It’s a bold faced lie. Taking you shopping turns him on more than anything else. It’s the way you just go to town with his American Express like you’ve got no other care in the world. Which you don’t. He takes care of everything. And gets off on seeing you buying random shit with his money. Drives in the fact he owns you completely.

“But daddy, we still have shoes left. And lingerie. And then something to eat, maybe?”

You blink up at him cutely, and he’s aware you know exactly what you’re doing. Knows he can’t resist you when you get like this. That’s why you’d dressed up all sweet today too. In this little pink dress with the ribbons, flouncing around the mall like some goddamned Tinkerbell, holding onto his hand before something shiny and exciting inevitably distracts you.

“Fuck shoes,” he growls, “you’ll take hours in there.”

“So what you’re saying is you don’t love me.” You cross your arms over your chest (your completely free arms because God forbid you hold a shopping bag. Not that he’d let you anyways).

“What I’m saying is I’ll book the store out for you tomorrow, and you can come back and not have to deal with people or lines or shit like that.”

You frown, considering it before finally smiling. Going on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek, “Okay fine. But you owe me, because I wanted new shoes today.”

“Sure, princess.” You and him both know who really owes who. And he’d get his end of the deal whenever he so pleased. “One more store and then we’re done for the day.”

You roll your eyes and huff, go through your whole bratty shtick of how “he’s sooo unfair” and how you had a “whole list of things I still need to buy!” He waits for you to be done and sure enough, soon you’re all smiles again.

“Okay, let’s go to Victoria’s Secret!” You announce after he’s finished paying for the latest round of clothes you’ve chosen. You drag him out of the store, but it’s only after a few seconds that you stop and pout, “Why aren’t you holding my hand?”

Rafe wonders if you try to wind him up on purpose. He knows you’re not as much of an airhead as you sometimes pretend to be. Now, he simply stares at you, his hands very clearly full and occupied by the shit ton of Prada and Louis Vuitton shopping bags.

But you just smile sweetly and hold your hand out. In the end, Rafe sighs and shakes his head, offering you his pinkie finger that you happily hold on to.

“You’re a piece of work.”

“You love it.”

You go wild inside the Victoria’s Secret store. Rafe hands all the shopping bags to one of the sales associates as he watches you in your element. Picking out everything pink and glittery, leopard print, rhinestones, lace. He comes up behind you and slips his hand up your skirt, squeezing your bare ass. You giggle, but you know better than to push his hand away.

He nods at a red lacy set on a mannequin, then at the sales associate, “She’ll try that one.”

“Yes, sir.”

The VIP dressing room is dimly lit and spacious. Rafe sprawls out on the velvet sofa, eyes dark as you model one set after another for him. He nods at all the frilly pink shit you try on, the silk negligees that show off your pretty legs, and push up bras that make your tits look fucking insane.

“Can you buy me angel wings, dada? Like the models have in the fashion show?”

“If you’re good.”

His jaw clenches when you come out in a lacy black corset and matching g-string. You give him a twirl and he gets a good look at your cute little ass on full display. His palm itches to spank it.

“This one is soooo cute,” you gush, “I think I’ll wear it to Sarah’s costume party this weekend.”

“You’re not going to any parties dressed in that.”

You roll your eyes, “Obviously I’d wear it with like shorts or a skirt or something. And a cute kitty tail and ears.”

Rafe licks his lips, “Kitty huh?”

You smile cutely, “yes daddy.”

He motions for you to get down on your knees, not really having to say anything because he’s got you trained well enough to understand orders based on a look. He crooks his finger, beckons you closer.

“Crawl.”

You both know how much he gets off on it, the power he has over you. You were a little brat and he spoiled you rotten but in the end, he could make you do anything. Snap his fingers and you’d come running. Spread your legs for him if he so pleased. Crawl over to him like a little kitty cat in a public dressing room because he said so. Because he paid for your life. And he owned you.

He pets your head lazily, stroking your hair while you nuzzle against his hand like a good little pet in your sexy lingerie. Looking up at him through those sexy long lashes. He smirks.

“You wear this to a party and I’ll make sure it’s the last one you ever attend.”

You pout, but he presses his thumb into your mouth to silence you, allows you to suck on it to keep your tantrum at bay.

“You can still get the kitty ears. Wear ‘em in bed for when I come home from work. Maybe we can get you a collar and leash too.”

He makes you stand up, give him a few more twirls before slapping your butt and sending you to try on the next set. It’s the red one he’d chosen, barely conceals anything, just tiny strips of lacy red fabric and a bunch of strings.

Rafe grabs the front of your panties, dragging you into his lap till you’re straddling him. His patience is wearing thin, and you’re being a little tease with how you’re flaunting your cute, sexy body at him. As if he didn’t own you and could have his way with you whenever he pleased.

“Knees.”

It’s all he has to say and then you’re on the floor between his legs. You scowl though, because you’re you and of course you would, “Floor’s uncomfortable.”

“I don’t care. Take it out.”

You do. He’s got you trained well enough. And it’s so hot, your hand wrapping around his dick, expensive manicured fingernails gleaming against the dim lights. He grabs your hair, pushing your head down. You take him like a good girl, as deep as you possibly can. None of that kitten licks shit because you know he’d beat your ass if you tried that right now.

“Good girl,” he mutters, stroking your hair back and making sure you’re looking at him. Watches your lips stretch out on his fat dick as you bob your head and suck him how he likes it, “So cute on your knees.”

It’s definitely Rafe’s favourite part of these shopping trips. You could be as bratty as you wanted but at the end of the day, you’d always be on your knees for him. His property, his pet, and he kept you looking so pretty and expensive. His bratty little girl, all dressed up in head to toe designer, complaining and throwing your cute little tantrums but never once daring to say no to him when he wanted you.

A successful investment.

He finishes down your throat, watching you swallow before pulling you into his lap for a rough, possessive kiss. You’re all submissive and shy now, cuddling into him with nothing left to say.

It never lasted long though.

Sure enough, once his car’s been loaded up with all your shopping and he’s put you in the passenger seat that you finally speak again.

“Daddy, can I have another Birkin please?”

"Yeah, got too many unpaid bills," he muttered. He grimaced slightly, and you could feel the discomfort radiating off him.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, gathering yourself, before turning your head toward him. "You can still participate in the bet," you spoke softly, your voice carrying a gentle warmth.

Frank looked back at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

But this time, you remained looking down, your gaze fixed somewhere on the floor between you. And he ,foolishly, used that moment to really look at you.

Your hair had gotten longer.

It was pulled back in a ponytail, the way you always wore it during shifts so it wouldn't get in the way. But the length of it now, the way it swept back from your face, the few shorter pieces that had escaped to frame your temples, he noticed all of it. And then he turned his head away immediately, before you could catch him staring.

"We could make a bet together," you said softly, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. "And the reward wouldn't be money."

Frank looked down at you properly now, his blue eyes piercing as they searched your face. His gaze held yours, unwavering, as the silence stretched between you.

"What would be the reward then?" he asked after a long moment.

"A kiss."

Frank's eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared beneath the strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead. His lips parted slightly, then closed, then parted again as he processed the word.

"A kiss," he repeated.

"Yup." You held his stare, refusing to back down even as your heart hammered in your chest. "If you win, you'll get a kiss from me." You tilted your head slightly, the picture of casual confidence even though your pulse was racing. "You can just tell me what you think made Westbridge shut down, and if you're right, you'll get a kiss."

You said it so simply, like it was nothing, like you weren't offering him something you'd both been wanting for nearly a year now.

Frank's eyes moved rapidly across your face, searching, trying to gauge if you were messing with him. He knew you, knew your sense of humor, knew how you liked to tease. But this felt different.

"So?" you asked, and you managed to look assured and unbothered. But your fingers, hidden from his view, were tapping rapidly against the top of the desk, giving away every ounce of nerves you pretended not to have.

Frank stared at you for another long moment. Then slowly, a grin spread across his face. The first real grin you'd seen from him since he came back. "Okay," he said. "You got a deal."

And you smiled, relieved. "Yeah?"

He smiled further at your smile, like he couldn't help it, like seeing you happy made him happy whether he wanted it to or not. "Yeah."

You nodded, smiling to yourself, feeling warmth spread through your chest. You were about to push off from the desk, about to go find a case to work on and give yourself a moment to process what just happened, when Frank's voice stopped you.

"You—" He cleared his throat, and when you glanced back at him, you saw color rising on his cheeks. He closed his eyes briefly, like he was embarrassed by what he was about to ask but couldn't stop himself. "You are talking about a—" He swallowed hard. "A kiss on the lips?"

The question hung in the air between you, and you could practically hear him cursing himself internally for how awkward it sounded.

You couldn't help your giggle.

"Yeah, Frank." You grinned, tilting your head as you watched him narrow his eyes, realization dawning that you were enjoying his embarrassment just a little too much. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "I'm talking about a kiss on the lips."

His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shook his head slightly, a huff of embarrassed laughter escaping him. You grinned wider, delighted by his flustered reaction, by the way the confident doctor who used to charm everyone had been reduced to blushing over the word kiss.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and you caught the small smile he was trying to hide. "You're enjoying this way too much," he muttered.

"Maybe," you admitted, still smiling. "But you agreed. No takesies backsies."

Frank laughed and for a moment, he looked like the man you'd wanted to go on that date with ten months ago. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said softly, his eyes meeting yours again.

"Any more questions?" you asked, your grin turning playful. "I can send you a tutorial on how to kiss if you want, too."

Frank stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. The old Frank would have fired back with something smooth that would have made you blush instead. But this Frank just shook his head with a soft laugh.

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny," he mumbled, but the smile didn't leave his face.

You grinned, warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him actually smiling. Before you could overthink it, you reached out and squeezed his bicep.

"Just write your theories for the shutdown on some paper and slip it into my locker, yeah?" you asked, still smiling up at him.

Frank glanced down at your hand on his arm, his gaze lingering there for a moment. Then he looked back up at you and nodded slowly. "Yeah."

You smiled once more, squeezing his bicep again and then you turned and walked back, disappearing into one of the patient rooms without looking back.

Frank stared after you. For a long moment, he just stood there, leaning against the desk, his eyes fixed on the empty space where you'd been. His mind was struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

You wanted to kiss him.

That was still on the table. After everything, after ten months of silence, after he'd practically bailed on you, after you'd found out he was an addict and a thief, you still wanted to kiss him. He pressed his palm flat against the desk.

You wanted to kiss him.

The thought replayed itself over and over, each time feeling more impossible than the last. He'd ghosted you. Not intentionally, but effectively all the same.

He shook his head slowly.

He remembered that morning he asked you out so clearly. It had been early, barely 8am, and he'd stopped by your locker with a coffee. Your usual order, because of course he knew your usual order, he'd been paying attention for months by then. You'd turned around when he said your name, and the sight of you had hit him like it always did. Your hair was slightly messy from your commute and you'd looked so pretty it had just burst out of him.

"Dinner?" he'd said. Just like that. No smooth lead up, no charming preamble.

You'd held the coffee he handed you and stared at him for what felt like fifteen full seconds. "What?" was all you'd said.

And he'd stared back, mouth opening and closing like a fish, suddenly terrified by his own impulsiveness. But then he'd swallowed and asked again, properly this time. "Do you want to get dinner with me?"

"Dinner with you?" you'd repeated. He'd been ready to bolt at that point. But then your hand had shot out and grabbed his arm. "Hey, are you serious?" you'd asked. "You're not messing with me, right?"

He'd shaken his head immediately. "No."

And then you'd smiled. "I'd love to."

He'd grinned so hard his face hurt. "Yeah?"

You'd nodded again, practically bouncing on your toes, your excitement bleeding through even though you tried to play it cool. "Yes, yeah."

"I'll pick you up at 7pm, okay?" he'd asked, already planning it in his head, already thinking about where to take you, what to wear, how not to screw this up.

And you'd nodded so enthusiastically. "Yes, yeah. Okay. Seven."

He'd walked away from that locker on cloud nine.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head again in disbelief. He couldn't believe you wanted to kiss him.Something he'd dreamed about doing the entire time the day he asked you out. He remembered thinking about it for long stretches, letting his mind wander when he should have been focused on patients.

If he'd do it as he dropped you off after dinner. If he should go for it directly after the meal, while you were still sitting across from him, candlelight and all that. If he should stick with one kiss or let it turn into more. If you'd prefer soft and slow or something bolder. If he should grab your waist. If he should start with touching your waist and work his way up to your face.

It was like he was a teenage boy all over again.

He'd thought he had his game figured out by now. Thought he'd matured past the nervous pacing and overthinking. He'd asked girls out plenty of times before, thought he knew how this whole thing worked.

Nope. You played him down to a boy. Every time.

And now here he was, standing in the middle of the ER with a chart in his hands, realizing he was going to have to deal with this all over again.

God help him get through the rest of his shift, because he was sure he was going to stare at your lips all day. Every time you walked past, every time you spoke, every time you smiled, he'd be watching, waiting, thinking about that kiss he'd somehow managed to wrangle back into existence.

He pressed his lips together and forced his eyes back down to the chart in his hands. Focus. He needed to focus.

But before he could even finish the first sentence, a piece of paper appeared at his elbow.

He looked up to find Princess standing there, arms crossed, expression entirely too knowing. "Write your theories," she said flatly. "Now. Or you'll miss out on that kiss."

Frank stared at her, mouth opening slightly in confusion. And then he turned his head slightly and met Perlah's stare from across the nurses' station. She was leaning against the counter, a massive grin spread across her face. She'd clearly caught the entire conversation as well.

Frank just shook his head. "Can you guys like not listen in on other people's conversations for once in your life?" he mumbled, reaching for the paper.

"No," Princess said suddenly from right behind him.

He jumped slightly, when had she moved?, and shot her a look over his shoulder. She just raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered, and walked away. He sighed, turning back to the paper in his hands.

"Get it right!" Perlah shouted after him, her voice carrying across the ER with zero subtlety. He heard her immediately start gossiping with Princess again. He sighed again and ran his free hand through his hair as he walked back toward his computer.

Get it right. As if he needed the pressure.

Throughout the day, Frank was a man on a mission.

He ran from person to person, cornering anyone who looked like they might have even a scrap of knowledge about Westbridge. Nurses. Techs. A bewildered janitor who just wanted to mop the hallway in peace. He even asked Garcia.

She'd stared at him for a long moment, her expression caught between confusion and delight, before a slow grin spread across her face. "Oh my God," she'd said, voice dripping with amusement. "You're actually trying to win that kiss, aren't you?"

Frank had opened his mouth to deny it, but she'd already started laughing. A laugh that made everyone around them turn and look.

"You're pathetic," she'd informed him cheerfully. "I love it. No, I don't know anything about Westbridge, but please keep running around. This is the best entertainment I've had all shift."

He'd sighed, shaken his head, and walked away to the sound of her still laughing behind him.

Now he found himself back at the nurses' station, leaning against the counter with his elbows, feeling slightly defeated. He'd talked to a dozen people and had exactly nothing to show for it.

"Dana," he called, and she raised her head from the paperwork she'd been buried in.

"Yeah?" she said, her tone distracted but not unkind.

"You got any idea what happened to Westbridge?"

Dana considered him for a moment, then shook her head. "No, kid. Otherwise I'd be winning that bet myself." She tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Why you asking?"

Frank straightened up, pushing himself off the counter. "No reason," he said quickly, too quickly, judging by the way her eyebrow shot up.

He looked around the ER, scanning faces, looking for you. It was habit by now, this constant awareness of where you were in the room. He always knew where you were. Always made sure to see you at least once an hour, even if it was just a glance across the department.

But he hadn't seen you in at least two.

His chest tightened slightly as he scanned again. Nothing. No sign of you anywhere.

"Think she's in the stairwell," Dana said quietly, and Frank turned back to her. She nodded toward the door leading to the stairs, her expression softening. "Had a rough patient."

Frank's heart dropped.

You rarely went to the stairwell. Like, truly rarely. It was your spot, he knew, the place you went when things got really bad, when you needed to be alone. But usually, you came to him first. Usually, you found him in the middle of whatever he was doing and just stood there until he noticed, until he pulled you aside and let you decompress.

But that dynamic had been broken now, hadn't it? Ten months of silence had probably erased that right along with everything else. He hesitated, his feet rooted to the floor.

Dana watched him, reading the conflict on his face. "She'll want you there," she said softly. "Go."

Frank hesitated one more second, then turned on his heels and walked toward the stairwell door.

The stairwell was quiet, the way it always was. He stepped inside and immediately looked down. And there you were.

Sitting on the lowest staircase, your back against the wall, your knees pulled up slightly. You weren't crying, which was something, but you looked tired. Frank hesitated at the top, his hand on the railing. Then he stepped down softly, one stair at a time, until he was just behind you.

You turned your head and met his eyes."Hi," you said softly, and you smiled.

You scooted slightly, making room, and he didn't hesitate this time. He stepped down and sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

"Hey," he finally spoke, his voice quiet. "You okay?"

"Rough patient," was all you said softly. You didn't go into details, and he didn't need you to. He knew that sometimes you just needed to sit with someone, not talk about it.

You scooted closer and put your head on his shoulder. He put his arm around your back, his hand resting gently on your far shoulder, and started brushing softly up and down.

You sighed. It was barely audible, but Frank heard it clearly. And when he noticed it was a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't believe that he was still capable of making you feel this way.

You pressed closer, your weight shifting slightly against him, and he welcomed it.

"I missed you," you suddenly spoke, your voice muffled slightly by his shoulder. You kept your head there, hidden, finally having the peace of not worrying about seeing his facial expressions or getting nervous from his pretty face.

Frank's hand, which had been brushing softly against your back, traveled higher. Until his fingers reached the back of your head and started threading gently through your hair. "Missed you too," he mumbled. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

"I'm sorry."

The words were quiet you almost missed them. You stayed still, barely breathing, to hear him better.

"For what I did," he continued, his voice even softer now. "With the date." He swallowed hard, and you felt the movement against your cheek. "I—" He stopped. Started again. "And for lying about the pills. And for stealing."

And as he said it, you both knew what he meant. You'd worked countless shifts together. Treated countless patients. Every pill you'd ever handed out, every medication you'd administered, some of those had been stolen first by him.

You'd thought about that over the weeks since everything came out. Thought about it a lot, actually. But mostly, mostly, you'd thought about it with sadness, that you hadn't noticed, that he'd been suffering right next to you and you'd been completely blind to it.

You lifted your head off his shoulder now, needing to see him. His blue eyes met yours, and what you found there made your heart break. It was pure fear. Fear of your reaction, fear that this would be the moment you finally turned away.

"You don't need to apologize to me."

But Frank shook his head immediately. "Yeah, I do." His voice cracked slightly. "I betrayed your trust. I used our—" He hesitated, the word catching in his throat. "Our relationship to steal from patients."

He didn't say friendship. You noticed that immediately. He said relationship, like he knew it had always been more than that, like he understood that what was between you couldn't be reduced to something so simple.

You stared at him for a long moment, taking in the way his eyes searched yours. And you realized that maybe he needed this. "Okay," you said softly. "Thank you for apologizing, Frank."

His shoulders sagged slightly, almost imperceptibly, relief so profound you could feel it radiating off him. You watched him for a while longer. Then you looked back down at the steps below you, breaking the intensity of the moment just slightly.

"So," you said, a hint of playfulness creeping into your voice. "How's your bet going?"

And Frank let out the biggest sigh in the entire world. It was dramatic and exaggerated. "That bad?" you laughed.

He just shook his head slowly, mournfully, his expression so defeated. "That bad," he confirmed with another heavy sigh.

You smiled softly as he kept talking, apparently needing to unload. "I've asked everyone," he said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. "Literally everyone. Nurses, techs, that janitor who definitely thought I was crazy. I even asked Garcia."

You raised an eyebrow. "Garcia?"

"Who gave me a bunch of crap," he confirmed, pushing a hand through his hair to fix it, a nervous habit you recognized.

You started giggling and Frank smiled. He watched you as you calmed down, your giggles fading, your shoulders still shaking slightly with the last remnants of amusement. And then you finally turned your head, met his eyes and froze.

Because he was staring at you with that soft smile still playing on his lips, the one that said he'd been watching you this whole time and enjoying every second of it.

You got shy immediately. He saw the way your eyes widened slightly, the way you broke eye contact and looked away like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Frank's smile widened. Turned cocky, even.

Because yeah. Yeah, he was still capable of this. Still capable of turning you shy, of making you look away first, of having some small effect on you after everything. After ten months and a destroyed reputation and more shame than he knew what to do with, he could still do this.

You kept your gaze fixed on the stairs, pretending to be very interested in the concrete, and Frank let himself enjoy the moment.

"Your hair's longer," he spoke finally.

His hand came up to your ponytail, tentative at first. When you didn't pull away, he gently wrapped a strand around his finger, twirling it slowly, watching the way the light caught the ends.

You smiled. "Yeah. Thought I'd grow it out a bit." You tilted your head slightly, watching him watch your hair. "You like it?"

He kept twirling, seemingly mesmerized. "Love it," he mumbled.

You smiled wider, then let your eyes drift to his hair, perfectly styled and gelled back. You raised an eyebrow.

"Yours is fully gelled back," you observed. "What happened to letting your hair breathe?" You were teasing, and he knew it. And in response he lightly tugged on your ponytail, just enough to make you sway slightly, and you giggled.

He let go of your hair and reached up to touch his own, fingers running lightly over the styled strands. "You don't like it?" he asked, and his voice was quieter now.

Your smile softened immediately. "I like it," you assured him gently. "Makes you look really serious." You tilted your head, letting your grin turn playful again. "Which I know you're not."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I'm serious. I can be serious."

You just looked at him, letting the silence stretch. "Frank." He held your stare, chin lifted slightly, like he was daring you to disagree. You grinned. "Sure. If that makes you feel better."

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head as if deeply wounded by your disbelief. But there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, betraying him completely.

"I'm just joking," you said, your voice gentler now. "You look as handsome as ever."

You raised your hands slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to. He didn't. Your palms cupped his face, warm against his skin, and you felt him exhale softly at the contact. One hand stayed there, resting against his cheek, while the other moved up toward his hairline.

His eyes stayed locked on yours as you carefully picked two strands near his forehead and pulled them down gently, freeing them from the gel. You rubbed the strands between your fingers, working the product out until they were loose. Then you curled them lightly around your finger, watching them fall into place, softer now. You let your hand drop back down, but the other remained on his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his skin.

"Hm," you murmured, surveying your work with a small satisfied smile. "That's better."

Frank stayed silent. His eyes hadn't left your face. He was staring at you with an intensity that made the stairwell feel suddenly very small.

You shifted slightly under the weight of his gaze. "What?" you asked, suddenly self conscious.

"Nothing," he said, but his voice was rough.

You knew that tone, knew it meant the exact opposite of nothing. "Frank." You sighed. "Spill it."

He held your stare, those blue eyes boring into yours. For a long moment, he just looked at you, at your face, your eyes, your lips, back to your eyes. "You're making it really hard to wait to kiss you."

You froze. You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Then your hand dropped from his face into your lap, and you just sat there, staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

Frank started chuckling. Partly at your reaction, which was, admittedly, pretty adorable, but partly because the tension had grown so thick between you that he needed some kind of release, before he did something impulsive, like kiss you right here, right now, bet be damned.

"You can't say stuff like that," you finally managed, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to compose yourself.

He raised his eyebrows, outrage coloring his features. "I can't say things like that?" He gestured between the two of you, voice pitching higher with disbelief. "You're the one who started this whole thing!"

You started giggling. "This whole thing? What's that supposed to mean?"

"The kissing thing!" Frank said, and immediately wanted to die.

Because yeah. Yeah, he'd just said that. Out loud. Like some kind of flustered teenager who'd never done this before. He could feel heat creeping up his neck, could see the way your giggles intensified at his expense.

"You know," you managed as you kept giggling, "we don't have to do it if you don't want to."

Frank turned his head toward you fully, slightly more serious. "I want to," he said sincerely. "Definitely want to."

He smiled, and you smiled right back.

Then you stood up, brushing off the back of your scrubs casually, like you hadn't just turned his entire world upside down in the span of ten minutes.

"Good," you said, looking down at him with that playful glint back in your eyes. "Well, I hope you bet right, then." You smiled, and then you stretched your hands out toward him.

Frank stared at them blankly for a moment, confused. What were you—oh.

You were trying to help him up.

His back. He hadn't even thought about it when he sat down next to you, hadn't considered the consequences of perching on concrete steps for who knows how long. But you had.

And suddenly he could feel the insecurity biting at him. The disgust curling in his stomach at himself, at all the ways he was damaged and not worthy of someone who remembered things like this.

But, you just leaned forward, grabbed his hands yourself and waited. He pushed up, using your grip for balance, and felt the familiar twinge in his lower back as he straightened. You let go of his hands immediately, as soon as he was up, pretending not to see the slight pained grimace he couldn't quite hide.

You just turned toward the door, casual as anything. "Want to work on a case together?" you asked, already walking back toward the ER.

Frank fell into step beside you, matching your pace. "Yeah." He glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It's my turn this time, though."

You'd always had this thing. When one of you got tired of working solo, you'd grab a case together. And you alternated, each time, whoever hadn't picked last time got to choose the next one.

"I remember," you said, smiling at him.

The two of you worked for a couple more hours, pulling you in opposite directions more often than not. A trauma here, a consult there, a patient crashing in between. You barely got to talk about anything else, just quick glances across the department, brief touches when you passed each other in the hallway.

At some point, Frank had gathered enough intel to form a theory.

He'd pieced together fragments from a dozen different conversations and convinced himself he'd cracked it. He'd written it down on that blank piece of paper, folded it carefully, and slipped it into your locker.

Then he'd spent the rest of his shift praying it was right.

The two of you, in your busy days, completely missed the gathering that happened near the end of the shift. A cluster of nurses and residents huddled around someone's phone. The real reason for the Westbridge shutdown had been exposed. A cyberattack.

Frank caught the tail end of the conversation as he walked past, and the color drained from his face so fast he felt dizzy.

Damn it. He had it completely wrong.

From that moment on, it was better to avoid him.

Most people could sense it. He was pissed. Terribly, deeply pissed. At himself, at the situation, at the cruel twist of fate that had dangled a kiss in front of him and then snatched it away.

At the end of the day, Frank walked toward your locker in the slowest steps possible. Each one felt heavier than the last, dragging against the floor like they didn't want to get there. He sighed to himself, running a hand through his hair, the strands you'd freed from the gel now falling naturally across his forehead.

And there you were.

Standing by your locker, holding his paper. The one with his wrong theory written on it. You hadn't opened it yet. "Walk me home?" you asked, smiling.

Frank summoned every ounce of acting ability he possessed and put on an arrogant smile. "Yeah, sure," he said smoothly, like he hadn't just lost the thing he wanted most. Like he was totally fine with waiting a little longer for that kiss.

You smiled at his reaction, turning to grab your jacket from the locker. Frank watched you for a moment, then stepped forward.

He helped you into your jacket, his hands settling on your shoulders briefly before sliding down to the buttons. He started fastening them slowly, starting from the bottom and working his way up. You watched his face, trying to gauge whether he'd gotten it right. When he reached the top button, he shot you a confident smile. He wouldn't have to keep the mask up for long, anyway. He just had to make it through the walk and to your front door.

The two of you headed out into the cool night air. You chitchatted about dinner plans, what you might make, whether you'd order in, if there was anything good in your fridge.

Soon enough, you were at your front door.

You reached into your bag and pulled out the paper. The paper that would determine whether tonight ended with a kiss or not.

"So." You smiled up at him, trying to keep your voice light. "Did you guess it right?"

Frank stood on the step below you, but he was still at your height. He grinned at you. Weakly, maybe, but a grin nonetheless. While nodding his head, he said, "Guess you'll have to see for yourself."

You hesitated when you saw the way his eyelashes flickered when he moved his head. You knew that tell. Every time he spoke with a grin and nodded his head like that, it was a lie. You'd learned that about him months ago, back when you were just coworkers who noticed things about each other.

"Power supply unit failure," you read aloud.

Frank nodded, shuffling his feet against the ground below. His eyes didn't quite meet yours.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting the silence stretch.

"Guess I got that wrong," he grimaced finally, a self deprecating smile tugging at his mouth. "Good thing I didn't bet any money."

You raised an eyebrow. "Was the loss here not just as big?"

You were teasing him. Obviously. Poking fun at his deflection, at the way he was trying to make this about money when you both knew what was really on the line.

But he didn't realize you were teasing. Or maybe he did, and he was worried that you were jokingly hiding your real feelings. He held your eye contact, his blue eyes steady and serious. "No, it's bigger."

You tilted your head, trying to gauge if he was lying. Trying to read him the way you always could. But his gaze didn't waver. He meant it. Losing the chance to kiss you was bigger than any amount of money.

You looked back down at the paper in your hands. Squeezed it slightly. Your fist balled up tightly around the edges, crinkling the corner, as you made a decision for yourself. Quickly, before you could overthink it, you stuffed the paper back into your bag.

You looked up at him. He'd followed your hand movements with his eyes, watching you shove the evidence away, but he still wasn't looking at you directly, like he couldn't bear to see disappointment on your face.

And then you leaned in.

It was a bit awkward, you were too shy to touch him to close the distance properly. But you were confident enough to press your lips against his. A kiss that lasted barely five seconds before you pulled away.

Mostly because Frank didn't react. He just stood there, frozen, staring at you like he was trying to catch up with what had just happened.

You fell back onto your feet. "Thought you deserved a reward for trying," you said, smiling weakly. Trying to hide the fact that he hadn't kissed you back.

Frank stared at you for another long moment, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. And then he finally spoke. "That's it?"

Your head snapped up, meeting his eyes. "What?" you asked, breathless, still reeling from what you'd done.

"That's all I get?" He tilted his head slightl.

"I—what?" you asked again, still unable to quite catch up.

He smiled at your shy reaction, the way you were suddenly flustered, suddenly uncertain, after being so bold just moments ago. And then his hands came up and framed your face and his lips were back on yours.

This time, you were the one who took a second to realize what was happening.

He was actually kissing you. Really kissing you.

You leaned in immediately, closing the small distance until you were chest to chest, your hands flying up to his biceps and gripping them tightly. His lips moved against yours and they felt just as nice as you'd always imagined they would. Better, even.

Frank couldn't help the smile that crept up his face when he noticed the taste of your lips. Vanilla. Your chapstick. You'd planned and hoped for this.

The thought made him smile so wide he had to break the kiss, his lips curving against yours until they couldn't stay connected anymore. You were grinning as well, couldn't stop if you tried. Frank kept his eyes closed for a moment, just making sure this was real. Then he opened them, needing to know if you were okay with what just happened.

You were more than okay. "Do you feel better about your reward now?" you spoke, grinning up at him.

Frank joined you in smiling, his thumbs brushing softly against your cheekbones. "Almost," he mumbled.

And then he leaned in and kissed you again.

This one was longer and slower. Your heart beat frantically against your ribs, pure happiness flooding through every part of you. You would've felt embarrassed about how hard it was pounding, if you hadn't been able to feel Frank's heartbeat against yours at the same time, just as fast, just as overwhelmed.

When he finally pulled back, your noses were still touching, neither of you willing to create any more distance than absolutely necessary.

"Still not enough," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, "but it'll do for now."

You smiled even wider, if that was possible. Your hands were still gripping his biceps, your body still pressed against his, and you had never felt more alive.

He watched you for a second, his blue eyes soft for you, before a grin spread across his face. "You knew I wasn't going to get it right," he said, his tone teasing. "You just wanted an excuse to kiss me."

He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing softly across your cheek, lingering there like he couldn't stop touching you. His confidence was creeping back, that familiar cockiness you'd missed so much.

"So?" you said, smiling up at him, squeezing his biceps for emphasis. "Are you complaining?"

It happens on an otherwise ordinary afternoon, the kind that starts with dishes in the sink, laundry waiting in a basket, and you telling yourself you will sit down in “just a minute” after you finish one more thing. You’re in the kitchen, moving on autopilot the way you always do, because the house never really stops needing something from you, and you’ve gotten so used to carrying all of it that the warning signs barely register anymore.

The room tilts once, very slightly, like your body is trying to tell you to slow down, but you brush it off. Stress, you think. Exhaustion. Maybe your period is late because you have been running yourself too hard again, juggling Aria, Michael, the house, the endless little tasks that never seem to end. You reach for the counter...

And the next thing that happens is the sound of your own body hitting the floor.

It is not dramatic in the way people imagine it. No warning, no graceful collapse, just a heavy, frightening thud and then nothing. The kitchen goes blurred at the edges, then dark, then all you can hear is a small, panicked voice that sounds far away at first and then suddenly very close.

“Mama?”

Aria.

Her little footsteps come rushing into the kitchen, fast and uneven, and when she sees you on the floor, her voice breaks immediately. “Mama!” She runs to you, tiny hands hovering over your face like she is afraid to touch you wrong, afraid you might disappear if she does. Your vision flickers in and out, and you can barely keep your eyes open long enough to see her frightened face above you. She sounds so small, so terrified, that something in your chest aches even through the fog.

“Baby…” you manage, though even that feels weak.

She starts crying at once, but there is no hesitation in her, no freezing in panic. You and Michael taught her what to do for emergencies, because Michael insisted on it more than once what to say, what numbers to dial, how to stay calm enough to ask for help. And now, with tears streaking down her cheeks, she does exactly what he taught her.

Her tiny fingers fumble with the phone on the counter, but she gets it, and when the dispatcher answers, Aria’s voice trembles hard but stays determined.

“Help… help my mama,” she sobs, sucking in a breath. “Please. She fell down.”

The dispatcher speaks gently on the other end, and Aria listens the best she can, repeating your address in a tiny shaky voice, exactly as instructed. “PTMC,” she says when asked where to bring you, because that is where Papa works. Because in her little mind, that is where safety lives. When the ambulance arrives, the flashing lights fill the driveway in a way that makes the whole house feel too bright and too unreal. By then you are awake enough to register movement, voices, the weight of being lifted carefully onto a stretcher, but everything still feels floaty and strange around the edges.

And then Aria is there again, holding onto the side of the gurney with both hands, crying quietly while the paramedics work around her. One of them asks if she is okay, and she nods even while tears are still falling. “I called 911,” she says, as if this is both her proof and her apology.

“You and papa taught me.” There is so much pride in that last part, even through the fear, that your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. She looks so small beside the stretcher, so brave and terrified all at once, and when she tells you again in a trembling voice, “I called the ambulance like Papa said,” you want nothing more than to scoop her up and tell her she did everything right.

At PTMC, the moment the ambulance doors open, Michael is already moving. He sees the stretcher before anything else, sees your face and Aria’s tears and the way the whole world seems to go still around them. His expression changes so fast it is almost startling—professional reflex first, fear underneath it, and then something sharper when Aria looks up and spots him.

“Papa!” she cries, rushing toward him before anyone can stop her, still clutching the edge of her stuffed bunny that one of the paramedics tucked into her arms. Michael drops down instantly, one hand on her shoulder and the other already reaching for you as they wheel you into the ER. “What happened?” he asks, and there is no doctor voice now, only father and husband, strained thin with worry.

Aria answers for you because you can’t yet explain it properly. “Mama fell,” she says, still crying. Then, as if remembering something very important, her little face straightens with effort and she adds, “I called the ambulance. Just like you said, Papa.” Michael looks up at her sharply then, his eyes widening for a split second as the words hit him not because he doubts her, but because there is something so heartbreaking and beautiful in the fact that she did exactly what he taught her to do, even while she was scared out of her mind. He cups the back of her head immediately and kisses her temple, whispering, “You did good, baby. You did perfect.”

The medical side moves quickly after that. Dana is there first, all focused calm and familiar reassurance, while Samira steps in to help with your vitals. Michael stays close enough to see everything but far enough to not get in the way, which might be the hardest thing for him to do. He keeps one hand on Aria and one on you whenever he can, his jaw tight with worry.

At first everyone thinks the fainting spell was just stress and exhaustion, maybe overwork from too much cleaning and not enough rest. You think it too. You are embarrassed, even a little annoyed with your own body, because it feels stupid to need an ambulance over something that probably should have been obvious.

Then Samira orders a routine test because your blood pressure is lower than they like and your symptoms do not quite fit only stress, and the room shifts in that quiet, almost invisible way hospital rooms do when the answer is not what anyone expected. Michael notices first, of course, because he is watching everything—your color, the staff’s tone, the tiny glance Samira gives Dana, the way the test panel is carried in with more care than before.

You are still half out of it when Dana returns, but she is smiling in a very particular way, the kind that says something has just been uncovered that will change the shape of the whole day.

“Michael,” she says lightly, and then looks at you. “Congratulations.”

You blink at her. “For what?”

For a second, nobody answers. Michael’s face goes blank in that stunned way of his, his eyes moving from Dana to Samira to you as if the room has just rearranged itself around a truth he hasn’t reached yet. Then Samira gives you the kindest, gentlest smile and says, “You’re pregnant.”

The words barely land at first. Your brain catches on them and then drops them again, because they do not fit inside your current understanding of the day. Pregnant. That is not possible, or rather, it is possible, but not something you had been thinking about because you were too busy being tired, too busy chasing schedules and chores and Aria’s needs and Michael’s long hours and the constant noise of life. The lateness of your period suddenly makes horrible, bright sense in a way that makes your face heat all at once. Stress. Exhaustion. The symptoms you had blamed on everything except this.

Michael makes a sound somewhere between disbelief and shock and a laugh that never fully becomes a laugh. “Pregnant?” he repeats, as if saying it out loud might make the room confirm it more clearly. His eyes flash to yours instantly, and the emotion there is so raw and surprised that for a second even you cannot look away. “You’re pregnant?”

And because the universe apparently enjoys watching him process things one after another, Aria gasps too, loud and delighted through her still-sniffling tears. “A baby?” she whispers, then looks between you and Michael like this is the most important discovery ever made. “Mama, is there a baby?”

The whole room falls briefly into stunned silence before Michael’s face changes again and this time into something softer, more careful, more stunned than anything. He steps to your side immediately, one hand moving to your shoulder while the other hovers near your stomach like he is suddenly aware of how to touch you all over again. “You didn’t know?” he asks, and the answer is so obvious in your expression that he exhales slowly, almost laughing in disbelief. “You really didn’t know.”

“No,” you say, still trying to process it yourself. “I thought it was stress.”

Michael looks at you for a long second, then gives that tiny helpless shake of his head that says of course you did. Because you always carry too much. Because you always assume your body will keep up with your life. Because none of you imagined this would be the reason you passed out in the kitchen while your daughter called for help like a tiny emergency operator.

And then Aria, still holding onto the side of your bed with her stuffed bunny tucked under one arm, looks at your stomach with absolute wonder and says, “I saved Mama and the baby?”

That does it. Something in Michael’s face breaks open completely. He laughs once under his breath—not because anything is funny, but because it is overwhelming and ridiculous and terrifying and beautiful all at once. He leans down, kisses Aria’s forehead, then bends to kiss yours too, his hand warm against your cheek.

“You did,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. “You absolutely did.”

Aria beams, still teary but proud in the way only a child can be when she knows she did something big. She hugs your arm carefully, then looks at Michael with all the seriousness in the world and says, “I called the ambulance like you taught me, Papa. I was very brave.”

Michael swallows hard, eyes shining as he wraps one arm around her and the other around you, drawing the two of you into him as gently as he can in a hospital room that has suddenly become the place where your family’s life changes all over again. “You were,” he whispers. “You were perfect.” And standing there between the beeping monitors and the quiet hum of the ER, with Aria tucked close and your hand in his and a brand-new tiny life already beginning to exist, he looks at you like he cannot decide whether to laugh or cry first.

Maybe both.

Probably both.

You had been standing by your locker after lunch, struggling to shove an overstuffed science textbook onto the shelf while complaining loudly about homework.

“…And Mrs. Collins acts like we don’t have other classes–”

Suddenly, you felt an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

You barely even startled.

Clark’s other arm extended out in front of you both, camera already in hand. “Smile!”

You instinctively did.

Click.

The picture captured your laughter halfway through it, your smile uneven and genuine while Clark grinned beside you, cheeks pink from both embarrassment and triumph.

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him afterward.

Clark only shrugged, slipping the camera back around his neck. “You looked cute.”

Your stomach did something strange at that. You ignored it completely.

-

After that, it just kept happening.

Clark would appear out of nowhere in the hallways, at football games, during field trips, while waiting for the bus.

One arm around your shoulders.

Camera held out in front of you both.

“Smile!”

And you always did.

There was the picture from eighth grade where your braces had just come off and Clark’s hair was too long because Ma Kent hadn’t convinced him to get it cut yet.

The one from freshman year football tryouts where Clark looked awkwardly enormous beside you, both of you flushed pink from the autumn cold.

The blurry one from sophomore year where you were laughing so hard your head had fallen against his shoulder after he told you a terrible joke.

And another from junior year Homecoming preparations where you had streaks of paint on your cheeks from decorating while Clark looked at you instead of the camera entirely.

Every year, more photos. More memories.

And always the same pose.

Clark beside you with his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders like it belonged there.

Like you belonged there.

-

At least half the pictures weren’t actually centered properly.

Because Clark was rarely looking at the lens.

Ma Kent noticed first.

One evening during your sophomore year, she sat at the kitchen table flipping through freshly developed prints while Clark pretended not to hover nervously nearby.

“Hm,” she hummed softly.

Clark froze. “What?”

She held up one of the photos.

You stood in the foreground smiling brightly into the camera while Clark looked down at you instead, smiling softly in a way that made his feelings painfully obvious.

“Nothing,” Ma Kent said innocently.

Clark turned red instantly.

“Ma.”

Jonathan Kent leaned over her shoulder.

Then, “Oh,” he hummed knowingly.

Clark looked seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

“You guys are making this weird.”

“We didn’t say anything,” Martha replied.

“That makes it worse!”

-

By senior year, the tradition was so automatic that neither of you even thought about it anymore.

You’d take pictures during lunch breaks, before classes, after games.

Sometimes when you were tired or stressed or laughing too hard to stand properly.

Clark always found a reason.

One afternoon near graduation, you stood outside Smallville High watching students sign yearbooks while the spring wind whipped around everyone’s clothes and hair.

You had been talking about college applications when suddenly…

Warmth pressed against your side. Clark’s arm looped around your shoulders.

The familiar weight settled against you so naturally that you leaned into him without thinking.

His camera lifted.

“Hey,” you laughed. “Another one?”

Clark smiled softly.

“Another one.”

Click.

For a moment afterward, neither of you moved.

The camera lowered slowly.

You glanced up at him.

Clark was already looking at you.

There was something different in his expression then.

Softer. More nervous somehow.

Like he wanted to say something and didn’t quite know how.

Your heart skipped strangely.

“You know,” you murmured, smiling slightly, “we probably have hundreds of these by now.”

Clark huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

“You’ve been doing this for years.”

“I know.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

Clark blinked.

Like the answer should’ve been obvious.

Then his expression softened, making your chest feel warm. “Because,” he said quietly, “you’re my favorite person.”

Teenagers laughed nearby. Someone shouted across the parking lot. Wind rustled through the trees overhead.

But all you could hear was him.

Clark immediately looked nervous afterward, ears turning pink.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly.

But you were already smiling.

Because maybe, just maybe, you had always known.

Even before either of you had words for it.

Some part of you had always understood that these weren’t just random pictures.

Clark had been preserving pieces of the best parts of his life.

And every single photo had you in it.

-

Years later, the camera still existed. It was a little older, a little worn around the edges.

The strap had been replaced twice. There were tiny scratches near the lens, fingerprints that never fully cleaned away, and a faint crack near the battery compartment from when Clark accidentally dropped it during a high school camping trip.

But he still kept it.

Because it held pieces of his life inside it.

The church buzzed softly around you. Guests were talking quietly, music was drifting through the reception hall nearby, lights warm and golden overhead.

For one small moment, it was just the two of you standing alone near the side hallway after the ceremony.

You were still glowing from it all.

Your wedding gown pooled softly around your feet, delicate and beautiful and slightly wrinkled already from dancing and hugging and crying through half the vows.

Clark stood beside you in a dark tuxedo, tie loosened slightly now, dark hair messy from everyone grabbing him in congratulations all evening.

And yet, despite everything…he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You noticed the familiar camera in his hands immediately.

Your smile widened instantly.

“No way,” you laughed softly.

Clark’s cheeks pinked slightly. “What?”

“You brought it?”

“Of course I did.”

You shook your head fondly. “Clark Joseph Kent…”

He stepped beside you automatically, like muscle memory.

One arm wrapped around your shoulders exactly the same way it always had since middle school.

The other extended outward with the camera.

You pressed your cheek against his instinctively.

Both of you grinned.

Click.

The flash briefly lit the hallway.

And for one second after the flash, Clark just looked at you.

His wife.

The girl from all those blurry school selfies.

The love of his life standing beside him in white.

Emotion flooded his face so openly it made your chest ache.

Then he leaned down and kissed you softly.

Like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to.

“Mrs. Kent,” he sighed against your lips, lips turning into a grin when you smiled.

Somewhere behind you, someone wolf-whistled.

Neither of you cared.

-

A year later, the camera captured another version of you both.

Older again.

The photo was taken in the nursery half-finished around you.

Tiny clothes folded nearby. A crib Clark had assembled slightly crooked because he kept getting distracted talking to your stomach.

You stood in front of the mirror, heavily pregnant now with Leia.

Clark appeared beside you like always.

One hand held the camera out.

But this time, his free arm snaked around your waist, hand resting gently against your belly.

You leaned back into him with a sleepy smile while Clark looked absolutely overwhelmed with happiness.

Click.

-

Then came the photo that became everyone’s favorite.

You sat in the hospital bed exhausted and glowing all at once, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleeplessness.

And in your arms…tiny newborn Leia.

Clark stood beside you shirtless. He insisted on feeling Leia’s skin on his own.

One arm wrapped around your shoulders carefully.

The other held the camera outward.

You leaned your head against him instinctively while Clark stared directly into the lens with tears visibly gathered in his eyes.

Little Leia slept peacefully between you both.

Click.

The first official Kent family selfie.

Ma Kent cried the first time she saw it developed.

Pa quietly carried a copy in his wallet for years.

Clark kept the original tucked safely away like treasure.

-

The next favorite came four years later.

The photo was slightly more chaotic this time.

Four-year-old Leia stood balanced on the hospital bed beside you, grinning so hard even when she was missing one of her front teeth. 

You held newborn Jon against your chest while trying unsuccessfully to keep Leia from bouncing too hard near the baby.

Clark stood beside all of you laughing openly.

One arm around your shoulders.

The camera extended in the other hand.

Leia had both hands cupping Jon’s tiny face proudly.

Click.

The photo came out imperfect.

Leia was blurry from moving too much.

Jon looked deeply unimpressed with existence.

Your eyes were half closed from exhaustion.

Clark was mid-laugh.

And somehow, it was perfect.

-

The photo albums grew thicker over time.

From middle school hallways. Football games. Proms. College. Wedding pictures. Pregnancy. Babies. Birthdays. Lazy Sunday mornings.

Every version of your life together preserved in tiny frozen moments.

And through almost all of them, one thing remained exactly the same, with Clark’s arm around your shoulders.

Like no matter how much time passed, no matter how your lives changed…some part of him would always be that middle school boy with a camera who loved you so much he wanted proof you existed beside him.

-

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1 Unauthorized Draping in a High-Risk Zone

Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. It’s not a conscious thing you do, but you move anyway. You figure it’s your nervous system trying to siphon off all the anxious energy that perpetually resides within you.

This is just how your body chooses to cope, with tiny, repetitive motion, as if it can shake the dread loose before it calcifies into tears or sweat or both.

You make an effort to stop. To try and plant your feet, tell yourself to be good and normal and someone who belongs in this intimidating world.

But your brain pipes up with its favorite playlist: don’t touch anything blue, don’t lean on anything that costs more than your rent, don’t talk unless someone with a PhD says your name first, don’t be weird, don’t be you.

Not you-you. Not the klutzy, apology-powered wind-up doll who says “sorry” when someone else steps on your foot and once high-fived a paper towel dispenser by accident (don’t ask).

“Wrong hallway. Wrong badge.”

Shit.

Every neuron in your body slams on the brakes at once, and when you turn, it’s with the same slow, dawning horror of someone realizing they’ve just wandered into the morgue by mistake, except instead of toe tags and chillers, you’re greeted by six feet of brutal posture and eyes that look like they haven’t seen joy since the inventions of pagers.

You look down at his own badge and frown. Dr. Langdon. The senior resident with the god complex and the too-loud temper and the rehab stint. 

He’s severe. That’s your first thought. Gaze that makes your mouth dry up and hate how immediately attractive you find him in that hyper-competent, morally disapproving kind of way.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, hi, sorry, I swear this was an accident, maybe even please don’t kill me but you don’t get the chance, because he’s already moving.

Coming close enough that you can see the indent on his chin, flexing with every angry breath he takes.

His hand then moves to your shoulder while the other catches the tie at your gown and tugs it with quick efficient impatient.

What is happening?

Your ears burn, heart going loud, obnoxiously so, like it’s trying to escape your ribcage and run laps around the hallway.

This is the part where you do something. Step back maybe? Speak? React? Anything that might come across to the effect of: hey stranger danger why are you touching me like that?

Instead, you freeze completely, letting him reposition you like an object with poor spatial awareness, standing there like the world’s most pathetic statue. 

“I — wait, I thought —” you squeak, and it’s not a strong performance, not even close, just a frantic jumble of syllables strung together with the blind optimism that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let you explain yourself.

He doesn’t. He talks right over you, his words slicing through your sentence. 

“You’re not cleared,” he says, cool and direct, the kind of tone that doesn’t invite conversation so much as it ends it. Then, as if the knife needed twisting: “No one told you to suit up.”

He undoes the final knot, as if he’s unwrapping an inconvenience instead of peeling the last bit of your dignity off your shoulders, and when you don’t drop the gown fast enough he just takes it from you, tossing it in the linen bin.

He shoves a chart into your hands.

“Triage notes need updating,” he says. “Do that.”

You’re still rooted to the spot, stunned into inaction, gripping the clipboard like it's the only thing keeping you upright. 

You manage one step backward. Then another. It feels like learning to walk again.

Behind you, he adds, “And drink some water. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

2 Manual Dexterity: Failed Check

You’re staring at your hands. More specifically, the gloves that reside there. They feel weird on your skin, too loose at the fingertips, too bunchy on the palms.

There’s this awful puff of air trapped between your fingertips and the latex, and you keep flexing your hands like that’ll make it better, but it only makes the squish-snap worse. 

You could take them off and grab a better-fitting pair, but that would involve drawing attention, and you’re already pushing the acceptable intern limit for “visible fumbling.”

Especially not with Dr. Langdon standing nearby. Dark hair, cutting eyes, that carved-from-contempt expression that already seems to say you’re wasting his time just by existing. His whole aura screams, I have better things to do than acknowledge your carbon footprint, and it works, you’re been trying to stay out of his way since the Gown Incident (capital G, capital I), but he has this unnerving talent for appearing exactly where you don’t want him to be. 

And you could maybe cope with that, if your body didn’t decide to implode every time he got close. Five feet is the threshold, apparently. Any closer and all the blood rushes to your cheeks.

You’re so focused on pretending to be normal (chin up, shoulders back) that you don’t even realize he’s moved until it’s already happening.

A common theme, apparently.

His hand is around yours, lifting up your own like it’s some sort of misfiled lab result and brings it up under the light. He turns it over once. Then again.

You think for a second he might have forgotten it’s attached to a living, breathing person.

His brows furrow in what you assume is either concentration or deep disappointment. Probably the later.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, because that’s all your vocal cords will give you right now and you’re deeply afraid of drawing more attention than he already has.

He doesn’t answer, but rather just releases you hand. The loss of contact leaves a strange chill behind.

He stalks off toward a shadowy corner of the room that apparently hides a second supply cart.

A cart you’ve walked past, what, twenty times? He crouches, grabs a glove box from the bottom shelf, glances at the size like he’s memorized your hands from the quick thirty second glance over he gave them, and straightens in one fluid motion.

He’s back in front of you before you can fix your face, reaching for your hand to unpeel the glove in a way that makes your knees whisper things like maybe buckle now?.

The material slides away with a snap, leaving your hand bare and tingling in the open air. 

“I can do it,” you hiss, “I knew they looked weird. I mean, not my hands, the gloves obviously, my hands are normal, at least I think they’re normal, unless you — no, sorry, what I meant was — I just didn’t know there were any smaller ones and I didn’t want to slow anyone down and —”

He positions the new, correct-sized, glove and slides it onto you, smoothing it down with expert hands. 

He has really nice hands you realize. You mourn the second the go out of view.

“Wrong size compromises dexterity.”

“Oh,” you say, and then immediately regret it, because oh is not a real response to anything, so you tack on a breathless, “Thank you. I mean — for noticing. And fixing it. Sorry again.”

You’re smiling now. Why are you smiling?

“Don’t thank me.”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “No, yeah. I didn’t. I mean, I did, but… un-thank you. Consider the gratitude rescinded. Retracted. Gone.”

What a loser.

You wish the floor would do you a solid and just open up, suck you in, maybe relocate you to a dimension where you’re not inventing new ways to embarrass yourself in front of the grumpiest man alive. Preferably somewhere tropical and remote. With no gloves.

He looks at you like he’s deciding whether or not to dignify that with a response.

Then: “You done?”

“Uh-huh,” you say, “Done. Done talking. So done.”

He lifts his chin, gestures down the hall toward curtain three, and starts walking.

You follow like a kicked puppy. A very polite, professionally dressed, medically licensed kicked puppy.

3 Redirecting a Human GPS Malfunction

“She’s hyponatremic but still alert, which makes me think it’s chronic rather than acute, and the reflexes were intact except for a slight delay on patellar, so I’m leaning away from neuro, but if her cortisol’s low again I think we need to rule out secondary adrenal insufficiency, especially since her ACTH levels haven’t come back yet and nobody seems concerned about the mild orthostasis.”

Dr. Langdon hums low in his throat. It’s not disapproval. But it’s not agreement either. It’s a sound that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of try again, but smarter.  

“And if the ACTH comes back low?”

“Then I’d want a CRH stimulation test to see if the pituitary’s response because if both ACTH and cortisol are low, we could be looking at hypothalamic suppression instead of adrenal failure, and at that point, imaging the pituitary would be the next step. Unless she’s been on chronic steroids, but I didn’t see anything in her med list to suggest that.”

“Good. But keep an eye on the sodium trend, if it spikes with fluids, you might be chasing the wrong diagnosis.”

Good.

It’s one word. One syllable. Not even said warmly, more of a clinical stamp of temporary adequacy. But your brain grabs onto it like a starved plant seeing sun for the first time in weeks.

You want to keep your face still. You really try. You train every muscle into neutrality, schooling your expression like a child behind glass. But inside… inside it’s glowing. Confetti. Champagne. Tiny internal high-fives.

You got a good. From him. From Dr. Langdon, who looks at most people like they’re bad test results. Who’s allergic to praise. Who speaks in critiques and glares and weaponized silence.

“Yep. Sodium. Absolutely,” you nod eagerly. “You know, I read this case study once where a woman presented with severe hyponatremia after a hot yoga retreat and it turned out she’d been drinking like three gallons of water a day because she thought it was detoxing her live, and her sodium dropped to 118, which is horrifying, but she was totally asymptomatic until she passed out in her car.”

He looks at you. “You ever do that?”

You blink. “Sorry, do what?”

“Hot yoga.”

“I have! Um, I went through this whole phase junior year where I was like, trying to become one of those ‘balanced’ people who wake up early and do gratitude journaling and drink matcha and just like, glow all the time? So I signed up for a free week at this studio that was supposed to be ‘soul-transforming,’ which in hindsight should’ve been a red flag, but I was optimistic, and kind of desperate — anyway, I made it halfway through the first class before I realized I’d accidentally worn fleece-lined leggings, and then I couldn’t leave because the instructor locked the door for ‘heat-integrity,’ and —”

His fingers close over your collar, tugging you just enough to redirect you a few steps to the left before you cheek meets drywall.

“— and I was already sweating like crazy but trying to act normal because everyone else looked so serene, and then —”

He stops walking. You stumble to a halt just behind him, trying to get a handle on your breathing and your mouth, which have both been sprinting ahead without a permit.

“Watch where you’re going,” he says, flat and unbothered. “I’m not doing that again.”

You’re not quite sure what he means, but apologize anyway, “Right. Sorry.”

He pauses. Glances over his shoulder. “And stop apologizing.”

“Mhm. Got it.” You give him a weird little salute. Loser strike two.

“Go check on your patient.”

“Going!”

You make it three steps before his fingers wrap around your elbow. He spins you back around with minimal effort. “Wrong way.”

You glance sideways. “Thought you weren’t doing that again.”

He doesn’t let go yet. Just raises one eyebrow. “Don’t be a smartass.”

His mouth twitches. A small, tiny flicker of amusement. It feels like a secret you weren’t supposed to see, so you pretend not to.

4 Medical Intervention (Sandwich Required)

You’re not even sure when you stopped standing and started leaning, all you know is the supply cart is cool and metal and solid under your palm, which is more than you can say for your knees.

Sixteen hours in, eight traumas logged, and your internal organs are currently operating on a diet consisting of two cups of hospital coffee (burnt and betrayal flavored) and a single saltine you found crumpled in your pocket.

You blink against the sudden fuzz crawling at the edges of your vision, but it’s no use, the black spots are doing synchronized jumping jacks now. Little warning flares that you’re probably pushing your luck. Again.

Dana steps into your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “You okay, kid?”

You slap on a smile like a band-aid over a bullet wound. Your special-sauce if you ever had one.

“Yup! All good. Just needed a minute. Long day. A lot of… exciting cases. You know how it is.” You do a vague jazz-hands motion. “Crushing it.”

Your vision pulses again. You do not, in fact, appear to be crushing it, you’re very sure of that. Maybe in the way a soda can gets crushed under a steel-toed boot. 

“And I’m the Queen of England.” She takes one long look at your pale face and glassy eyes. “Sit. Before you faceplant and I have to explain to Gloria why we lost one to stubborn optimism.”

“I promise I’m fine! I just — stood up too fast.”

“Bullshit.” 

His hand appears at the same time as his voice, both faster than your excuses.

One moment you’re vertical and the next you’re yanked with just enough force, like he knows how much pressure you can take without crumbling.

His grip is all calloused heat, palm pressing into your arm as he pulls you into the chair.

The world tilts once, then slams back into place. Cold metal bites into your thighs. His hand lingers a second too long, fingers flexing like he’s still gauging whether you’ll tip over again. 

“I could’ve sat on my own, you know,” you grumble half-heartedly.

You glance toward Dana, hoping for backup, or at the very least a supportive eyebrow raise. She meets your gaze, chews her gum, and shrugs one shoulder in a perfect display of girl, please. Entirely unsympathetic. Possibly amused.

“Nope,” she says. “You were about one sway away from eating tile. Survival of the smartest, sweetheart. ”

“Don’t care if you could’ve,” he says as he crouches. “I’m not scraping you off the floor because you’re too much of a hard head to sit when you’re clearly crashing.”

Then, without asking (because when does he ever ask), he takes your wrist in his hand, thumb pressing gently into the inside. You try not to squirm.

“There’s a difference between committed and careless.” His brow furrows as he counts the beats under his thumb. “Right now, you’re leaning toward the wrong one.”

“I wasn’t trying to be careless, I swear. I just lost track of time, which is funny because I’m usually really good at that, like I even set alarms for hydration, but I ignored all of them because I didn’t want to miss rounds and then one trauma turned into five —”

You stop when you realize he’s still holding your wrist. And staring.

He exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head.

“You’ve got ten minutes here with food,” he says. He jerks his chin at Dana, who nods and heads for the cart without needing more. “Then fluids. Then, and only then, you can check on the lac in bay four.” His eyes cut back to you. “And if I see you wobble even once, you’re off the board for the night.”

“Yes. Yes sir – uh, not sir, just — yes. I’m staying.”

Dr. Langdon nods once, brushes his fingers briefly over your shoulder in what might be the lamest pat in human history (the universal ‘don’t make me come back’ signal), and walks off without another word.

Dana returns with a sandwich and a raised brow.

You unwrap it slowly. “Is he always so — uh — intense?”

She barks a laugh. “That was him being gentle.”

5 Objects in Motion (You) Meets Immovable Force (Also You, Apparently)

“—I’m telling you, he’s been on my ass before the sun even showed up,” Santos grumbles, tapping her pen against the desk. “I said good morning, and he looked at me like I suggested we kick a puppy together. Someone pissed in his Cheerios, and now I’m the one getting crucified for it.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe he just needs a snack. Or like… a hug.”

She snorts without looking at you. “I was thinking more along the lines of a double whiskey and a week locked in solitary with nothing but his own guilt complex, but sure. Hugs. Why not.”

“That’s so mean! Dr. Robby is not that bad. He just… glares at people like they personally ruined his life on occasion. He’s usually very kind.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me he’s just misunderstood and has a good heart underneath it all.”

“I mean… yeah. I kind of believe that about everyone. Doesn’t mean I’m right, but like… I’m not not hoping.”

Santo swivels in her chair, stares. “Even Langdon?”

You falter there. Step back. Physically, even, as if that’ll help distance you from the question, from the thought, because now it’s in there. 

Dr. Langdon. Frank Langdon. The man who speaks in flat tones and judgmental silences. Who glares like it’s a sport and you’re always losing. 

And now you’re thinking about him with… layers. Like, not just as a terrifying force of workplace intensity, but as someone who maybe carries all that stormy energy because he doesn’t know what to do with the softer parts.

Someone who maybe, just maybe, has a good heart buried underneath a mile of barbed wire

You chew on the thought like it’s an overcooked piece of gum — rubbery, bitter, sticking to the inside of your skull even as you try to spit it out — and you’re not even sure what part is more disturbing: the possibility that Langdon has hidden depths, or the fact that your brain insists on exploring them like a museum exhibit you weren’t emotionally prepared for. 

But before you can get to the part where he maybe owns houseplants or secretly feeds stray cats behind the loading bay, the thought shatters, violently, like someone dropped a wine glass in the middle of your mental dinner party.

Noise. Sudden. Loud. A voice shouting something urgent, boots hammering the floor, movement that feels too fast for the space.

You flinch instinctively, start to pivot toward the commotion, but before your body can even decide what direction to go, a hand snaps around your waist and then you’re moving, pulled into something broad and unyielding and extremely human-shaped.

Specifically, Dr. Langdon-shaped.

Your cheek brushes the starchy edge of his scrub top. His arm curls in front of you, protective like a steel beam, while a crash cart screams past, inches from where you were just standing, the air it kicks up biting against your skin.

You realize, distantly, that you would’ve been directly in its path if not for him.

You can feel his heartbeat through the wall of muscle between you and everything else.

You can smell him, too. Clean, masculine soap invading your senses.

You shift, just slightly, enough to tilt your face upward.

He’s looking down at you like you’re a particularly complicated equation he’s trying not to solve out loud. And for a second, you don’t breathe. Not really. Because his grip tightens and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick down to your mouth.

“Jesus,” Santos mutters, breaking the spell as she peers after the cart. “You good? That thing was flying.”

You blink, realizing a second too late that Santos was talking to you.

“Huh?” You clear your throat, a sound that comes out way too dry. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

At the same moment, Langdon steps away. Lets go. And the absence is bizarrely loud, like someone hit mute on the part of your body that had been braced against him.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of not being touched. Of gravity reasserting itself. Of how your arms feel too light and your chest feels too tight and none of it makes any damn sense.

“You could’ve gotten flattened,” he mutters, jaw tight. It sounds like criticism, but there’s something else under it. Concern, maybe. Or frustration aimed more at the situation than at you.

You rub at your forearm, pretending it itches instead of tingles. “Yeah, well. I’m thinking of investing in high-vis tape and a ‘please don’t run me over’ sign.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you with that signature flat, heavy-lidded expression like even he can’t believe how often he has to save your life from your own proximity to disaster.

You can’t really believe it either.

“I won’t say thanks,” you say. “I know you hate that. And apologizing. But uh… I didn’t die. That’s… cool. For both of us. I mean, mostly me. But also you, probably, because paperwork would’ve sucked. I’m gonna leave before I say something dumber than that, which is a very low bar, so —”

“Do you really believe that?” he says behind you.

You stop. 

“What?”

“What you said earlier. About everyone?”

It takes a second. He’d heard that?

You scratch your cheek, suddenly feeling exposed.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “I really do.”

+1 Please Just Stay

The stairwell is freezing, cement bones and rebar spine, and you’re crumpled against the wall like a misfiled piece of paper. It’s quiet here, except for the stupid way your breathing bounces off the walls and makes it sound like someone else is crying too. 

But it’s just you. It’s always just you. The tears keep coming, hot and salty and mortifying. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, again and again, but they just keep returning, stubborn as guilt.

Everyone said it wasn’t your fault. In serious tones people use when they want to sound very sure. As if it makes a difference. It really doesn’t. 

It was your first patient death.

He was somebody’s father. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s son. And in the end, you were the last person to touch him. You watched the monitors go still. You felt his hand lose its warmth. 

Footsteps echo up the stairwell. 

Your body reacts accordingly, jolting upright like you’ve been caught doing something illegal (crying isn’t illegal, you remind yourself, but it sure feels like it), and your hands fly to your face.

Both of them. Too rough, too fast, trying to erase the emotions by brute force.

Your shoulders curl in, chin tucking down so far it could hit your collarbone. Hide, hide, hide. You try to stop the sniffling, will it down your throat, but it stutters out of you anyway, weak, wet, pathetic. Perfect.

“Oh — shit. Sorry.” It takes you half a second to recognize the voice. A half second too long, because by the time it clicks, it’s already too late. Dr. Langdon. 

Your stomach flips so intensely it feels like it’s trying to escape through your throat, a sudden swoop of nausea and disbelief tangled together. Of all people. 

You hear the shift, his footsteps faltering, uneven now, breath snagging mid-step before everything goes still. The stairwell swallows the sound. 

Then: “You’re crying.”

You let out a exhale that stumbles out halfway between a laugh and a cough.

It sounds pathetic, honestly, but you don’t have the energy to care. “That obvious, huh?”

Silence stretches long enough to get awkward, and you start to hope maybe he took the hint. Maybe he backed away, quietly, like a decent person who knows how to pretend they didn’t just catch someone crying their face off in a desolate place. Maybe you get to keep your breakdown private.

However, you aren’t so lucky.

“First time I lost a patient, I threw up in the supply closet.” He doesn’t sound embarrassed by it, just matter-of-fact, like he’s naming a side effect. “I told the attending that it was food poisoning. It wasn’t.”

You twist toward him, shoulders still hunched, face hot and raw. You’re sure you look like hell, and he sees all of it, but he doesn’t react. No flicker of discomfort. No awkward glance away.

“Does it… ever get easier?”

It sounds fragile on your tongue. Like you’re scared of the answer, but more scared not to ask.

He looks past you for a second. 

“No,” he says. Then, almost like an afterthought, “If it did, that’d be worse.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

He nods and you see the look on his face that suggests maybe he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

“Take a minute. If you need anything…” He hesitates. “Come get me.”

He turns, just slightly, like he’s giving you privacy. Respect. Distance. 

And maybe that was what you needed. What you thought you wanted not even two seconds ago. But not anymore.

Because the second he turns, the second his body shifts and his presence starts to pull away even by the smallest degree, panic claws its way up your chest like a reflex, like a toddler reaching out in the dark, and your hands shoot forward without asking permission from the rest of you, both of them closing tight around the soft fabric of his scrubs. Clumsy and fast and maybe too hard. 

You don’t even know what you're holding onto exactly, not really, except it’s him, and he’s warm and real and not going anywhere, not unless you let him, and for a second you just stand there like that, fists full of fabric, heart full of please don’t leave.

“Don’t —” you choke, the word cracking like it’s too big for your throat, and you bite it down fast, try again, quieter this time, like whispering might make it less desperate. “Can you just… stay. Just a minute. Please.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, and for a terrifying, breath-holding moment, you think maybe you misread it, maybe he’s about to step back, untangle himself from your grip, do the polite thing and leave you to cry in peace like people do when they don’t want to deal with someone else’s damage. 

His eyes drop to where your fists are bunched in his scrubs

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Okay.”

His arms come around you. Not expertly either. It’s real and maybe a little uneven, a little unsure, like he’s not totally certain where his hands are supposed to go.

But he does it anyway, one hand finding the back of your head, fussing with the tag on the back of your shirt, the other curling around your back.

And for the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re falling.

"It is -10°C (14°F) outside, baby." he pointed out, stepping closer. "There is literally slush on the ground. And you’re drinking… what is that? An iced latte?"

"With extra caramel," you corrected, shivering slightly despite yourself. "The temperature of my drink has no bearing on its quality or my health. In fact, the cold keeps me alert. Science, you know?"

Frank sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He set his own mug down and reached out, his warm palms settling over your ears, then sliding down to cup your face. His skin was warm, contrasting your cold one.

"You’re freezing," he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "Your hands are probably blue from holding the cup."

"They're fine," you mumbled, though you didn't pull away. You leaned into his touch, the warmth of him grounding you after a hard morning shift. "I just like eating the ice when I finish the coffee. It’s a texture thing that relaxes me."

"It's a 'you’re crazy' thing," he countered. He took the iced latte from your hand, ignoring your soft protest and set it on the table behind him. Before you could grab it back, he pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.

His scrub top was warm, smelling a mix of the sterile scent of the hospital and his perfume. He held you tight, his body acting as a human radiator.

"Five minutes," Frank whispered into your hair. "I’ll let you go back to your cold potion after your body temperature reaches a level that doesn't concern me as a medical professional."

"Is this a prescription, Dr. Langdon?" you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist and soaking in the heat. "Or you just needed a cuddle?"

"Doctor's orders," he said, kissing the top of your head. "Now stay still. You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re stubborn."

You stayed there for ten minutes because as much as you loved your iced coffee, Frank Langdon was significantly good at keeping you calm and warm during long shifts.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.

The remote had fallen from your hand. One arm was tucked under your head and the other was draped across your stomach. Your legs were curled up beneath you, feet tucked under a throw blanket that had slipped halfway off and was now on the floor.

Frank stared at you, and for a long moment, he didn't move. It was so late and he knew that you'd been up since early morning.

And yet here you were.

The guilt hit him like it always did. He should have told you to go to bed. He should have been home hours ago. He should have been a lot of things that he wasn't.

But underneath the guilt, he couldn't help the love that crept up on him.

You waited.

Frank swallowed hard and finally stepped closer to the couch. He stopped at the edge of the cushion and looked down at you.

Oh, you looked so terribly pretty.

It almost pushed away the feelings of guilt. Almost.

Frank lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight. His thigh pressed against your hip through the blanket, and you didn't stir.

He reached out to brush a strand of hair away from your face and tucked it gently behind your ear.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he murmured. His thumb traced across your cheekbone following the curve of it down toward the corner of your mouth. But you didn't wake up.

So, Frank bent down slowly, his back protesting again and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek.

Your eyes opened like Snow White waking from her enchanted sleep. You blinked up at him and it took a moment for your sleepy brain to process that he was home.

"Frank!" You sat up immediately and threw your arms around his neck before he could say another word.

Frank caught you easily. He pulled you close and pressed his face into the curve of your neck, smiling. "Hey pretty," he mumbled into your shoulder.

His hand moved up and down your back as you stayed in his arms. After a while he wondered if you'd fallen asleep again. It wouldn't have surprised him. You'd been exhausted, and he was warm, and sometimes you did drift off in his arms. It wasn't unusual.

But then you pulled back. "I missed you," your hands came up to cup his face.

Frank's throat tightened. "Missed you more," he managed and he sighed with so much relief and happiness that it made you smile. And your smile made him smile.

"You shouldn't have stayed up," he said finally. He let his hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles against your hip bones through your shirt. "It's late."

He felt the guilt creeping back in. You shouldn't have waited. You shouldn't have lost sleep for him. You deserved better than that.

"I don't mind," you said softly. Your fingers moved to his hair, pushing it back from his forehead where it had fallen during the long day. He needed a haircut. He'd been meaning to get one for weeks now, but there was never time, and honestly he liked the way you played with it when it got too messy. "I don't like falling asleep without you anyway."

"Me neither, actually," he smiled.

Before you knew it, the two of you were already in bed.

Frank shed his scrubs in the bathroom first. He brushed his teeth, turned off the bathroom light and padded into the bedroom in just his boxers. He could see you already curled up under the covers, your eyes half closed, fighting sleep for the second time tonight.

"You didn't have to wait," he said softly.

You made a sleepy sound of protest. Frank smiled and slid into bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, and you rolled toward him immediately. He pulled you close, one arm sliding under your head, the other wrapping around your waist. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering in your hair.

"Don't take this as encouragement," he mumbled against the soft strands. "But I like seeing you wait up for me."

You giggled against his chest, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could look down at him. "See, I knew it," you grinned.

Frank raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence even though the smile tugging at his lips was giving him away completely. "Knew what?"

"Your smile's always too big whenever you find me on the couch." You poked his chest gently. "You pretend to be all grumpy about it, but I know you."

"Alright, detective," he said, his voice warm with amusement. "You caught me."

"Obviously." You grinned, pleased with yourself. "I always do."

"I'll go for a better poker face next time," he promised, still smiling.

You settled back down against his chest, one leg hooked over his hips. "Never works with me," you mumbled against his skin.

You sat two desks away in the bullpen, half curled into your chair like you had been there for hours. One leg was tucked underneath you, the other lazily hooked around the chair leg, your posture completely indifferent to the concept of ergonomics.

Your pen rested between your teeth as you read through your notes, chewing on the plastic cap with quiet concentration. Papers were spread around you in the organized chaos that only made sense to you, highlighters scattered like colorful landmines across your desk.

Clark had walked into the newsroom a dozen times already.

And every single time, his eyes had found you first.

It was automatic now. Instinctive. Like breathing.

He loved everything about you.

Everything.

Clark loved the way you ate lunch like it was a small ceremony that had to be done correctly. The way you carefully unwrapped your burger before even touching the fries. The way you separated everything on the tray with almost surgical precision, as if the fries and the burger would start a territorial dispute if they came too close to each other.

The first time he had pointed it out, you had looked genuinely offended.

"They get soggy if you mix them."

Clark had nodded very seriously, like this was an entirely reasonable explanation, even though the logic behind it still baffled him.

He loved the way you walked.

You moved through the newsroom like you were always slightly ahead of the world, like your brain had already decided where you were going five minutes before your body caught up. It meant you walked just a little too fast for everyone else, weaving around desks and chairs with effortless momentum while other reporters scrambled to keep up with you.

Clark often slowed his pace just to watch you move ahead of him.

You talked with your hands constantly.

When you were passionate about something, your whole body seemed to join the conversation. Your fingers sliced through the air as you argued your points, your eyebrows lifting, your head tilting, your shoulders leaning forward as if the sheer force of your enthusiasm might push your argument into someone else's brain.

Clark had once watched you passionately explain to Jimmy why Gotham pizza was objectively inferior to Metropolis pizza for nearly ten minutes.

Jimmy had tried to argue back.

He had failed spectacularly.

Clark had sat nearby pretending to work while quietly enjoying every second of it.

He loved the tiny crease that appeared between your brows when you concentrated.

A faint line formed as you reread a paragraph in your notebook. Your pen tapped lightly against your lip while you thought.

Clark knew that crease better than he knew most people.

It appeared when you were writing something important.

Or when you were annoyed.

Or when someone said something particularly stupid in a meeting.

He loved the way you hummed under your breath when you wrote.

You never seemed to realize you were doing it. The sound was barely audible, a quiet melody that slipped out of you when your thoughts were moving faster than your hands could keep up with.

Clark could hear it from across the room.

He could hear your heartbeat too, steady and familiar among the hundreds of other heartbeats in the building.

If he listened closely enough, he could map your entire presence in the room without ever looking.

But he always looked anyway.

Because he loved the way you existed.

It was such a strange thought, he knew.

But it was true.

Clark loved the small things about you that no one else seemed to notice.

The way your nose wrinkled slightly when you laughed too hard.

The way you absentmindedly twirled the end of your pen when you were thinking.

The way you always stole the last donut from the break room but somehow convinced everyone it had been Jimmy.

You filled every space you stepped into with something warm and bright and stubbornly alive.

If Clark had been completely honest with himself, there was not a single thing about you that he would have changed.

Not one.

Except for one thing.

Your stubbornness.

Clark Kent was the strongest man on Earth.

That was not arrogance. It was simply fact.

He could lift buildings. He could stop speeding trains with his bare hands. He could hear disasters unfolding from miles away and cross the city in seconds to stop them.

But somehow, impossibly, you were still the most immovable force he had ever encountered.

Your stubbornness was legendary.

When you decided something needed to be done, it was done.

Logic, caution, and sometimes even basic self preservation had very little influence over your decision making process.

Especially when someone was in danger.

Clark had asked you to stay out of trouble more times than he could count.

You had never once listened.

And the frustrating part was that he understood exactly why.

Your heart was bigger than your sense of fear.

It meant that if there was a child trapped somewhere, you would be there trying to help before anyone else even thought to move.

If someone needed pulling out of rubble, you were already climbing into the wreckage.

If danger existed, you ran straight toward it.

Clark had saved the world more times than most people could imagine.

But you were the only person he knew who would argue with him about how to do it.

Which was exactly why he had been standing on the edge of the Daily Planet rooftop with his jaw clenched so tightly it was beginning to ache.

From above, the city looked like a wound.

Three blocks of downtown Metropolis had been carved open by the rampage of something large, angry, and very much not from Earth. Asphalt had been ripped apart like paper. Several cars had been overturned and tossed aside as if they had weighed nothing. A storefront window down the street still crackled faintly with leftover heat vision burns from when Clark had forced the creature away from a group of trapped pedestrians.

Smoke curled upward into the sky in lazy gray spirals.

Sirens screamed from every direction.

Police cruisers were arriving. Fire trucks were pushing through traffic. Ambulances lined the street like a chain of flashing red lights.

Clark had stopped the alien creature less than two minutes ago.

It had taken him roughly twelve seconds.

It had taken the city much longer to recover.

He stood there for a moment, scanning the area with the quiet focus that had become second nature. He listened for heartbeats. For panicked breathing. For the subtle sounds of shifting rubble that might indicate someone trapped underneath.

Everything was controlled now.

First responders were moving through the wreckage.

People were being evacuated.

No immediate threats remained.

Clark should have felt relief.

Instead he felt something else.

Because right in the middle of all the chaos, over the wail of sirens and the crackle of radios and the distant hum of emergency vehicles, Clark heard a voice that made his stomach drop.

"Oh my god, hold still, sweetie. It's okay. It's okay, I promise."

Clark closed his eyes.

He did not even need to look.

Of course.

Of course you were there.

He would have bet his entire savings account on it.

Two seconds later Superman landed in the street with a gust of wind strong enough to scatter loose papers across the pavement. The impact sent a small shockwave rippling outward that rattled broken glass along the sidewalk.

Several people gasped.

Someone shouted his name.

Clark barely noticed.

The creature was already gone. He had dealt with it moments earlier, launching it high enough into the atmosphere that it would not be returning any time soon.

What remained was the aftermath.

Overturned vehicles.

Cracked asphalt that split through the street like lightning.

Shattered windows.

And civilians scattered across the scene, some injured, others helping pull people free from the wreckage while first responders rushed to stabilize the area.

Clark's eyes moved across the scene quickly.

Paramedics treating a man with a broken arm.

Two firefighters cutting through a bent street sign to free someone pinned beneath it.

A group of police officers directing traffic away from the destruction.

And then he saw you.

Of course he did.

You were crouched beside a crushed sedan near the curb.

The car had clearly taken the brunt of the creature's rampage. The entire front half of the vehicle had been compressed inward, the hood folded like crushed foil, the windshield spiderwebbed with cracks. The frame had bent dangerously toward the passenger side, creating a pocket of space that was currently the only thing keeping the vehicle from collapsing entirely.

Inside the car, a child was crying.

And you, apparently, had decided that the correct response to this situation was to climb halfway inside it.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You have got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.

Your knees were on the pavement, your upper body leaning through the broken window as you tried to reach the child inside.

"It's okay," you were saying gently. "I'm right here. You're doing great. Just hold still."

The car creaked faintly.

Clark could hear the stress fractures in the metal frame shifting under the pressure of the weight.

One wrong movement and the entire thing would collapse.

And you were inside it.

Clark felt a headache forming.

You did not notice him until his shadow fell over you.

You looked up.

Your hair was half falling out of the clip you had thrown it into that morning. Dust smudged across your cheek and the shoulder of your jacket. There was a small cut on your knuckle that was already beginning to dry.

You blinked at him like this was a completely normal interaction.

"Oh," you said casually. "Hey."

Clark stared at you.

There were dozens of civilians around them now.

Phones were out.

Several people were filming.

A police officer was standing nearby with the slightly stunned expression of someone witnessing a very strange interaction.

Clark took a slow breath.

His voice, when he spoke, was calm.

Public calm.

The kind of calm Superman used when he was very deliberately not allowing himself to sound like he was about five seconds away from losing his patience.

"Ma'am," he said evenly, "that vehicle is structurally unstable. That could have been extremely dangerous."

You blinked up at him.

Then you glanced back inside the car.

"Yeah," you said, like this was a minor inconvenience, "well, the kid's leg is stuck."

Clark exhaled slowly through his nose.

"You should step back."

You squinted at him slightly.

"You could help."

Clark nodded.

"I am helping."

You gestured vaguely at the situation.

"You are standing."

Clark's eye twitched.

Behind him, one of the firefighters made a very suspicious coughing noise that sounded an awful lot like someone trying not to laugh.

Clark ignored him.

He crouched down beside you and placed one hand carefully against the twisted metal frame of the car.

The entire vehicle weighed less to him than a grocery bag.

He lifted it slowly, deliberately, making sure not to shift the frame too quickly.

The car rose several inches off the pavement like it was made of cardboard.

You immediately leaned farther inside.

"Okay buddy," you said gently to the child. "We're gonna slide you out, alright? You're doing amazing."

The kid sniffled but nodded.

Clark held the entire vehicle suspended with one arm while you carefully freed the child's trapped leg and helped him crawl out through the broken window.

The moment the child was clear, Clark gently lowered the crushed metal back onto the pavement.

Paramedics rushed over immediately, taking the child into their care.

The kid, however, did not want to let go of your hand.

You smiled softly and squeezed his fingers reassuringly before the paramedics gently guided him toward the ambulance.

Clark watched the whole exchange.

And despite himself, some of the tension in his chest loosened.

You were always like this.

You walked straight into danger without hesitation if someone needed help.

It was one of the things he loved most about you.

It was also the thing that terrified him the most.

You stood up and brushed dust from your clothes like this had been a completely normal part of your day.

Clark folded his arms.

"Ma'am," he said again, slightly tighter this time, "next time you should leave situations like this to trained professionals."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"Excuse me?"

"You could have been seriously injured."

You shrugged.

"I was careful."

Clark stared at you.

"You were inside a collapsing car."

"I had it handled."

Clark felt his jaw tighten.

A small crowd had started to gather nearby.

Several people were watching the conversation with open curiosity.

Someone whispered, "Is this happening right now?"

Clark forced the polite Superman voice again.

"It is my responsibility to keep civilians safe."

You folded your arms.

"And it is my responsibility not to ignore a kid trapped in a car."

Clark leaned slightly closer.

His voice lowered, just enough that the people filming might not catch the exact tone behind it.

"You are not invincible."

You looked him dead in the eye.

"You are."

There was a long pause.

Someone in the background whispered loudly, "Is she arguing with Superman?"

Another voice said, "I think she's winning."

Clark inhaled slowly.

Very slowly.

"Please," he said tightly, "step away from dangerous areas in the future."

You gave him a look.

Clark knew that look better than he knew his own reflection.

The look meant absolutely not.

The look meant you had already decided he was wrong.

Then, without another word, you grabbed your bag off the pavement and walked toward the ambulance area like the conversation had concluded exactly the way you wanted it to.

Clark watched you go.

Several firefighters were now openly grinning.

One of them muttered, "Good luck with that, Superman."

Clark groaned internally.

This was not over.

Not even remotely close.

Three hours later, Clark opened the apartment door.

He already knew what he would find before he stepped inside.

Your heartbeat had been in the apartment for the last forty-seven minutes.

He had heard it the entire flight home.

Still, when the door swung open and he stepped into the quiet warmth of the apartment, the sight in front of him somehow still managed to make his eye twitch.

You were already inside.

Of course you were.

You sat at the kitchen counter like the events of the afternoon had been nothing more than a mildly interesting inconvenience.

Your legs swung lazily from the stool while you ate cereal straight from the box, one hand buried inside it while the other held your phone. A half-full glass of milk sat beside you, completely ignored, because apparently pouring cereal into a bowl had been too much effort for the evening.

Clark slowly closed the door behind him.

Very slowly.

The soft click echoed through the apartment.

"Hi," you said casually, not even looking up from the cereal box.

Clark just stood there.

For a moment he didn't move at all.

His glasses were slightly crooked from how fast he had flown back across the city before changing into his civilian clothes. His hair was still wind-tossed, refusing to settle properly no matter how many times he had tried to smooth it down before coming upstairs. His tie hung loosely around his neck, half undone, the knot sitting somewhere near the middle of his chest like it had simply given up.

He looked like a man who had stopped an alien monster, saved a dozen civilians, and then flown home in record time to lecture someone.

You finally glanced up at him.

It took exactly half a second for you to read his face.

Your shoulders sagged slightly.

"Oh boy."

Clark walked forward slowly.

He dropped his keys onto the counter with a quiet clink.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Dust still clung faintly to the sleeve of your jacket. There was a faint bruise beginning to form on your forearm that definitely had not been there that morning. The small cut on your knuckle had dried into a thin red line.

Clark felt his jaw tighten.

"Do you have any idea," he began slowly, carefully, like he was trying very hard to keep his voice from rising, "how dangerous that was?"

You reached into the cereal box again.

You pulled out another handful of cereal.

Then you popped it into your mouth and chewed thoughtfully before answering.

"I mean," you said after swallowing, "technically you got there before the car collapsed."

Clark stared at you.

The silence stretched.

"That," Clark said slowly, "is not the point."

You shrugged like the concept itself was debatable.

"The kid is fine."

Clark dragged a hand down his face.

"You could have been crushed."

You tilted your head slightly.

"But I wasn't."

"You could have been."

"But I wasn't."

Clark pointed at you.

"This," he said, gesturing emphatically, "this right here is exactly the problem."

You grinned slightly.

Clark groaned and began pacing the kitchen like a man attempting to burn off frustration through sheer movement.

"I swear," he muttered, running a hand through his hair again, "you are like a magnet for danger."

You leaned back on the stool.

"I work in journalism."

Clark spun around.

"You climbed inside a collapsing car."

"There was a kid."

"There are always kids!" Clark said helplessly, throwing his hands in the air.

You softened slightly at that.

Your fingers stopped digging through the cereal box.

Your voice, when you spoke again, was quieter.

"I couldn't just leave him."

Clark stopped pacing.

The words settled between you.

That was the thing.

That was always the thing.

Your heart.

It had always been the problem.

Not because it was wrong.

Because it was too big.

You would never walk away from someone who needed help. It wasn't in you.

Clark sighed slowly and leaned against the counter across from you, folding his arms.

"I know why you do it."

You tilted your head at him.

"But?"

Clark hesitated.

Then he looked at you fully.

"But you scare the crap out of me."

Your expression shifted immediately.

The teasing light in your eyes faded.

Clark looked down at the counter for a moment before continuing.

His voice was quieter now.

More honest.

"I hear everything in this city," he said softly.

He tapped his fingers lightly against the counter.

"Every accident. Every scream. Every collapsing building."

You watched him carefully.

Clark met your eyes again.

"And then I hear you in the middle of it."

Your throat moved slightly as you swallowed.

Clark continued, his voice rougher now.

"You don't run away from danger."

You gave a small, sheepish shrug.

Clark sighed.

"You run toward it."

You looked down at the cereal box in your hands.

Your voice was quiet.

"Someone has to."

Clark pushed himself away from the counter and stepped closer.

Without a word, he gently took the cereal box out of your hands and set it on the counter.

"You don't."

Your eyes flicked back up to his.

"You already save people," Clark said quietly. "Every day."

You frowned slightly.

"With your stories," he continued. "With your voice. You hold people accountable. You expose things that would stay hidden if you didn't write about them."

His expression softened.

"You already make the world better."

You studied his face for a long moment.

Then you muttered quietly, almost stubbornly,

"Still helping."

Clark groaned and dropped his forehead against the counter.

The dull thud echoed through the kitchen.

"You are impossible."

You laughed.

And Clark hated how much he loved that laugh.

It was warm and bright and completely unapologetic.

He lifted his head and looked at you again.

The frustration in his face had softened now into something gentler.

Still exasperated.

Still tired.

Still deeply, hopelessly in love.

"I love everything about you," he said.

You blinked.

Clark sighed.

"Everything."

A small smile tugged at your mouth.

"But?"

Clark pointed at you again.

"The stubbornness."

You grinned.

Clark shook his head slowly.

"I am going to be giving this speech for the rest of eternity, aren't I?"

You slid off the stool and stepped toward him.

Before he could react, you wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your face against his chest.

Clark melted instantly.

His arms came around you without hesitation, holding you tightly against him.

"You love me," you mumbled into his shirt.

Clark sighed deeply and rested his chin on top of your head.

"Unfortunately."

You laughed again.

Clark pressed a soft kiss into your hair.

Quietly, almost like he was saying it to himself more than to you, he added,

"But I really do wish you'd run away from monsters."

You leaned back just enough to look up at him.

Your eyes were bright.

"No promises."

Clark closed his eyes.

He sighed.

"Of course not."

The accident happened two days later.

Tuesday morning.

Clark had been sitting at his desk at the Daily Planet with the deeply familiar expression of a man attempting to write something he did not care about in the slightest.

His computer screen glowed in front of him, displaying the exact same sentence it had displayed for the last fifteen minutes.

"City council officials discussed the proposed budget allocation for next year's infrastructure improvements..."

Clark stared at it.

He reread it.

He sighed.

Then he deleted it.

He started again.

"During Tuesday's meeting, members of the Metropolis city council..."

Clark stared again.

He sighed again.

Then he deleted that one too.

For the third time.

Three paragraphs.

Three deletions.

At this point he was pretty sure the article was actively resisting being written.

Across the bullpen, your desk sat empty.

Which was already suspicious.

You were supposed to be there. You had texted him earlier that morning saying you were running late, which was not unusual. You had also added something about coffee and traffic and a bagel emergency, which Clark had not fully understood but had accepted as a valid explanation.

Still.

The empty chair bothered him.

Clark leaned back in his seat slightly and rubbed his eyes.

Around him, the newsroom buzzed with the usual chaos.

Phones rang.

Jimmy was laughing too loudly at something on his screen.

Perry was already shouting at someone about deadlines.

Lois was typing with the aggressive speed of someone determined to destroy her keyboard before lunchtime.

Clark tried to focus again.

He placed his hands back on the keyboard.

He typed another sentence.

Then his hearing caught something.

Metal screeching.

Clark's head lifted slightly.

The sound came from somewhere downtown.

Brakes screaming.

A truck horn blaring far too long.

Clark went still.

Three blocks away.

His hearing sharpened automatically.

The sounds rushed in clearer.

A delivery truck engine roaring out of control.

The driver shouting something panicked.

Pedestrians yelling.

Running footsteps.

Then the violent, unmistakable crunch of metal as the truck slammed sideways into something.

Glass shattered.

Car alarms started screaming.

Clark was already halfway out of his chair when he heard it.

Your voice.

Clear as day.

"Hey! Hey, can you hear me?"

Clark froze.

He had literally talked about this.

Two days ago.

Two.

Days.

Clark inhaled slowly.

Then he stood up.

Across the room, Lois glanced up.

"You okay, Smallville?"

Clark adjusted his glasses with forced calm.

"Just remembered something I forgot to file," he said.

Lois squinted at him.

"You forgot something you were filing?"

Clark nodded.

"Very important paperwork."

Lois narrowed her eyes further.

Clark smiled awkwardly.

Then he walked quickly toward the stairwell.

The moment the door closed behind him, Clark vanished.

Three seconds later Superman landed in the middle of the intersection.

The impact cracked the pavement beneath his boots and sent a gust of wind rushing down the street.

People gasped.

Several phones immediately lifted into the air.

The truck had ended up halfway on the sidewalk.

Its front bumper had wrapped itself around a streetlight like an unfortunate metal hug. The hood was crushed inward, steam rising from the engine.

A parked car had taken the worst of the hit and now looked like it had been folded in half.

A small crowd had gathered at a cautious distance.

And right beside the passenger door of the truck, someone was kneeling on the pavement.

Clark didn't even need to look closely.

You were halfway inside the truck through the open passenger door.

One knee on the seat.

One foot still on the sidewalk.

You were trying to help the driver, who looked dazed and extremely confused, unbuckle his seatbelt.

"Okay, okay," you were saying gently. "You're good. Just stay with me. I'm gonna get this off you."

The driver blinked at you.

"I think I hit a mailbox," he said weakly.

"You hit a streetlight."

"Oh."

Clark landed beside the truck with a heavy thud.

The ground shook slightly.

Several people cheered.

Someone shouted, "Superman!"

You glanced over your shoulder.

"Oh," you said casually.

Clark stared at you.

"Oh. Hey again."

Clark continued staring.

"You," he said slowly, "were supposed to be at work."

You gestured vaguely at the wrecked truck.

"I took a quick field trip."

Clark rubbed his face.

Inside the truck, the driver looked between the two of you.

Then he squinted.

"Wait," the driver said slowly. "You guys know each other?"

You froze.

Clark froze.

The driver pointed vaguely between the two of you.

"Because this feels like a very specific kind of arguing."

You smiled nervously.

Clark cleared his throat.

"We have crossed paths," Clark said stiffly.

The driver nodded thoughtfully.

"Ah."

You finished unbuckling the seatbelt and helped the driver shift carefully toward the door.

Clark reached out and effortlessly lifted the entire front end of the truck upright so the frame stopped leaning dangerously against the streetlight.

The driver stared.

"Oh."

Then he looked at you again.

"You call him often?"

You shook your head quickly.

"No."

Clark sighed.

The driver looked between you both again.

"So you just happen to show up whenever she gets into trouble?"

Clark pointed at you.

"Exactly."

You crossed your arms.

"I was helping."

Clark gestured broadly at the wreckage.

"You were climbing into a crashed truck."

"He was stuck!"

Clark stared at you.

The driver slowly climbed out of the truck and leaned against the door.

Then he nodded thoughtfully.

"I feel like this argument has happened before."

Clark and you both spoke at the same time.

"Yes."

The driver nodded again.

"Yeah. I thought so."

The third time happened a week later.

Clark had almost started to believe you might actually try to be careful.

Almost.

It was early evening, the sky over Metropolis washed in deep oranges and fading gold as the sun dipped behind the skyline. Clark had been two neighborhoods away, high above the city, listening in the way he often did when he wasn’t actively responding to something.

The city had its own rhythm.

Millions of heartbeats. Conversations spilling out of apartment windows. The distant rumble of traffic. Music drifting from rooftop bars. The quiet hum of a thousand ordinary lives unfolding at once.

Clark could separate those sounds the way someone might sort through radio stations.

Most of the time, everything blended into background noise.

But sometimes something cut through it.

That evening, it had been the fire alarms.

A piercing mechanical wail echoed through several blocks, loud enough that Clark’s attention snapped toward it immediately.

Then came the crackling.

Fire had a very distinct sound when it started to spread. It snapped and hissed as it fed on wood, drywall, furniture, anything it could reach. Clark heard the flames licking through the walls of a small apartment building, the structure groaning faintly under the sudden heat.

People were shouting.

Doors were slamming open.

Someone screamed down a hallway, telling everyone to get out.

Clark moved before the thought even finished forming.

In less than a second he was airborne, cape snapping behind him as he cut through the evening air.

From above, he spotted the building almost immediately.

It was small, three stories at most, tucked between two older brick structures on a quiet street. Smoke poured from the upper floor windows in thick black waves, curling into the sky like dark storm clouds.

Flames flickered behind the glass of several apartments.

Residents were spilling out onto the sidewalk below in clusters, some barefoot, some clutching phones or pets or hastily grabbed bags.

Fire trucks had already been dispatched.

Clark could hear their sirens approaching from several blocks away.

Then he heard something else.

Your voice.

Clark’s stomach dropped.

Through the chaos of shouting neighbors, crackling flames, and blaring alarms, your voice carried clearly through the second floor hallway.

“There’s still someone upstairs!”

Clark actually faltered midair.

Of course.

Of course you were inside.

He didn’t even know how you kept managing this.

Clark pushed forward faster, blasting through the smoke-filled air toward the second floor.

The window shattered inward as he entered.

Glass scattered across the apartment floor, blown aside by the force of his arrival.

Smoke filled the hallway so thick it hung like a gray curtain, turning the entire floor into a hazy maze of flickering orange light and shifting shadows.

Clark’s vision cut through it easily.

He saw you immediately.

You stood halfway down the hallway, your arm wrapped firmly around the shoulders of an elderly woman who looked both terrified and dangerously unsteady on her feet.

The woman’s gray hair had partially fallen loose from its bun. Her slippers dragged against the carpet as she struggled to keep up, one hand clutching your sleeve tightly.

“Almost there,” you were telling her gently, your voice hoarse from the smoke. “Just a little farther.”

Flames licked along the ceiling at the far end of the hallway, spreading fast.

Clark landed directly in front of you.

The floorboards rattled under the impact.

You looked up.

Your entire face changed the moment you saw him.

Relief washed over you instantly, your shoulders sagging slightly like the weight of the situation had finally lifted.

“Oh good,” you said breathlessly. “You’re here.”

Clark stared at you.

For a moment he didn’t even speak.

You were covered in soot. Smoke had darkened the edges of your sleeves and streaked across your cheek. Your hair had completely escaped whatever attempt you had made to tie it back that morning.

Your eyes were watering from the smoke.

And you were standing inside a burning building.

Again.

Clark finally managed to say the only thing that came to mind.

“Why are you here.”

You coughed slightly, waving a hand through the smoke.

“I was interviewing someone in the building.”

Clark stared at you.

“You were interviewing someone.”

You nodded weakly.

“It was about a rent dispute.”

Clark blinked.

A piece of flaming ceiling panel crashed down somewhere behind you.

The fire was spreading faster.

Clark didn’t argue.

He simply stepped forward, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other scooped the elderly woman up with careful ease.

Both of you gasped slightly as the floor vanished beneath your feet.

In the next second Clark launched through the same window he had entered.

The cool night air rushed over you as you burst out of the smoke cloud and into the open sky.

Several people on the street below gasped and pointed.

Clark landed gently on the pavement beside the growing cluster of fire trucks.

Paramedics rushed forward immediately, taking the elderly woman from Clark’s arms and guiding her toward an ambulance for oxygen.

You stumbled slightly when Clark set you down.

A paramedic immediately approached you with concern.

“Ma’am, were you inside the building?”

You waved him off quickly.

“I’m totally fine.”

The paramedic looked skeptical.

“You were inside a structure fire.”

“I’m totally fine,” you repeated.

He tried to check your arm.

You pulled it back.

“Seriously. I’m fine.”

Across the street, Clark stood with his arms folded.

His cape shifted slightly in the evening breeze.

His expression was not pleased.

You could feel it without even looking.

So you didn’t look.

You focused very intensely on the paramedic checking your oxygen levels.

Clark watched the entire exchange from across the street.

Your heartbeat was still slightly elevated.

Your lungs were irritated from smoke inhalation.

Your hands were shaking faintly.

And you were insisting to a trained medical professional that you were completely fine.

Clark dragged a hand down his face.

You still refused to look at him.

One of the firefighters walked past Clark and glanced toward you.

Then he looked at Superman.

Then back at you.

Then back at Superman again.

“…you know her?” the firefighter asked.

Clark sighed.

"Unfortunately."

Clark had been standing in Perry White’s office when it started.

Perry was pacing behind his desk in the way he did when he was delivering one of his famous lectures about journalistic integrity, deadlines, and the apparent inability of reporters to turn in stories before the universe ended.

Clark stood near the desk with a notebook in hand, glasses sitting neatly on his nose, nodding every few seconds like he was listening very carefully.

“Deadlines are not suggestions, Kent,” Perry was saying, stabbing a finger toward a stack of paperwork on his desk. “When I say noon, I mean noon. Not noon-ish. Not sometime before dinner. Noon.”

Clark nodded again.

“Yes, sir.”

In reality, Clark had not heard the last three sentences.

Because four miles away, something had exploded.

The sound reached him first.

A deep, violent boom that rattled windows across several blocks. The kind of sound Clark recognized immediately as a gas explosion.

Then came the secondary sounds.

Concrete cracking.

Metal twisting.

The awful groaning noise of a building losing its structural integrity.

And beneath all of that, chaos.

People screaming.

Car alarms blaring.

Sirens already starting in the distance.

Clark’s focus sharpened instantly.

He could hear the building collapsing inward, sections of flooring giving way one after another in a domino effect.

Dust and debris poured into the air.

And somewhere inside that collapsing structure was a heartbeat he would recognize anywhere.

Yours.

Clark went perfectly still.

Your heartbeat was faster than normal.

Uneven.

Adrenaline.

You were moving through the rubble.

Talking to someone.

Clark didn’t even hear Perry finish his sentence.

He simply turned and walked out of the office.

“Clark?” Perry called after him.

Clark didn’t answer.

He moved through the bullpen quickly, pushing open the stairwell door and disappearing down the stairs before anyone could question him.

Thirty seconds later Superman dropped out of the sky.

The building had partially caved in.

It was an older commercial structure, three stories tall, the kind of place that housed small offices and construction storage spaces. The explosion had blown out most of the first floor walls and caused the front section of the building to collapse inward like a broken jaw.

Dust filled the air so thick it turned the entire street gray.

Chunks of concrete littered the ground.

Twisted metal beams stuck out of the rubble like exposed bones.

People stood behind police tape, shouting names, crying, pointing toward the wreckage.

Construction workers in hard hats were trying to pull debris aside with their bare hands while they waited for emergency crews.

Clark landed hard in the middle of it all.

The ground shook beneath his boots.

A fresh cloud of dust rolled outward from the impact.

He scanned the wreckage immediately.

Heartbeats.

He counted them automatically.

Several injured.

One unconscious.

Two trapped beneath debris.

And one very familiar heartbeat moving somewhere near the center of the collapsed structure.

Clark pushed through the rubble in three strides.

And then he saw you.

Right in the middle of it.

Of course.

You were kneeling beside a construction worker who had clearly been caught in the collapse. One of the steel support beams had fallen across his leg, pinning him beneath it.

The man was pale, breathing hard, one hand gripping your sleeve while you tried to keep him calm.

“Okay, okay,” you were saying gently. “Stay with me. Someone’s coming.”

Your voice sounded strained.

Clark’s eyes dropped immediately to your arm.

Blood.

Not a lot, but enough to make his stomach tighten.

Your sleeve had been torn open at the shoulder, and a long scrape ran down your arm, already darkening with dried dust and blood.

Your hair was coated in gray debris.

Your cheek had a faint bruise forming along the bone.

Clark felt something sharp twist in his chest.

Then he landed beside you.

The impact rattled the loose debris around you.

Your head snapped up.

For half a second your face lit up with pure relief.

Then your expression shifted.

“Oh.”

Clark stared at you.

You winced slightly.

“Hi.”

Clark didn’t say anything at first.

His eyes flicked briefly over your injuries again.

The scrape.

The bruise.

The way your left hand was shaking slightly from the adrenaline.

Clark forced his face back into the calm, neutral expression Superman always wore.

He crouched beside the trapped construction worker and placed one hand under the steel beam.

The metal groaned faintly as Clark lifted it like it weighed nothing.

“Careful,” Clark said, his voice steady and controlled.

You immediately moved.

Despite the fact that your arm was clearly hurting, you shifted forward and carefully helped the construction worker drag his leg free from beneath the beam.

The man cried out in pain but managed to pull himself out as Clark held the beam suspended.

The moment the man was clear, Clark set the steel down gently.

Paramedics rushed forward almost immediately, lifting the injured worker onto a stretcher.

You stayed crouched for a second longer, catching your breath.

Then you slowly stood.

Clark straightened too.

Dust swirled around him, cape shifting in the wind.

He crossed his arms.

And for a moment he simply looked at you.

From an outsider’s perspective, Superman looked calm.

Composed.

Authoritative.

From your perspective, he looked like someone preparing to give a lecture.

You slowly took a step backward.

Clark pointed at you.

“You.”

You froze.

Clark inhaled slowly.

Very slowly.

“How,” he began.

He paused.

Then tried again.

“How do you keep doing this.”

You raised both hands slightly in surrender.

“In my defense,” you said carefully, “this one exploded around me.”

Clark closed his eyes for a brief moment.

Then he pointed again.

“I told you to stay away from dangerous situations.”

“I wasn’t looking for it!”

“You were inside a collapsing building!”

You gestured around the wreckage.

“You were inside a collapsing building too!”

Clark opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“That,” he said finally, gesturing toward himself, “is different.”

You tilted your head.

“How.”

Clark gestured at the giant red S on his chest.

“I’m Superman.”

You shrugged.

“You showed up.”

Clark stared at you like you had just explained gravity incorrectly.

“You cannot rely on me showing up.”

“You always do.”

Clark went very still.

The words hung between you.

Your voice softened slightly as you stepped a little closer.

“I know you hear everything.”

Clark looked down at you.

Your eyes were tired now, but steady.

“And I know,” you continued gently, “that if someone needs help… you will come.”

Clark sighed quietly.

You reached up and brushed some dust off his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world to casually tidy Superman after a disaster.

“You worry too much,” you said softly.

Clark looked at you.

Then he said very quietly,

“You don’t worry enough.”

You smiled.

Clark groaned.

Because he already knew.

This argument was not ending here.

It would happen again.

And again.

And again.

For the rest of his life.

And every single time he heard your voice in the middle of danger, Clark Kent’s heart would still stop.

But he would always come.

Every time.

Clark had barely finished the thought when his eyes flicked back to your arm.

You were trying very hard to act like nothing was wrong.

Clark knew that trick. You did it every time you got hurt. A casual shrug. A small smile. That very convincing “I’m fine” voice that fooled absolutely no one who actually knew you.

Except right now he was Superman.

And Superman was not supposed to know you.

Which meant he had to do this carefully.

Your sleeve was torn open from shoulder to elbow. Dust and dried gray debris clung to the scrape along your arm, but Clark could still see the thin line of red where the skin had broken. It wasn’t life threatening. It wasn’t even serious.

But it was enough.

Enough to make his chest tighten.

Enough to make the protective part of him wake up again.

You were still standing there like the conversation had been about the weather instead of the fact that you had just been inside a building that exploded.

Clark exhaled quietly.

Then he turned his head slightly toward the emergency crews moving around the site.

“Paramedic,” he called.

His voice carried easily over the chaos.

One of the paramedics, a woman kneeling beside a stretcher a few yards away, looked up immediately. When she saw who had called, she stood and hurried over, medical bag swinging against her hip.

“Yes, Superman?”

Clark stepped slightly to the side, gesturing toward you.

“This civilian was inside the collapse,” he said calmly.

You blinked.

“Hey—”

Clark continued like you had not spoken.

“She needs to be checked for injuries.”

You stared at him.

The paramedic immediately shifted into professional mode, already reaching for gloves.

“Of course.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly.

Clark folded his arms.

The paramedic gently reached for your injured arm.

“Let’s just take a quick look.”

“It’s just a scratch,” you insisted.

Clark raised one eyebrow slightly.

You noticed.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Oh you have got to be kidding me,” you muttered.

The paramedic carefully rolled your sleeve back the rest of the way. The scrape was longer than it had looked through the dust. It ran down the side of your arm, red and irritated from debris.

“Did you hit something?” she asked.

“A wall,” you admitted.

Clark’s jaw tightened.

The paramedic cleaned the scrape gently with antiseptic.

You winced.

Clark noticed that too.

“Any dizziness?” she asked.

“No.”

“Headache?”

“No.”

“You were exposed to the explosion?”

“I was down the hall.”

Clark spoke again, voice calm but firm.

“She was also inside the structure during partial collapse.”

You shot him a look.

“Thank you,” you muttered.

The paramedic gave you a small sympathetic smile.

“Superman’s very thorough.”

You huffed.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Clark pretended not to hear that.

The paramedic finished cleaning the scrape and wrapped a small bandage around your arm.

“There we go,” she said. “You’re lucky. Could’ve been worse.”

Clark silently agreed with that statement.

Very strongly.

The paramedic stepped back.

“You should still take it easy tonight,” she added. “And maybe avoid collapsing buildings for a bit.”

You nodded politely.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Clark made a soft noise under his breath.

You looked up at him again.

He was still standing there, arms crossed, cape shifting slightly in the dusty breeze, watching you with the very unmistakable expression of someone who absolutely did not believe you would follow that advice.

You pointed at him.

“I was helping someone.”

Clark replied calmly.

“You were injured.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“You were inside an explosion.”

Clark inhaled slowly.

Several nearby firefighters had stopped working and were now openly watching the exchange like it was a form of entertainment.

You dusted your hands off and grabbed your bag from the rubble beside you.

“Well,” you said brightly, “thanks for the assist.”

Clark stared at you.

You took a few steps backward.

Then a few more.

Clark did not move.

You pointed a finger at him.

“I’m leaving.”

Clark said nothing.

You turned and began walking toward the police tape.

Clark waited exactly three seconds.

Then he called after you.

“Ma’am.”

You stopped.

Very slowly you turned around.

Clark’s voice was calm.

But the tone underneath it was unmistakable.

“Try,” he said carefully, “to stay out of dangerous situations.”

You stared at him.

Then you smiled.

“Can’t promise anything.”

Clark closed his eyes briefly.

Around them, the firefighters burst out laughing again.

Clark sighed.

Of course.

Of course you couldn’t.

Michael learned a long time ago that if he wasn’t careful, the hospital would follow him home.

Not physically.

But emotionally.

It happened to a lot of people in his field. The exhaustion, the pressure, the constant exposure to grief and panic and trauma and it clung to the skin if you let it. It made voices sharper. Patience thinner. It made people carry their worst days into places that were supposed to feel safe.

Michael refused to let that happen.

Especially after Aria was born.

Because she was still little. Still soft-hearted and observant in ways adults underestimated. And Michael knew children noticed everything; the tension in voices, the heaviness in sighs, the way someone’s eyes looked tired even while smiling.

He also knew what it felt like growing up around emotions adults didn’t know how to manage properly.

So over time, he created rituals for himself.

Small things.

He sat in the car for a minute before coming inside.

Took a breath.

Removed the invisible weight of the hospital piece by piece before reaching for the front door.

Doctor stayed outside.

Papa came home.

And that evening, when the front door finally opened just before dinner, the first thing Michael heard was tiny running footsteps slamming across the floor.

“PAPAAAAAA!”

He barely had time to close the door before Aria crashed into him at full speed.

“Oof—Jesus Christ,” he laughed warmly, catching her automatically before she knocked herself backward.

Aria wrapped around him instantly, arms tight around his neck while her legs locked around his waist dramatically.

“You home!”

“I am home,” Michael smiled, pressing a loud kiss against her cheek.

“You late.”

“I know.”

“You smell like hospital.”

“That’s offensive.”

Aria giggled loudly while Michael carried her further inside like she weighed absolutely nothing.

From the kitchen, you looked over your shoulder just in time to see your daughter aggressively kissing Michael’s face while he pretended to suffer through it dramatically.

“Oh no,” he sighed heavily. “I’m under attack.”

“By LOVE!” Aria shouted proudly.

“That’s the deadliest kind.”

You snorted softly, trying to hide your smile as you stirred the pot on the stove.

And then Michael looked at you.

Really looked at you.

It happened every single day without fail.

The moment his eyes landed on you, something in his entire expression softened instantly.

The tension around his shoulders eased. His eyes warmed. His mouth curved into that quieter smile he only really used at home.

“There’s my wife,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes lightly.

“You says that every day.”

“Because every day I’m surprised you still like me.”

“I love you.”

“Exactly,” he said seriously. “Even crazier. I love you too, My wife”

Aria made the loudest fake gagging noise imaginable between you both. And Michael leaned closer to give you a sweet and gentle kiss on your lips.

“EW.”

Michael immediately gasped.

“Excuse you? That’s my wife.”

Aria hugged him tighter possessively.

“That’s MY mama.”

Michael narrowed his eyes at her.

“Our mama.”

You laughed softly while turning off the stove.

The warmth of moments like this never got old.

Never.

Even after years together.

Especially not after long hospital shifts.

Because no matter how difficult his day had been, Michael always came home like this as if the two of you were still the best thing he’d ever found.

“Go wash your hands,” you told him.

Michael nodded obediently before looking at Aria.

“You heard your mother.”

“You heard your wife,” Aria corrected immediately.

Michael looked deeply offended.

“Wow. Betrayal.”

A few minutes later, your kitchen became a complete disaster.

Not because dinner was complicated.

But because Michael and Aria together in one space somehow always created chaos naturally.

At first, it started innocently enough.

Michael stood beside you helping chop vegetables while Aria sat on the counter swinging her legs and “supervising.”

Which really just meant stealing ingredients every thirty seconds.

“Aria,” you sighed without turning around. “Stop eating the cheese.”

“I testing.”

“You tested six times already.”

She gasped dramatically.

“Need more testing.”

Michael, still cutting vegetables, nodded thoughtfully.

“She’s committed to quality control.”

You slowly turned toward him.

“Michael.”

“What?”

“You are encouraging her.”

“I’m encouraging scientific curiosity.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

That man had the audacity to look innocent while secretly sliding another cheese cube toward Aria when he thought you weren’t looking.

Unfortunately for him—

You saw everything.

“OH MY GOD.”

Both of them burst into laughter immediately.

“Papa gave me!” Aria squealed happily.

Michael pointed at her instantly.

“She’s a liar.”

“You literally just did!”

“No proof.”

You stared at the two of them in disbelief.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m raising two children.”

Michael grinned shamelessly.

“Yet you love us both.”

That unfortunately was true.

The situation somehow escalated from there.

Michael accidentally spilled flour across the counter while trying to help knead dough.

Aria laughed so hard she nearly slipped off the stool.

Then she tried stirring sauce herself.

Too aggressively.

A splash landed directly across Michael’s black shirt.

Silence.

Aria froze.

Michael slowly looked down at the stain.

Then back at her.

Aria’s eyes widened.

And before you could warn either of them,

Michael flicked flour directly onto her nose.

Aria SCREAMED with laughter.

“PAPAAAA!”

“You started this war.”

“I’m baby!”

“You’re dangerous.”

The next five minutes became complete nonsense.

Flour everywhere.

Aria hiding behind Michael while throwing tiny pinches of cheese at you.

Michael pretending he was “neutral” while actively making things worse.

At one point, you turned around and saw flour somehow stuck in Michael’s beard.

“How did you even get it THERE?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Aria laughed so hard she wheezed.

Then Michael reached down and wiped flour lightly onto her cheek too.

“Oh my GOD,” you groaned, finally laughing despite yourself. “Can Mama cook in peace for ONE night?”

Both of them froze immediately.

Then slowly looked at you with matching guilty expressions.

And it was terrifying.

Same eyes.

Same tiny pout.

Same “maybe she won’t stay mad if we act cute” face.

Michael even had flour in his eyebrows now.

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he offered carefully.

You pointed toward the dining table immediately.

“Out.”

Aria copied your tone perfectly.

“Yeah Papa. Out.”

Michael looked genuinely betrayed.

“This family turns against me too fast.”

Still...

Your chest felt warm watching them.

Because this was exactly what Michael protected so carefully.

This softness.

This normalcy.

This safe little life.

Dinner eventually made it to the table despite the kitchen looking like a crime scene afterward.

The three of you sat together while warm food filled the room with comfort and the soft hum of music played quietly in the background.

Michael changed into a clean shirt while Aria proudly announced she “survived the cooking battle.”

Now she sat between both of you happily kicking her legs beneath the chair while talking nonstop about preschool.

“And then Noah cry because Mila say his dinosaur ugly.”

Michael nodded seriously while eating.

“Understandable.”

“No it’s not,” you laughed.

“It might’ve been an ugly dinosaur.”

“PAPA,” Aria gasped dramatically.

“What? Dinosaurs deserve respect too.”

Aria dissolved into giggles immediately.

This was Michael at home.

Playful.

Patient.

Warm.

So different from the version of him people saw at work sometimes.

At home, he listened carefully when Aria spoke even when her stories made absolutely no sense. He asked questions. Remembered details. Acted shocked at preschool gossip like it was breaking world news.

“And Oliver scream because he saw bug.”

Michael nodded again.

“Reasonable reaction.”

“Papa scared bugs too?”

“Yes.”

“He scream too?”

Michael glanced at you calmly.

“Your mother protects me.”

You nearly choked laughing.

Dinner stayed easy after that.

Comfortable.

Until you noticed the shift in Aria.

It was small.

She suddenly got quieter.

Not sad quiet.

More like…

Nervous.

She poked at her rice for a moment, glancing at you briefly before looking away quickly.

And immediately. You knew.

Oh no.

That look meant danger.

You hid your smile instantly behind your glass because you already knew she was about to say something insane.

Meanwhile Michael sat peacefully unaware, eating like a man moments away from destruction.

Aria cleared her throat softly.

“Papa.”

Michael looked up immediately, gentle as always with her.

“Yeah, baby?”

Aria blinked once.

Then calmly, like she was announcing the weather “I have boyfriend.”

Everything stopped.

Michael froze mid-motion.

His fork literally stayed suspended halfway to his mouth.

“…You what?”

You bit your lip so hard it hurt.

Aria blinked innocently.

“I have boyfriend.”

Michael’s eyes widened in absolute horror.

“NO YOU DON’T.”

You immediately looked down because the laugh threatening to escape would absolutely make things worse.

Aria frowned in confusion.

“I do.”

“No,” Michael repeated firmly, already panicking. “Absolutely not.”

“He likes me.”

“He can stop.”

That was it.

You lost control immediately, laughter bursting out while Michael looked personally betrayed by the situation.

“This isn’t funny!” he said, staring at you.

“It’s a preschool boyfriend!”

“That’s how it starts!”

Aria looked offended now.

“Papaaaa.”

Michael leaned forward seriously.

“How old is he?”

“He's FIVE,” you cried through laughter.

“I need information.”

Aria answered proudly anyway.

“His name Lucas.”

Michael looked physically wounded.

“Oh my God. He has a NAME?”

“Yes?”

“What does he want from you?”

“To color.”

Michael narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“That’s exactly how men operate.”

You genuinely almost fell out of your chair laughing and Aria crossed her tiny arms dramatically. “You jealous.”

Michael pointed at himself immediately.

“Yes.”

“You old.”

Michael gasped loudly like she shot him.

“WOW. Okay.”

“You old and jealous.”

“And you’re grounded until you’re thirty.”

“She’s FIVE.”

Michael ignored you completely.

“No dating.”

“It not dating.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Aria stared at him for a second before suddenly climbing down from her chair. She walked around the table quietly before climbing directly onto Michael’s lap.

Michael immediately steadied her automatically, still grumbling under his breath about “boyfriends.”

Then Aria grabbed his face with both tiny hands.

Completely serious.

“You my favorite boy.”

And just like that... Michael melted. Entirely.

All the dramatics disappeared from his face instantly.

“…Yeah?” he asked softer now.

Aria nodded confidently. “Always.”

Michael’s arms wrapped around her tightly as he kissed her temple.

“Okay,” he sighed dramatically. “Lucas can live. For now.”

Aria cheered loudly like she’d won a legal battle while you laughed so hard tears formed in your eyes.

And sitting there at the dinner table with flour still somehow stuck near Michael’s wrist, your daughter safe in his lap, and warmth filling every corner of the room.

Michael silently reminded himself again why he worked so hard to leave the hospital outside the door.

Because this was the part of his life he never wanted darkness touching.

Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”

Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.

You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”

Clark glanced down.

The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”

The bullpen erupted.

Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.

Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.

And weirdly adorable.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”

He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”

“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”

Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.

Clark shot him a betrayed look.

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.

Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.

It hit you like a truck.

Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.

Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.

Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.

Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.

He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.

“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.

-

Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.

Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.

You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.

Mostly because of Clark.

Which was ridiculous.

You barely knew him. Technically.

But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.

He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.

He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.

Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.

Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.

And his eyes.

Jesus Christ.

You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.

Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.

Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.

At first you thought you imagined it.

Then you noticed patterns.

Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.

It was honestly kind of endearing.

Today, however, was especially bad.

You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.

Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.

Clark stared down at it in horror.

You stared at him.

“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”

Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”

You pointed.

The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.

Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”

“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”

He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.

“It was slippery.”

“The mug exploded.”

“It’s a very slippery mug.”

You laughed again.

Clark visibly melted.

Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.

It was becoming a problem.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”

Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”

“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”

“They can interfere with technology.”

“Sure.”

“It’s science.”

“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”

Clark huffed out a laugh.

God.

That was dangerous too.

Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.

You liked making him do it.

Probably more than you should.

“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.

You blinked.

Shit.

“I am not.”

One dark eyebrow lifted.

You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Clark’s ears turned pink.

And for some reason, that made you bold.

“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”

Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”

“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”

“I really don’t think I do.”

“That’s actually insane.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”

The room went completely silent.

Your heartbeat stuttered.

Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.

“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.

Then he physically walked into a cabinet.

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Never better.”

“You hit that cabinet really hard.”

“I’m durable.”

You snorted.

Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.

And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.

-

Lois Lane cornered you two days later.

“You like him.”

You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”

Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.

“You and Smallville.”

“We are coworkers.”

“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Lois smirked.

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”

You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Absolutely.”

“This is humiliating.”

“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”

Cute.

Right.

Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.

Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.

It was that he was good.

Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.

Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.

Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.

Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.

Who does that?

Who is actually like that?

“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Unfortunately, she was right.

Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”

“What?”

“With Clark.”

You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”

“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s accurate.”

Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.

You looked up instinctively.

Big mistake.

Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.

Which honestly was possible.

The man moved weirdly fast.

Clark smiled the second he saw you.

And there it was again.

That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.

Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.

“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.

“Worth it.”

Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.

Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”

Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

“Everything,” Lois corrected.

Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.

Clark looked adorably confused.

You looked anywhere except directly at him.

“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”

He handed them over carefully.

Your fingers brushed his.

Clark froze.

You felt him freeze.

The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.

It was ridiculous.

A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.

And yet.

Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”

“You’re asking me?”

A nervous laugh escaped him.

“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.

“What?”

Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”

“Clark.”

“It’s not important.”

“Clark.”

His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”

The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.

“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.

Clark blinked.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“But you seem so calm around me.”

You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”

For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.

Then he laughed.

Not a polite chuckle.

Not a soft huff.

An actual laugh.

Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.

Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.

“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.

Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.

“I think you’re incredible.”

Oh.

Oh, you were in serious trouble.

-

It started raining halfway through your walk home.

Not normal rain either.

The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.

You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”

“You forgot your umbrella too?”

You turned.

Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.

Of course he had an umbrella.

Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.

“You stalking me, Kent?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”

He lifted a paper bag slightly.

You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”

Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”

You narrowed your eyes.

Clark smiled innocently.

Suspicious.

Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.

Warmth immediately surrounded you.

Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.

You tried not to notice.

Failed horribly.

“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”

Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.

Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.

Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.

Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.

“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.

Clark blinked. “I am?”

“You’re getting rained on.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, move over.”

You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.

Clark immediately went completely still beside you.

Your arm brushed his.

Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.

Clark looked down at you slowly.

And there it was again.

That look.

Like you were something precious.

Something worth handling carefully.

It made your chest ache.

“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”

“Is that what this is?”

“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”

Rain hammered softly overhead.

Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.

Your breath caught.

He noticed.

You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.

And suddenly the space between you felt very small.

Very warm.

Very dangerous.

A car horn blared somewhere nearby.

Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.

Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”

“Yep.”

“That was—”

“Definitely something.”

Clark laughed nervously.

You smiled despite yourself.

Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.

Clark went silent.

His fingers instinctively curled around yours.

Warm.

Careful.

Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.

You looked up at him.

Clark looked completely undone.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”

Clark stared at you for one long second.

Then he smiled softly.

“I might argue you did.”

Your heart was never recovering from this man.

Ever.

-

By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.

Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.

You were trying not to look equally affected.

Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.

Neither of you moved.

“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”

Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”

Neither of you let go.

A smile tugged at your mouth.

Clark noticed instantly.

“What?”

“You’re still holding my hand.”

Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.

“Oh.”

But he still didn’t let go.

Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.

The movement was absentminded.

Gentle.

Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.

Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.

His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.

“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Clark stared at you.

You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.

“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”

Clark still looked frozen.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”

“No.”

Your eyes snapped back to his.

Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.

“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”

The rain suddenly felt very far away.

Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.

Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.

You leaned into his touch before he could ask.

Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.

Then he kissed you.

And—

Oh.

That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.

There was nothing uncertain about it.

Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.

Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.

Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.

Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.

And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.

Sweet.

Tender.

Like he was trying to memorize you.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.

Clark looked completely wrecked.

His glasses were crooked.

His hair was damp from the rain.

And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.

“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.

You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”

“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”

You smiled so hard your face hurt.

Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”

“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”

You stared at him.

Then burst into laughter.

Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”

“You walked into a wall?”

“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.

“That is somehow worse.”

Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.

“I’m trying to be romantic.”

“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”

Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”

The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.

You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”

His ears turned pink again.

“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”

Clark looked away innocently.

“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”

A soft smile spread slowly across his face.

Then he leaned down and kissed you again.

Softer this time.

Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”

Clark considered that seriously.

“…Probably not.”

You laughed.

Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”

Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”

You bit back a smile.

That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.

Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?

The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.

And it made him very, very easy to fluster.

And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.

You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.

Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”

Clark didn’t even look up.

“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”

You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”

Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”

“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”

Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.

“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.

You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.

Clark reached for the biscuits.

“You want another one?”

“Yes please.”

“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.

You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.

-

Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.

Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.

“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”

Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”

You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.

“…Am I allowed?”

The room went silent.

Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.

Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.

“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.

You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”

Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.

“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?” 

You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”

Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.

Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.

Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”

“The cobbler…”

“Yes.”

Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.

“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”

“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”

You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”

Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.

“Clark Joseph Kent.”

Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.

“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”

Pa Kent crossed his arms.

Clark looked even more panicked.

“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”

You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”

“Why would I not want you to?!”

Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.

“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”

Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”

“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”

Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”

“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”

Clark looked genuinely devastated.

“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”

He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.

“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”

Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”

Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"

"Clark," you said.

“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”

“Clark.”

“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”

“CLARK.”

He stopped his rambling.

He looked at you.

You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.

The entire table stared at you.

“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.

You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”

Silence.

Clark blinked.

“…What?”

You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”

Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.

Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.

Clark remained frozen. “You…”

“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”

Clark looked deeply betrayed.

“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”

You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.

Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I cannot believe you.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.

“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"

He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.

"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”

You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.

"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."

"I know."

"In the rain."

"It wasn't raining."

"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply. 

You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.

Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.

Everyone at the table burst into laughter again.

Clark looked around defensively.

“What? She’s eating for two.”

-

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