you on his couch, saying he could never just be your friend. About you asking to stay, not for sex or distraction, but because you didn’t want either of you alone with your thoughts.

About the way you’d said ‘that’s the man I fell in love with’ like it had been waiting at the back of your throat for months.

You’d known about the leave when you’d walked out his door this morning. You hadn’t been sleepwalking through your own choices.

You’d still put the paper on the book. You’d still stolen his toast. You’d still given him that small, tired smile.

Could something have shifted between there and here? Yeah. It could. Life was mean like that.

But was it really fair—was it really respectful—to assume the worst? To decide your choice to step back was secretly about him, about regretting him?

He let out a rough breath.

“Trust her,” he muttered to the echoing stairwell. “You promised you’d trust her.”

Trust you to know what you needed. Trust that if he’d hurt you, you’d tell him when you were ready. Trust that your world did not orbit his schedule, his comfort.

He opened his eyes, staring at the scuffed metal of the steps.

He couldn’t make the fear vanish. The tight, sour worry that you were slipping through his fingers again sat heavy in his gut.

But he could decide what he did with it.

He could let it shove him into old habits—chasing, hovering, demanding reassurance—or he could carry it and walk back into the bullpen and write his damn story.

He unclenched one fist, then the other.

“Okay,” he breathed, to no one and to you and to himself. “Okay.”

He pushed off the rail, squared his shoulders, and shoved the stairwell door open.

The newsroom noise washed over him again—keys clacking, phones ringing, Steve loudly accusing someone of stealing his lunch. Conversations rose and fell, threaded with the ever-present hum of deadlines.

Clark walked back to his desk. Lois glanced up, concern flickering across her face; Jimmy half-rose from his chair like he was going to intercept him. Clark lifted a hand in a tiny, reassuring not-now gesture and kept moving.

He dropped into his chair. Your empty desk tugged at his vision like gravity. He let himself look once. Let the ache punch through his ribs, sharp and clean. Then he dragged his gaze back to his keyboard.

He pulled his notebook out of the drawer, flipped to a clean page, and wrote the date at the top. Under it, in neat block letters:

Moments I chose differently (for me)

He tapped the pen against the margin, chest tight.

He wanted to write: She took the time off she needed. I’m scared, but I’m not turning that into her problem.

His fingers trembled. The words felt too big, too generous to himself. He didn’t quite believe them yet.

Instead, he wrote:

I didn’t go after her.

I’m scared. I’m still letting her go.

He stared at the lines for a long moment, then underlined her twice.

It wasn’t the sentence he wished he could write. But it was true, for now.

He set the pen down, exhaled slowly, and turned back to his article. The cursor blinked in the empty document, patient, indifferent.

Clark flexed his hands once over the keys.

Then he started to type.

.

Clark got through the day on autopilot until five o’clock: he wrote the first half of the ethics piece with Lois, sat through one meeting with Perry, pretended not to stare holes at your empty desk every time he looked up from his screen.

He filed his draft. He shut down his computer. He told Jimmy and Lois he’d see them tomorrow.

Then he walked out of the Planet, turned down an alley, and headed for the Hall of Justice with a sonic boom.

He told himself he was going to apologize to Guy. That was the line he repeated as the city blurred under him, as he clipped the tops of buildings and rode a current of cold air toward the bay.

It wasn’t entirely a lie. He meant to apologize. He’d dragged a private argument into a public circus, and no matter how right he felt about you, he knew he’d screwed up the way he did it.

But under that sat the real reason, heavy and undeniable.

If you weren’t at the Planet, maybe you were here. If they’d sent you on assignment, maybe one of them would say so, mention where. If you were working, if you were in a med bay teasing Rex or sharing snacks with Kendra, if you were anywhere in this building, he’d know. He’d feel some knot unclench.

He told himself all of that as the Hall came into view. He’d flown toward it a thousand times, each one with a different kind of urgency in his chest.

This time it felt like walking into the principal’s office and a hospital waiting room at once.

He dropped speed as he approached, landing on the main terrace with a gust that rattled the flagpole. The huge doors slid open before he could knock.

Inside, it was quieter than usual. No alarms, no frantic techs sprinting between consoles. Just the low hum of machinery and the murmur of distant voices.

He followed the sound to the main operations deck.

Guy was there, boots up on a console, chair tipped back precariously. His ring glowed faintly on his hand, cycling through constructs like it needed something to do—sword, shield, random giant cartoon fist that punched nothing but air.

Rex was at a side station, browsing something on a holo-screen and trying very hard to look like he wasn’t doomscrolling. Kendra perched on a railing, filing her nails. Michael stood at the central table.

All heads turned as Clark’s boots hit the deck.

Guy’s chair thunked back onto all fours. “Well,” he drawled. “If it isn’t Mr. Prime Time.”

Clark winced with a wave. “Hey, Guy.”

Michael lifted a hand, forestalling the next comment he could see forming on Guy’s tongue. “We’re just about done with the weekend’s media fire,” he said. “Please tell me you didn’t come to give us a new routine with this knucklehead.”

“No, no,” Clark’s eyes widened quickly. “I came to apologize.”

Guy snorted. “Which part? The ‘no, my girlfriend’s not a tool in your utility belt’ part or the ‘I’m God damn Superman, I know best’ part?”

Kendra threw a crumpled ball of paper, “Guy, shut up.”

“You know I didn’t say any of that,” Clark scoffed, hands on his hips. “I was in the wrong. I shouldn’t have shouted at you in the middle of a rescue. Or let it get personal. That’s on me.”

Guy opened his mouth, probably to argue, then seemed to think better of it. He grimaced and scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing his jaw.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “We’ve all had a week.”

Clark glanced between them. “So… we’re… okay?”

Guy’s jaw worked. “I still think you’re wrong,” he said. “On the ground, in that moment? I’d make the same call every time. But…”

He flicked a look toward Michael, then Kendra. Something bristly in him deflated just a little.

“…I get that I didn’t know the whole story,” Guy finished. “So I’m gonna stop acting like I did.”

Clark blinked. “The whole story of… what?”

Silence stretched for a beat. Rex shifted his weight. The holo-screen in front of him flicked off with a soft chime. Kendra inspected her nails, eyes sliding away.

Guy stared at him, impatience flaring again. “Great,” he grumbled. “He doesn’t know?”

“Know what?” Clark asked, a cold knot forming in his gut. “Did something happen?”

Guy blew out a breath, and said your name carefully. “She quit.”

The words landed like the floor had dropped out from under him.

Clark’s throat went dry. “What? When?”

Michael stepped in before Guy could say anything sharper.

“Night of the incident,” he started calmly, “we debriefed that evening. Standard procedure. Considered calling you in, but…that couple. We also had… a conversation we should’ve had months ago.”

Clark looked from one of them to the other. “About…?”

“Her powers,” Kendra answered quietly.

Clark’s pulse kicked. He almost swore. 

Michael folded his arms, expression unreadable. “She sat us down in the med bay,” he started. “Told us what you already knew apparently?”

“Wound transference?” Clark murmured.

Michael nodded once. “Not just ‘accelerated healing.’ Not ‘mystery magic.’ Transfer. Take from one, give to another. Cost attached. She laid out the mechanics. Limits. What happens when she overextends. Long-term risks.”

He spoke clinically, like reading off lab results, but there was an edge under it.

Rex cleared his throat. “She, uh…” He looked down at his hands like they’d done something wrong. “She demonstrated.”

Clark’s stomach lurched. “Demonstrated how?”

Rex hesitated, then tugged his sleeve up just enough to show a faint, thin scar along his forearm. 

“She asked me to nick myself,” he said. “Just a little. Paper cut stuff. Would’ve been healed in an hour anyway, me being me.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “She stood there and told us to watch. She… took it.”

Clark’s mouth went dry. “Rex—”

“It was nothing,” Rex said quickly. “To me. A slice. But when she did it? It was like someone had shoved the knife straight into her arm. Timing was off, pain response was all… wrong.” He shook his head.

Clark stood there, wide-eyed. That…that didn’t sound right. Usually the wound, the injury, the pain would be replicated. This sounded far exaggerated. 

“She’d been doing it in the field, sure, but never laid it out like… that. Not with scales and charts and her own body as the visual aid.”

Kendra’s jaw was tight. “She pulled up pictures,” she said. “Scans. Old injuries. Told us what she’d taken and when. Some of those were from before we even met her, and a lot were during. Not sure how she was able to get these all recorded under Michael’s watch.”

“Regardless, we acted without understanding the cumulative effect,” Michael added. “Because we didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell.”

Clark swallowed, throat thick with anxiety. 

“First healer we get and we knew just enough to get excited and not enough to be responsible,” Michael continued bluntly. “LordTech . They did not, as far as I can tell, run a full moral hazard assessment on ‘pain alchemist with no off switch.’”

Guy shifted, guilt flashing across his face and vanishing under defensiveness. “We saw her patch people up and walk away,” he said. “I figured… yeah, it took energy, but she could handle it. She did handle it. Every time. Until Friday night when I realized I’d been treating her like a walking med pack with nice bedside manner.”

“Guy,” Kendra sighed, but it was all sympathy.

Clark stared at them. “So you… You disciplined her? Punished her for not giving you a full PowerPoint the first day?”

“No,” Michael said. “We told her we needed to re-evaluate field use. That until we understood what repeated high-load transfers actually do to her, she’d have to be benched from live crises. No more on-the-spot demands from panicking Lanterns with savior complexes.”

Guy flinched like the words had teeth. “Okay, ow,” he muttered.

“We also had to loop in LordTech,” Michael went on. “Liability. Ethics. All the fun parts. They’d want to review. There was a strong chance she’d be temporarily suspended from the initiative while they did because she also withheld the truth.”

Clark’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Suspended,” he repeated.

Kendra met his eyes. “She… didn’t wait to find out.”

There it was. The rug, fully yanked.

“She listened to us,” Kendra said. “Quiet, all the way through. No jokes. No deflection. Asked a couple questions. Then she said, ‘Okay. If those are the conditions, I’m out, I’m done.’”

Rex nodded, jaw tight. “Signed the exit papers before we could blink.”

“She said she never wanted anyone in this position of choosing between civilian lives and her body again,” Michael said. “Said she’d lived enough years with other people making that choice for her. She wasn’t going to keep pretending it didn’t cost her anything just because it made the rest of us feel better.”

It was like being slammed back into that tram wreck. Except this time, he could see the entire collapse unfolding in slow motion.

Your question at the coffee shop: How would you feel if I wasn’t a hero anymore?

The ethics story flashed again—perfect city, one suffering child, doors at the edge of town. What if she’s the one who gets to walk away?

Your face in the street, covered up, shaking under the scarf. Your voice in his apartment: Thank you for choosing me. For making me see the truth.

He’d thought you meant something abstract. The truth about his patterns. About how he’d treated you. He hadn’t realized you meant this concrete, this immediate.

“How long ago?” he asked, barely recognizing his own voice. “When exactly did she… quit?”

Kendra answered. “That night. Just before midnight.”

Clark swayed, just a fraction. Before midnight. You’d quit the team, walked away from the place that brought you to Metropolis, walked away from your teammates, and then come to his apartment before midnight. Sat on his couch. Asked to stay. Slept in his sweater. 

You already walked out of one life before you walked through his door.

Michael’s eyes were on him, sharp and assessing. “So you didn’t know anything at all?”

I’m here to say thank you, you’d told him.

He’d thought you meant thank you for the choice in the street. With dawning horror, maybe you also meant thank you for forcing me to look at what this is doing to me. Maybe thank you for making me admit the truth to them and to myself. Maybe thank you, and please don’t try to talk me out of it.

The thoughts left him breathless.

He shook his head, numb. “She… there was an incident months ago. She pushed herself beyond her limit and I found out the truth. I…asked if she told you—when she told you—I’d be there. I’ve crossed so many boundaries with her. I coudn’t—”

“We understand, Clark,” Kendra murmured, “Not your story to tell, right? I told her we could fight LordTech. Argue for accommodations. Change what we asked of her. She said she didn’t want to fight for a seat at a table that kept demanding her blood as a cover charge.”

Guy’s jaw twitched. “She told me,” he muttered, “that I made it too easy for myself to call her in instead of calling an ambulance. That I liked having a living redo button.” He stared at the floor. “She wasn’t wrong.”

He blew out a breath. “So,” he said gruffly. “You wanna be mad at me for how I treated her? Get in line. Just don’t put yourself at the front of it like you’re the only one who screwed up.”

Clark barely heard him.

“She’s really done?” Clark asked, because some dumb hopeful part of him wanted someone to say no, just a hiatus. “Just like that?”

Michael exhaled. “She resigned from LordTech. She’s off the Justice Gang roster. What she does with the rest of it—that’s her call.”

Guy shifted his weight, ring dimming. “For what it’s worth,” he muttered, “I told LordTech if they try to spin this like she did something wrong, I’m shoving their PR department into orbit, Red Lantern territory.”

Kendra nodded. “We’re not letting them hang this on her,” she said. “We pushed. We benefited. We’re the ones who should’ve asked more questions.”

Clark heard that. He appreciated it. He filed it away. 

But the part of him that was still just a man who loved you, not a cape or a symbol, was already somewhere else.

Your desk at the Planet, empty of your plant with the smiley-faced rock.

You’d quit the Gang. You’d taken a leave from the Planet. Piece by piece, you were stepping away from the life that had been slowly bleeding you out in public. You’d done it before coming to him. Before reminding him that you loved him. Before sleeping beside him. You were making choices that had nothing to do with him, even if they rearranged his entire world.

Clark’s hands trembled at his sides. He muttered something that might have been thanks, or an apology, or both, and turned.

“Clark,” Michael called after him. “Wait. Don’t—”

He didn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence. He was already moving, already punching through the air.

Because you hadn’t waited for anyone’s permission either. You’d just decided you weren’t going to be the child in the basement anymore.

.

Clark told himself he was not backsliding.

He repeated it like a mantra as he cut across the city: You’re not backsliding. You’re not that man anymore. You’re not going to circle the whole skyline like a rabid dog.

He wasn’t flying around scanning every inch of Metropolis for a glimpse of you. He wasn’t hovering outside Dr. Foster’s building, counting the minutes between appointments just to see if your shadow crossed the frosted glass. He wasn’t loitering above the sidewalk where you sometimes “coincidentally” lingered on Tuesdays, or stalling over the coffee shop roof to check if your favorite window seat was taken.

He aimed himself in a straight line toward one place.

The place you always went back to when the world got too loud. The one fixed point in the messy orbit of your life. The apartment where you might be packing, or sleeping, or lying on your back staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’d just set everything on fire and walked away from the blaze.

He flew faster than he meant to, cape snapping, jaw clenched.

Don’t kick down the door, he ordered himself. Don’t x-ray the walls. Don’t tear through her privacy just because you’re scared.

He landed in the alley instead of the fire escape, letting the chill of the dusk air bite his skin.

From there, he changed and walked.

By the time he stepped into your building, Superman was gone. Just Clark again—shirt slightly rumpled from a too-fast change, tie loosened, satchel strap biting into his shoulder.

He took the stairs, not the elevator.

Up the stairwell, dress shoes whispering over concrete, his bag bumping rhythmically against his thigh. Past Mrs. Gonzales’s door, where someone had taped up a new recipe clipping—empanadas, in curling black print. Past the apartment with the always-barking dog which—for once—was silent, no claws scrabbling at the other side of the door, no high-pitched yapping announcing stranger, stranger.

The whole floor felt wrong. Too still.

He stopped in front of your door.

It looked exactly the same as it had the night you’d broken up with him. The night he’d walked away because you’d asked him to, and then come back and pressed his head against this same patch of wood listening to you try not to sob too loud.

Same number screwed slightly crooked into the frame. Same offset peephole you’d refused to let the landlord “fix” because you said it gave the place character. Same faint scuff at the bottom, where his shoe had hit when he’d misjudged his speed getting you inside after the hospital—too impatient, too worried, too much.

His fingers twitched, remembering the way they’d dug into the doorjamb that other night, knuckles white, holding himself in place instead of ripping the door off its hinges.

Then, there had been sound.

Your muffled crying, trying to be quiet and failing. A choked little curse when you’d dropped something in the kitchen. The gurgle of the tap as you’d run water and splashed your face, like that could erase how he’d made you feel.

He’d stood here and listened, every ragged noise cutting straight through him.

Now, there was nothing.

No stifled sobbing. No music bleeding under the crack—no playlist, no comfort movie. No muttered where’s my phone as you checked the same three places you always did. No soft thump of your feet crossing the floor, no clink of a mug being set down too hard.

He lifted a hand, hovering inches from the door, then curled it into a fist and knocked.

Three solid raps.

“Hey,” he called, pitching his voice low so it wouldn’t bounce down the hallway. “It’s me. Clark.”

The sound faded. Nothing answered. No sudden scrape of chair legs. No startled coming! through the door. Not even the tiny shift of weight he knew you made when you moved barefoot across the boards.

He swallowed, knocked again.

“I heard about… the Gang,” he tried, words snagging on his tongue. “And the Planet. I—I’m not here to yell. Or… fix anything. Or question you. Okay, well—maybe one question.” His breath left him in a weak, humorless huff. “I just… wanted to know you’re okay.”

The sentence hung there, thin and ridiculous, in the quiet hallway.

He leaned in, palm flattening against the cool wood, fingers spreading, as if he could feel your pulse through it if he just tried hard enough. He let his forehead tip forward until it touched beside his hand, the pressure grounding and a little painful.

He knew he shouldn’t.

You don’t get to barge into every silence, he told himself. You asked her to wait. You begged her to trust you. You don’t get to rip the walls down every time you’re scared.

But old reflexes were wired deep, deeper even than his bones.

His hearing stretched before he could haul it back, reflexive and hungry. It slipped under the door, seeped through plaster and studs, searching for you.

Footsteps on hardwood. The rustle of blankets. The hiss of the shower. The soft, steady, familiar thump of your heartbeat.

Nothing. No TV murmuring in the background. No click of a light switch, no scrape of a drawer. No quick, guilty inhale from someone standing on the other side of the door, holding their breath and willing him to go away.

Just the distant hum of plumbing in the walls—a neighbor running a bath. The faint, muffled jazz somebody two floors up thought the whole building needed to hear. The elevator cables whining as the car dragged itself between floors.

You were either not home… or you were there and had managed to shut everything down, even the parts of yourself his senses knew by heart.

Both options made his stomach twist.

He yanked his hearing back like he’d touched a hot pan.

Using his powers on your space without permission was a line. Always had been. He’d already let fear drag one toe over it; he was not going to stomp across and smash whatever fragile trust you’d put back in his hands.

“Okay,” he murmured, more exhale than word, and let his hand fall away from the door.

He stepped back a pace, shoulders squaring, and raised his voice just enough to carry through the wood without broadcasting it to the whole floor.

“You… asked me once how I’d feel if you weren’t a hero anymore,” he said, the memory sharp now—your face across the coffee shop table, your fingers worrying at your cup. “I never got to finish answering.”

His throat tightened. He forced the rest out.

“I’d feel scared,” he admitted, the word raw. “But only if you were. I’d feel relieved, because it’d mean you weren’t… bleeding for everyone all the time.” His mouth twisted. “And… most of all, I’d be proud. So proud of you for choosing yourself. Maybe a little selfish, too, because I still want you in my life in any way you’ll have me. Hero, friend, colleague who gets to mark up my drafts in red pen.”

His voice shook on the last bit. He ducked his head, blinking hard.

Somewhere deeper in the building, a pipe thumped as someone turned off a tap. A door slammed on another floor. A kid laughed, the sound echoing faintly up the stairwell. Distant sirens wailed somewhere out in the city, Dopplering away. The world kept going.

He let the quiet sit between him and the door until it stopped feeling like a test he was failing.

“I’m here for you,” he whispered last. “When you’re… ready. For whatever you want me to be.”

The words were simple. They felt like ripping a piece of himself out and leaving it on the welcome mat.

“I’ll see you around?” he added, voice catching on the question you’d started asking him repeatedly, starting at the hallway outside Dr. Foster’s office.

He could almost hear your echo from that day, the way you’d looked back over your shoulder and given him that small, brave smile.

So he answered himself, because there was no one else to do it.

“I’d…I’d like that,” he whispered with a broken exhale.

The door stayed dark and quiet. The hallway light above him flickered once, buzzing, then steadied again. Someone down below yelled at their TV. A dog barked twice and went silent.

He stared at the number on your door until the brass blurred.

Then he turned. One step away felt like treason. Two felt like freefall. By the third, his legs were moving on their own, muscle memory dragging him toward the stairwell even while everything in his chest clawed backward.

At the end of the hallway, he stopped.

He braced one hand against the wall, fingers splayed over chipped paint, and listened one more time—not focusing, not narrowing in, just… hoping. If there was a heartbeat on the other side of that door, it stayed hidden in the building’s bigger pulse.

He drew in a sharp breath that hurt all the way down, lungs protesting, and let it out slow.

Dr. Foster’s voice slid in at the edges of his thoughts anyway, uninvited: You’re not the child in the basement, Clark. You’re one of the people upstairs, deciding what kind of city you live in.

For a long time, he’d heard that and seen you down there instead—alone in the dark, hurting so everyone else could be happy. A miracle in a locked room. A cost no one wanted to look at.

Friday night, under the torrent of rain, he’d refused to send you back down those stairs.

Now the door in front of him was closed, and the awful, twisting truth was that he didn’t know where you’d gone.

Had you walked out of Omelas altogether—out of the Gang, out of LordTech, out of the life that kept demanding pieces of you? Were you somewhere he couldn’t picture, some place that didn’t need a medic in the basement at all?

Or were you just deeper in the city, somewhere he couldn’t hear, trying to catch your breath and decide whether to stay?

He had no right to that answer. Not yet.

He squared his shoulders, closed his fingers around the stairwell handle, and opened it. He took the stairs down, one careful step at a time, feeling every inch of distance stretch between your hallway and the night outside.

This, he told himself as he descended—this strange, hollow not-knowing—was what trusting you looked like now: not storming into the basement to drag you out, not hammering on the city’s doors until you came back, but walking away from the threshold and letting you decide which way to go, praying that wherever you’d chosen, it was somewhere safer than the place he’d found you last.

.

Chapter 1: The Life Line

In a city of heroes, some sacrifices are invisible. You can heal anything—but at a cost no one suspects. When a gala turns deadly, you must decide how far you’ll go to save the people you love, even when it breaks your heart. Clark thought he knew you. He was wrong. You tried again, breath shaking. “Clark. I'm serious. I’ve never healed—like this,” you said, voice thin. “Through the chest. I’d never—this could kill me—” “I don’t care!” he snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him. “Just fix her! Please, please, I can’t— I can’t lose her—"

Chapter 2: Alcestis

Three weeks of silence after the gala, and neither of you have learned how to speak without reopening the wound. Clark loves you—he swears he does—but guilt makes him clumsy, overprotective, unbearably gentle. You love him too, but love doesn’t heal like you do. It bruises. It scars.

Chapter 3: Trouble

Clark loves you. He doesn’t love Lois. Saying it is easy; living it is work. While you keep your distance—copy edits, closed doors, strict boundaries—Clark spirals into the sky. He needs to learn the difference between being good and being forgiven. If there’s a future, it won’t be because you waited. Waiting has terms.

Chapter 4A: Omelas

Clark is trying—therapy, boundaries, small choices that don’t hurt you just to save everyone else. Little by little, you start to let Clark back into your orbit: coffee runs, plant check-ins, quiet talks about what your healing really costs you. A public disaster forces the Justice Gang to demand your powers in front of the city, and Clark, as Superman, has to make an impossible call under live cameras.

Chapter 4B: Omelas

Clark peels off his blood-soaked suit as he listens to the city turn on him. He opens his door to the one person he’s most afraid of losing. A rain-soaked night becomes a string of confessions. Love. Want. Wait. "I'll see you around?" "I'd like that."

It began as some garbled talking thirty minutes ago, which was usually tolerable. It felt like you were listening to a podcast or television show in the background as white noise. You didn’t mind it at first—maybe he was on call with friends, but why did they choose something heated and intense?

Unable to bear it any longer, you decide to knock on the wall separating your rooms, hard enough that you’re sure he’s going to hear. 

And, it…works? He stops talking for a few moments before resuming at a bearable volume.

Satisfied, you lean back into your pillow, tugging your blanket closer to your body. Huh. That wasn’t so-

Another string of loud curses follows. Instantly, your eyes shoot open, and you sit up, enraged. 

If this were another day, a less sleep-deprived you might have walked over to his apartment and calmly told him to keep it down. However, after working a few hours of overtime to cover for an incompetent officemate? You eventually decide that the best course of action is: “Hey, shut the fuck up!”

Your voice cracks a little from the sudden burst of volume, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“It is two AM, and I have to wake up in four hours for a whole day of work. I don’t know who the hell you’re talking to, or what you’re doing, but have some respect, dude!”

Your throat immediately feels tight when you finish, but at the very least, the frustration has rushed out of your body. You prepare for your neighbor to yell back or retort, if not apologize, but you’re met with silence.

You breathe steadily, ready to verbally defend yourself, but nothing comes. Did it work?

Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. Fifteen…

You lose track of time, lulled to sleep by the peace and quiet.

The next few days, you no longer hear any noise from your neighbor at the ungodly hours. Sure, maybe you hear the accidental bump of whatever furniture is positioned against your shared wall, but nothing more.

You want to celebrate a little, considering that you’ve probably driven your point home. Even better, that officemate of yours had been fired. It turns out that the one time they forced you to cover for them was the last straw for your boss. Apparently, they had taken advantage of the fact that you were a newcomer who had no idea of their work ethic. 

That sucked, but at least you don’t have to worry about them anymore. You just want to celebrate the first two weeks you’ve spent at your new apartment. 

To your luck, you get an opportunity to do so when you enter the lobby after a tiring workday.

“Hi, darling!” A middle-aged lady greets you enthusiastically. “Are you the new girl from 203?”

You stop in your tracks, trying to remember if you’ve seen her before. With how chummy she seems to be with the lobby staff, you figure she’s also a resident. “Good evening, yes, I am.”

“Great! I live in 206, just a few rooms away. I heard about a new tenant moving in from the manager, so I just wanted to welcome you.”

“That’s great, um…” You pause. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name…?”

“Shimura-san! Sorry, I can’t believe I forgot to introduce myself. I live with my husband and son down the hall,” she chuckles. “Anyway, we like to invite the second-floor residents over for dinner. We have monthly potlucks sometimes, if we’re not all that busy. Since you’re new, we’d like to invite you over sometime this week, if you’d like. Heck, if you’re hungry, you could come over in an hour!”

Your eyebrows shoot up. Come to think of it, you recall the apartment manager talking about a certain Shimura-san. This must be her, then.

“In an hour?! Oh, I don’t want to trouble you-” 

Your stomach growls, cutting you off. Shimura-san laughs as your face heats up. 

“Hm, I don’t know about that.” She shakes her head. “Looks to me like you’re in need of a good meal. We’re already preparing for dinner, anyway, so it’s not much trouble.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Yes! I’ve got my son helping out, don’t sweat it.” She waves a hand. “Seems like you just came from work, so go and freshen up, okay?”

You’re almost taken aback by this woman’s personality, but you smile, thinking about how she somewhat reminds you of your own mother. So, you nod and accept her invitation.

“Okay, see you later! I’ll just go to the konbini to buy a few things.”

With that, she waves goodbye, and you make your way to the staircase leading to the second floor. Hm, maybe you’ve got some pretty lovely neighbors, too.

When you arrive at the Shimuras’ place, you’re welcomed warmly.

“Welcome! Please make yourself comfortable.” She opens her arms wide. “My husband just had some overtime tasks to deal with this evening, so he’ll be coming a little later. My son’s over in the kitchen.”

You nod, taking in their living space. It definitely seems very lived in, with all the personal belongings and decorations.

“Hey, Takashi! Come say hello to our guest!”

His head pops out from the corner, and he gives a small wave. 

“Ah, that boy.” Shimura-san snorts. “He’s sometimes shy with strangers, but he’ll warm up quite fast if he decides he likes you.”

“I see.” You smile as he disappears back into the kitchen. “I used to be that way.”

“Ah, then you understand. Great!” She waits until you’ve taken your shoes off and points to the spare slippers at the side. “You know, a part of me wishes that the boy from 204 would warm up too. He has yet to come over for dinner. I’m just glad that he accepts any leftover food we bring to him.”

“204?” You whip your head up.

“Yes, your neighbor. Have you met him?”

You nearly make a face. Sort of. 

“No…”

“I see. The other neighbors haven’t seen him much either. But, of course, he could just be a really cautious and shy person.” 

Didn’t seem that way when he was crashing out!

“So, whatever the reason, we just give him the space he needs.” Shimura-san sighs. “Anyway, enough of that, let’s eat!”

You’re guided to the dining area, where a fresh spread of colorful dishes lines the table. 

“Wow!” You can’t hide the surprise that hits you. “That’s…aw, I haven’t had a homemade meal like this since moving here.”

“I figured.” She directs you to your seat. “Work takes a lot of energy, and so does cooking. That’s why I chose the latter for our family.”

You smile at her. “And you do it really well.”

“Do I get credit for boiling the edamame and popping them out?” Her son pipes up as he brings a final dish to the table, drawing out a laugh from you. 

“Yeah, of course you do!” Shimura-sun ruffles his hair as he takes a seat. “Anyway, this is Takashi. He’s in his last year of junior high school.”

“Oh, so you’re about fourteen now?”

He nods in response. For some reason, his eyes linger on you for a while, only stopping when his mother asks him another question. You pretend not to notice, though; maybe he’s just trying to figure out if you’re someone he’ll get along with well.

You say thanks for your meal before trying a bit of each dish.

The rest of the hour goes by quickly without you realizing. There’s really something magical about Shimura-san’s cooking and Takashi’s assistance; you tell them so.

“Finally, someone who remembers!” Takashi comments, raising his hands in the air, while Shimura-san swats him playfully. “I think he has a favorite,” she comments. 

“By the way, we do have some extra desserts. They were gifts from my husband’s clients, but there’s still too much for us to finish. You can pick whatever you like and take them with you.”

“What? Are you sure?” Your eyes widen.

“Yes, very sure.” She stands to get them. “I’ll bring them over, just give me a moment to gather the new ones.”

As she leaves the dining area, her son suddenly turns to you. “Sorry if this is a really random question, but I just wanted to ask…” 

You tilt your head at him. “Um, sure.”

“Can you say this suuuper specific phrase for me?” 

“Super specific phrase.” You blink at the teen, trying to process his request. “Okay, um, what is it?”

Takashi grins at your agreement. “Say this.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “‘Can you shut the heck up, it’s two in the morning!’”

Hang on.

A silence fills the kitchen, but it’s broken by Shimura-san’s gasp. “Son?”

“Wait, okaasan! I swear she sounds like the girl in Kodzuken’s stream. There’s this video that went viral this week!”

Kodzuken’s stream?

Takashi pulls his phone out, seemingly forgetting about his request for you. 

“Hey! Go over there! Get the shields up so you can distract- agh, Tighnari!”

You stiffen at the familiar voice.

“Are you kidding me? Move! Then hit the- I need to aim!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

Whoever’s saying sorry doesn’t sound one bit apologetic.

“Dude, we are not defeating the boss like this! Come on!”

You sit there awkwardly as the mess of sounds from the game continues to play from Takashi’s phone speaker.

“This is stressing me out!” Kodzuken groans as his partner laughs. “Why did I agree to a co-op with you?!”

“Hey, shut the fuck up!” 

And…oh god. That is your voice. That’s how audible it was?

Kodzuken goes silent, and his co-op partner immediately starts laughing. “Wait? Who is that? Is that coming from you?”

“What the,” you hear a whisper as your anger-fueled tirade continues in the background. “Uh-”

“Yo! You have a woman at home?”

“No, I don’t.” Kodzuken hisses. You can hear the sounds of his game continuing, and by the sounds of the characters, they sound like they’re getting hit in succession.

Kodzuken’s partner continues giggling. “Did you piss someone off? Oh! Hey, where’d you go? Guys? Guys, Kodzuken just left the stream? What the hell? Who was that?” 

The video ends, and you want the ground to swallow you whole. Shimura-san looks back up at you with a shocked expression.

I’m not making a very good first impression here, am I?

“That’s…the kid that lives in 204. And that does sound like you…”

Takashi blinks. “Wait.”

“Uh, that’s…” You start, clearing your throat. There was literally no way you could lie to her about this. “It was a bad time. I’m not usually like that. Um-”

“Well, wow, I didn’t know you had that in you!” Shimura-san cuts you off, but she doesn’t seem extremely bothered. Maybe. You don’t know. “You did sound really mad though, when did this happen?”

“A few days ago,” you sigh nervously. “That was right after I was roped into overtime.”

“Oh, because of that officemate.” She grimaces, recalling your tale from earlier. “Yeah, my husband can get cranky when something like that happens. I get it.”

You sigh. “I cannot believe that got recorded. I really just thought he was calling his friends or something, not streaming to a public audience.”

“Huh, you’re not the only one that’s surprised.” She huffs. “Hard to think a kid like him did those kinds of video things. Maybe that’s why he’s so private.”

“That…would make sense.” You glance over at Takashi, who looks like he’s about to explode. “Hm. Maybe I should’ve been nicer about asking him to keep it down.”

Shimura-san pauses to think. “Well, it’s not too late to talk to him, if you want to sort things out. You had a point, after all. It would be good to set some rules since you’ll be neighbors for some time.”

You nod, considering her suggestion. “Yes. I think I’ll do that. Thank you, Shimura-san.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, to be young.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, don’t forget about picking out your desserts-” 

“Okaasan, you’re telling me the Kodzuken lives down the hall?!”

For the rest of the evening, you couldn’t stop overthinking the incident. What was meant to just be one moment between you and your neighbor has apparently been publicized to the entire world. 

Honestly, you’re just thankful Shimura-san didn’t seem to think of you any differently after that. She still sent you off with a few boxes of desserts and sweets, and an invitation to come over another time. 

You even found yourself apologizing to Takashi—you knew how teenagers could be with their favorite celebrities. Luckily, he just laughed it off, finding it cooler that you were able to personally “interact” with Kodzuken.

But, that had you wondering…you weren’t in the wrong for reprimanding him, right? No one should be disobeying the noise level rules in this apartment.

Still, your insides twist when you think about how you handled it. You never really liked the person you were when you were angry. Considering that you haven’t even met your neighbor face-to-face, you’ve probably soured things with him.

Oh god, what if he’s secretly plotting something to get back at me…

You sigh into your couch cushions, feeling a pit of regret forming in your stomach.

With nothing better to do, you check Kodzuken’s socials, curious if he’s said anything about the matter.

That was the only post he’s made since that day. You scroll a bit further, and all you see are some random thoughts he has shared and a bunch of announcements.

Sighing, you check the replies under his latest announcement. If that clip went viral, then other people definitely had something to say. 

Suddenly, you don’t know if checking was a good thing or not; now you feel restless.

Is he getting hate because of you? The handful of replies you checked were just a fraction of everything. Not to mention, all the opinions people shared about your actions—whether in favor or not—made your chest tighten.

They’re just strangers. They didn’t know the full context. It shouldn’t matter.

Yet, it bothers you. You throw your phone towards the opposite end of your couch and slump even further.

His name rings in your head—no, not his streamer name, but his real one. 

Kozume Kenma.

It’s an odd feeling, really. Shimura-san thinks of him as the shy boy from 204. Her son knows him as a streamer. To you, he’s your apartment neighbor.

What were you to him? The apartment neighbor who could potentially ruin his career?

“Nononono,” you groan, rubbing your hand over your face. 

He could bounce back, right? Would people forget? It’s not like he committed a crime…

Is he waiting until things blow over? What if he really got sick? And did he get sick from the stress? That I caused-

No. It’s not like I intended to…

Ugh!

The itch in your bones won’t go away. You need to fix this.

Retrieving your phone, you sigh in disbelief. How ironic that you feel like losing sleep over this silence. 

And so, you do the last thing you ever expected to do in your life.

Your Sunday is dedicated to running to the grocery store and hoping that you don’t burn your kitchen down. 

Yeah, you could’ve bought an apple pie to save you from the hassle, but there’s something about the sincerity in a homemade pastry that convinces you. (Shame on you if you didn’t learn a thing or two from the Shimuras yesterday.)

It takes you the entire afternoon and an emotional support call from a friend, but eventually, you make something that looks and tastes pretty delicious.

When evening arrives, you’ve placed half of the pie in a small container that your neighbor can keep. You set another half aside, a gift of gratitude for the Shimuras.

Psyching yourself up, you make your way to 204’s front door, cradling your peace offering to your chest. After maybe a few minutes of just standing there, you eventually gain the courage to knock.

It’s not long before the door opens, revealing the figure of someone who seems to be close to drowning in their hoodie and sweatpants. 

Kozume-san looks awful.

“Hello,” he says in a meek voice, as he rubs his eyes. When you look behind him, you notice the rest of his living space is dark, save for some colored lighting from an assortment of lamps. “Have we…met?”

Instantly, there’s a wary look in his eyes once he realizes that you’re a stranger. You immediately clarify your purpose of being here, not wanting him to think you’re some stalker fan that has finally figured out his address.

“Hey. I’m, uh…your neighbor from 203. Just moved in two weeks ago.” You also tell him your name, hoping that it could make you seem more trustworthy in the meantime.

Though you’re not surprised when his eyes widen—he almost looks like a startled cat. He hides behind his door a little more, prompting you to speak up. 

“I just wanted to apologize-”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you-”

The two of you freeze at your simultaneous apologies.

“Um, sorry, you first-”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt-”

And again, you both go silent. Thankfully, it breaks some of the tension in the air. 

“Wait, why are you apologizing to me?” He opens the door a bit more.

“Because I should’ve talked to you politely, instead of resorting to more aggressive measures. Sorry.” You scratch the back of your neck. “And, I didn’t know you were a streamer either. I didn’t realize that my yelling would end up making you go viral…for better or for worse.”

“It’s…” He starts, but he seems unsure of how to continue. “It’s okay. If I were you, I think I would have gotten angry too. I was just used to 203 being empty, so when I got really worked up, I didn’t realize you were…well, there.”

He shrugs, trying his best to make eye contact with you for a few seconds, before his eyes dart away. “I’m really sorry. I wasn’t trying to disturb you on purpose.”

With the way things are going, you’re honestly so glad that you made the decision to talk it over with him. 

“I understand now…so, you had no idea that I had moved in at all?”

“No, sorry. I don’t really stay updated with things around the apartment. Safety. And, well, people can be a lot…if you can believe it.”

You nod. “I can. It’s okay. As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t.” He shakes his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Um, actually, if you don’t mind me asking…”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a preferred schedule for absolutely no noise? Besides late evening or early morning…”

“Oh, hmm.” You tap your chin, vaguely reminded of his last announcement on social media. To be honest, hearing his voice wasn’t all that bad.

“You know, when you’re not yelling at someone, you actually have a pretty nice voice.”

He blinks at you. “What?”

“There were a few times I could hear you talk through the wall at a bearable volume. It felt like listening to those podcasts or audiobooks, you know?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. So, I guess it depends on what you’ll be doing. If you do end up streaming at odd hours, all I ask is that it’s something calm. Anything crazy would be best in the afternoon or evening.”

“Are you…sure?” He tilts his head.

“I mean, the whole gaming and streaming thing is your source of income, right?” You shrug. “It seems unfair to just impose everything on you. We can compromise or find a win-win solution.”

The corners of his lips tug up a bit. “Thank you for understanding. Again, I am really sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it.” You wave a hand dismissively. “Anyway, I hope this isn’t weird, but it’s true that you like apple pie, right?”

“I…yes?” His eyebrows furrow a little. “Why?”

“Um, I baked some earlier as an apology.” You hand the small container out to him.

“You…what? You-” He sputters, hesitating to take the pie from your hands. “Really?”

“Yes. I had to look it up online, after finding out who you were and realizing what had happened. I didn’t mean to cause all this mess for you.”

He slowly takes the container, his fingers brushing against yours for a few seconds. “Oh, um…thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Kozume-san. I hope it’s to your liking.”

He peers inside the transparent container.

“I…” He presses his lips together. “You…”

“Me?”

“You can, um, call me Kenma.”

You gasp. “What? Just like that?”

“It’s always been weird when people call me by my surname.” He grimaces. “The other option is Kodzuken, but…”

“It feels more like your work persona?”

“I guess so.”

“Alright,” you exhale. “Kenma-san.”

“No honorifics, either.”

“Oh?” You laugh. “Okay. Okay. I got that. Kenma.”

His shoulders sag a little in relief. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Anytime.” You bow at him in preparation to leave. “By the way, if you’ve got any comments on that pie, let me know. I need to master the recipe.”

“Comments?”

“Yep. No one better than the pie lover to tell me what I can improve on.”

“Okay.” He hums. “Do you want me to…slip a note under your door?”

“You could yell through our wall.”

And for the first time, you hear Kenma laugh out loud.

“Let’s see…” Placing his arm over your shoulder, he began to steer you towards the stairs as he thought. “You have a sarcastic, confident shell you hide behind so people don’t see how vulnerable you feel. You know how to use your looks to your advantage in certain situations, but otherwise seem to forget how breathtaking you are. And—” you had started to turn at his last comment, but he placed his finger under your chin and tilted your head towards him “—you like to hide your face when someone compliments you, though I’m not sure yet if it’s because you don’t want them to see how their words affect you or if you don’t think you deserve the praise. Maybe a bit of both.”

You shifted under the weight of his sage-green gaze. “You make me sound like I’m heading into a battle with my armor, my weapon, and my shield.” 

“Maybe you are. Is that how it feels to you?”

In fact, it sometimes was, though you weren’t going to admit that. You rolled your eyes instead, trying to hide how rattled you were by his spot-on assessment. “Geez, and here I thought you were a tornado wrangler, not a therapist.” Shifting the topic off of yourself, you asked, “When did you learn to read people so well?”

Now it was Tyler’s turn to become uncomfortable. His eyes flickered away for the first time and he muttered, “...I’d rather not say.”

If he had seemed hurt or sad or uneasy as the two of you made your way down to the first floor, you would have dropped it immediately. However, the way he avoided eye contact now after just staring at you so intently, plus the slight redness spreading up his neck and face, told you he was hiding it for a very different reason. And after all the times you had been embarrassed in front of him, you weren’t going to let this opportunity go. 

You slipped from under his arm and turned to face him as you reached the top of the stairs. “Well, now you have to tell me! You can’t just tease me with something like that and expect me to drop it! Besides, all we’ve done since we met is talk about me and my messed up life. Let me learn something about you for once.”

He sighed, chewing on the inside of his lip, then said, “Okay, you asked.” As the two of you began walking down to the ground floor, he said, “Back before I got into storm chasing, I used to compete in the rodeo circuit.”

“Really?” you asked. “I didn’t know that. Have you ever mentioned that on your channel?”

“Nah. It was another life. But, one of the things you learn when you’re left staring down a 2,000-pound bull is how to be observant. You gotta notice every little shift or twitch he makes to predict what he’s gonna do and how to stay outta his way. And after a while, it just becomes a habit you do with everyone you meet.”

You raised one eyebrow. “Oh, so you noticed all those things about me because you were examining me like a bull about to charge you?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” he chuckled. “Which is why I didn’t want to tell you. Most girls don’t tend to like it when you compare them to a cow.” 

“Well, I’m not most girls,” you said as you reached the bottom of the stairs and faced him once more.

He smiled, his eyes sparkling in the morning light. “I’ve noticed. You’re definitely keeping me on my toes.”

“Oh?” you asked, taking a step closer to him. “Afraid you won’t get out of my way in time?”

He leaned over until the brim of his hat just grazed the top of your head. “I haven’t decided if I want to yet.”

Staring into his eyes, you felt that same zap of electricity from the night before zooming through your body. You watched his tongue peek out, slowly wet his lips, and, without meaning to, you leaned in closer until—

Slam!

Jumping at the loud noise to your left, you and Tyler both turned to see Scott glaring at the two of you as the Storm PAR team swarmed around their vehicles, loading up their gear. Scott had just slammed the sliding door on the van marked “Wizard” and, after spitting his gum on the ground and popping in a new piece, eyes trained on you the entire time, he climbed into the front seat of Scarecrow and started the engine. You saw Javi approaching Lion and he lifted his hand, giving you a small, apologetic smile that you returned. Then he climbed into the truck and the Storm PAR team pulled out of the lot. 

Whatever spell you and Tyler had been under now broken, you resumed walking towards the cluster of Wranglers’ vehicles. There was an awkward tension in the air you had never felt around him before and, in an attempt to break it, you asked, “So, is that how you read tornados so well? You approach them the same way you approached a bull?”

He shrugged, seemingly as happy to get back to the earlier conversation as you were. “More or less. There’s more science that goes into it but you just have to make careful observations and then, ultimately, go with your gut. Even if that means ignoring what all the data is telling you.”

“And that works?”

“Most of the time.”

“And when it doesn’t?”

He grinned as he approached the side of an old, beat-up camper van. “Then you better hope you have a great team watching your back.” With that, he banged twice on the side of the van.

The doors flew open and four people jumped out. You recognized them all from their YouTube videos as the other members of Tyler’s crew, but you couldn’t remember any of their names except for Boone. He was the other man you had seen with Tyler in the diner parking lot when you first arrived and he always manned the handheld camera in the videos, making commentary and jokes as Tyler drove them into a storm.

Tyler quickly introduced you to everyone. He had already filled them in on who you were and that you would be riding with them for the next week or so. You had been slightly worried about how they would feel about you tagging along given how Scott had responded to the idea of you going on a chase. However, they swarmed around you excitedly and immediately began to chat about how much you were going to love your first storm as if you had known them for ages.

It was such a stark difference from your brother’s reaction. Where he was instantly dismissive and challenged your bravery, each and every one of the Wranglers welcomed you with open arms, giving you heads-ups about what it would be like out there and assuring you it was fine to react in different ways. They even shared their various first storm chases and how they had responded (it was comforting to know that even Boone, who seemed as reckless and wild—if not more so—as Tyler, had torn a vocal chord “screaming like a little girl” the first time Tyler had planted the truck in the middle of a storm).

Your head was on a constant swivel as each of your four new friends talked over one another, and as you moved to turn from Dexter explaining the different tracking equipment the crew used to monitor storms to Dani explaining the upgrades that had been made to Tyler’s truck, you caught sight of Tyler. He was several feet away from the mob surrounding you, leaning his shoulder against the van with his arms folded across his chest, amusement gleaming in his eyes as he watched the chaos around you. Seeing the slight panic in your eyes, he chuckled softly to himself before pushing off the side of the van and clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention.

“All right guys, give her room to breathe. She’ll be here for at least a week so no need to tell her your whole life stories in the first five minutes. She’s still getting used to things around here and we don’t wanna scare her off.” As they all apologized and backed away, you tried to assure them you were fine but Tyler came over and placed his hands on your shoulders. “It’s alright, sweetheart, we’re just all a little excited to have some fresh blood around here. Now, Dexter, is there any breakfast left? I’m starved and I doubt she’s eaten either.”

You tried to insist you were fine, but the words died in your throat as Dexter opened the door to the camper van and the sticky sweet smell of freshly syruped pancakes hit your nose, eliciting a loud growl from your stomach. Tyler must have heard it because he chuckled and began directing you towards the van, walking behind you as he steered you by your shoulders. 

As you ate, it was decided that today you would ride in the camper van with Dani and Dexter so you could get close to the storms, yet not have to immediately dive into one. At first, you wanted to object, thinking they meant that figuratively. But then you remembered the videos you had seen of Tyler and Boone driving straight into the center of a tornado, and, realizing they meant that literally, you agreed it was probably for the best. Part of you wanted to impress Tyler and jump into his truck anyway, but Scott’s comment that you would get too scared and force his team to end the chase early echoed in your mind. 

You were still a little disappointed Tyler’s “embarrassing secret” he had tried to keep hidden this morning was not embarrassing at all. Instead, you had just prodded him into sharing something that made him seem infinitely cooler than he already had. And, once again, you were reminded of the fact that since you two had met, you had spent the majority of the time either complaining about how much of a jerk your brother was, how shitty of a person you used to be, or crying into his shoulder. Meanwhile, here he was, this daredevil tornado wrangler who learned how to read people by staring down deadly bulls for a living and looked like most women’s cowboy wet dream come to life. 

You wanted to prove to him that you were more than what he had seen so far—that you were worthy of all the time and attention he was giving you. If you told Tyler you wanted to ride with him, you had no doubt he would let you. But what if Scott was right and you freaked out as soon as you neared a tornado? What if you had a panic attack or somehow caused the Wranglers to turn back instead of diving into the storm? They made their money—money they used to help others—from their videos. A video they would not be able to post if they couldn’t record a storm because you were having a complete meltdown. 

So, at least for today, you climbed into the back of the camper van as everyone got ready to chase their first storm of the day.

Dani and Dexter were an interesting pair. Dani was brash and loud, riding with her boots propped up on the dashboard as she slouched in her seat, all the while telling you jokes and poking fun at the other Wranglers. Dexter was more reserved at first, but the longer Dani talked, the more comfortable he seemed and he began joining in. You could tell by how they interacted, often speaking over the other or laughing at a joke before it got to the punchline, that they spent a lot of time together and had a close bond. It was really nice to see. You thought about how stiff and professional the members of Storm PAR seemed and you found yet another reason to be thankful Scott had turned you away. There was no way you would be having this much fun with his team.

As time went on and the clouds above you began to darken, Dexter began to explain how storms were formed, what kinds of conditions were necessary for them, the destruction they could cause, and how much scientists still didn’t know about them. Dani rested her head in her hand, looking half-asleep as she struggled to listen to information you were sure she had heard a million times before, but you were captivated.

Just as Dexter began telling you how the radar in the center console worked, the radio crackled to life and Tyler’s voice, distorted slightly through the ancient speaker, came through. “You okay back there, sweetheart?” Dani picked up the receiver and passed it back to you. “Dani and Dexter aren’t just bickering the whole time, are they?”

You laughed as both Dani and Dexter objected to that statement. “No, they’re great. Dexter’s been teaching me all about the science behind the storms. It’s been much more interesting than those dry reports Scotty left behind.” You saw Dexter beaming in the rearview mirror and you smiled back at him.

“Well, just don’t let him get started on funnel formation or you might change your mind.” Dexter shot a stern glance at the radio as Dani looked out the window, swallowing a laugh. Then, lowering his voice slightly so it felt like he was speaking to you and you alone, Tyler said, “I can’t wait to get you up here with me so I can show you the storm through my eyes.”

Clutching the radio closer to your face, you smiled softly. “That sounds amazing. I can’t wait. And Tyler, I—” You wanted to thank him again for everything he was doing for you. For welcoming you into his life without a second thought and introducing you to these other people who were already starting to feel more like family than your own flesh-in-blood. But, more than that, you wanted to thank him for the way he always made you feel as if he was actually excited you were there—that you were wanted. But just as you were trying to find the words to express those feelings, you remembered the rest of the team could hear you and you quickly cleared your throat. “Um, just be safe up there. You can’t show me anything tomorrow if you do something stupid today.”

“You heard the lady, Boone. Guess we’re taking it easy today.” You heard Boone muttering his objection and you could almost see his pout through the radio. “Cell should be coming up on our left. Y’all enjoy the show.”

The radio clicked off, but you continued staring at the receiver, cupping it close to your chest as you thought about all the things you wished you had been able to say to him.

Glancing back at you, Dani and Dexter exchanged a look before chuckling to themselves. Looking up, you asked, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Dani said, examining her nails. “Just seems that someone’s already fallen under the spell of the ol’ Owens charm.”

You raised an eyebrow. “‘The ol’ Owens charm’?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Believe it or not, he doesn’t do it on purpose, it’s just who he is and he can’t turn it off if he tried—not that he even realizes he’s doing it. He’s just naturally one smooth SOB that anyone could find hard to resist.”

A vice suddenly tightened around your heart making it hard to breathe. Was…was that all this was? Did Tyler treat everyone he met with the same kind of attention and kindness? Were you reading into his actions more than you should? 

Trying to maintain a blank expression, you shook your head. “Well, it’s not like that. He’s just letting me hang out with you guys to piss off my brother.”

“That’s what he said…but I’ve seen that look before,” Dani said smugly. 

“Dani…” Dexter muttered, giving her a pointed glance.

“What look?” you asked.

“The one you had when Tyler was talking to you. Like you were soaring on cloud nine and he was the only other person up there with you. Happens all the time.”

“Dani,” Dexter said a little louder.

But she either didn’t hear him or ignored him as she continued, “It doesn’t help that he’s so damn noble on top of everything. You should see the things he does when we stop by a town that has just been hit. He’s almost been crushed in more destroyed houses than I can count trying to go back for a kid’s teddy bear or a family’s photo album. The guy just can’t say no to someone in need.”

“Dani!”

“What?” She glanced at her friend then back to you and her smile faded. She must have noticed the way you had folded in on yourself, your arms wrapped tightly around your middle as you tried to process everything she had said. 

Stuttering slightly, Dani tried to backtrack. “Hey, listen, I didn’t mean…” She sighed and ran her hand through her dark hair. “I might be wrong. Tyler’s never invited someone to join the team outta nowhere like this. And he’s seemed different since he came back from your date yesterday.”

“It wasn’t a dat—” you mumbled, but she cut you off.

“Whatever it was. He’s had even more swagger in his step than usual and, this morning, he checked his watch like a million times to make sure he wasn’t late meeting you at your room. And Tyler never gets wound up like that for anyone. Right, Dexter?” The man nodded, and Dani smiled as if to say “see? I told you”. But then her smile dimmed slightly. “Just…just be careful. You seem like a really nice girl and none of us want to see you get hurt. So maybe know where you stand with him before you let yourself fall too hard.”

“Thanks,” you said, letting your arms unfold slightly. You were still questioning every interaction you had had with Tyler, but knowing you might have had some effect on him did make you feel a little better.

“Plus, you’ve been a lot of fun to have around and I’d hate for you to leave because Tyler can’t see what a catch he has in front of him.” Dani winked at you, and you gave her a small smile. 

You lean forward and hand her the radio. In an attempt to break some of the tension that has now filled the camper van, you asked Dexter to resume what he was saying when Tyler called. But as he happily returns to explaining the radar monitor, the excitement you had previously had listening to his lessons had evaporated. Instead, all you could think about was Tyler.

You thought about the way he held you close to his chest last night, his arms wrapped around you as you cried. You thought about the way he defended you to Scott, how he said you had found someone willing to give you their “attention and love”. You thought about that spark of electricity flowing between you as he pressed his lips to the back of your hand, and how that same spark seemed to gleam in his eyes before he left. You thought about this morning as you had leaned in to kiss Tyler, and how for just a brief moment before Scott’s slamming truck door ruined the moment, you swore you saw Tyler begin to lean in too.

Were you just seeing what your smitten heart wanted to see? 

The more you thought about it, the more you realized Dani was right. You needed to know for sure how Tyler felt before your feelings for him grew any stronger. If he was just being nice and that was all, that was fine. You were supposed to be here to get revenge on Scott, not to fall in love. So if that was the case, you would stuff down these developing feelings and try your best to forget them. But if Tyler really did feel this same magnetic pull that you did, well…that would be great to know too.