꩜ Pomme ꩜

“Uhm.” You pause halfway to putting on your second sock, trying to blink through the brain fog and connect with your stomach, which quickly sours in response- “Neither, I think. Maybe some water.”

Eddie’s rings click against the wood of the doorframe as he taps in acknowledgement. When he turns to leave for the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of bare torso, grey sweatpants slung around bony, boxer-less hips.

Slut, you think, fondly, pulling on your soft sock the rest of the way and padding out into the living room.

The record player in the corner is calling your name, so you kneel to flip through the milk carton stuffed full of yours and Eddie’s combined collection.

“Nothing maudlin,” Eddie calls from the attached kitchen, cabinets banging shut in punctuation. “We have a strict No Wallowing After Bad Sex rule in this house and we’re goddamn sticking to it.”

“Apartment,” you amend, ignoring his instruction and pulling Blue from its sheath. “And wallowing can be therapeutic, y’know.”

With the drop of a needle, Joni Mitchell starts crooning about traveling a lonely road, and Eddie sighs, long and deep, a mirror of yours from earlier.

There’s a clinking of porcelain on glass, and you turn to watch as Eddie sets out bowls of snacks and tall glasses of water- one of them iced the way you like- onto the coffee table.

“Eat up. The midday meal of champs- or losers, depending on your preference.” He collapses with a dramatic huff against the couch, then leans over to dig around in the bowl of Bugles.

I wanna be strong, I wanna laugh along, I wanna belong to the living…

You crawl the short distance it takes to settle your back against the couch, side pressed into Eddie’s leg. There’s an acidic taste at the back of your throat, a mixture of Adam’s release and your own sickened stomach in a nauseating combination; you sip at the cold water, attempting to wash the taste away.

“Here. Doctor’s orders.” Eddie’s hand comes into view- each finger topped with a curved chip.

A giggle works its way out as you tilt your head to pull a Bugle off his finger with your teeth, crunching into the familiar corn flavor- it certainly works to get the lingering taste of shame out of your mouth.

“Don’t get used to seeing Margaret around, by the way- sounds like she’s gonna patch things up with her boyfriend.” Eddie’s hand draws back, a subsequent crunching noise before he speaks around a mouthful of chips- “I know you’ll miss all those scintillating hallway conversations.”

You snort, unsure if he’s referring to the fact that you’ve snooped via ear-pressed-to-door whenever they used to argue, or the handful of times that you and Margaret have politely and coolly interacted due to the one-bathroom setup.

“Well, good for her.” Unable to keep the irritation out of your voice (on Eddie’s behalf, since you’re such good friends and it’s hard to see him treated this way, not because you’re jealous), you dig into the snack bowl, fishing for an Oreo. “Hope Margaret and her weirdo on-and-off again boyfriend with that pedo mustache are very happy together.”

Eddie laughs, a melodic, genuine one that has him doubling over to bump playfully into your side. “Goddammit. That Ed Rooney-looking motherfucker…”

The bite of Oreo goes down smooth and sweet; you lick at the crumbs left behind on your thumb before saying, “And, lucky for our bathroom usage, Adam won’t be around anymore either.”

Eddie groans. “I think that guy uses more hair product than me and Harrington combined, and that’s saying something.”

He seems pleased when you chuckle, taking the warmth of his body previously pressed into your side away as he settles back into the couch. “What was wrong with this one, couldn’t get your rocks off with Ol’ Mister Hairspray?”

“Got my rocks off just fine, thank you very much,” you say, faux-primly, focusing your attention on the glass of water in front of you.

Condensation slips down the side. Your voice gains a gravelly tone that feels dangerously close to preceding tears when you say,  “I just… every time we hook up, I end up feeling lonelier than ever afterwards. And I’m kinda sick of it.”

Do you see, do you see, do you see how you hurt me, baby? So I hurt you too, then we both get so blue…

Eddie’s warm palm (not the one covered in Bugle crumbs) comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb digging gently but firm into the tense muscle at the nape of your neck. A hum purrs from your throat, eyes shutting involuntarily as he manages to zero in on the spot that needs the most care.

 “C’mere,” Eddie says, softly, hand sliding off and away as you unfold your limbs to stand. Once you’re sharing the couch cushion, he goes to pull you in closer but stops when he sees you bite back a smile- “What?”

“Your hair is… insane. In the back. If you haven’t noticed- wait!”

Eddie’s hand freezes halfway to his head with your alert, and you knock it out of the air, chastising- “Gonna have a head full of Bugle crumbs. Let me.”

“Bugle Head. New band name, I call it.” Eddie’s eyes are half-lidded, reminiscent of a cat getting groomed as you smooth down the out-of-place strands, hands cradling the back of his skull briefly before you pull away.

“Didn’t even bother looking in the mirror after going at it like rabbits with your not-girlfriend?” You accentuate your tease with a solid finger-poke to his bare ribs.

Eddie’s hands drop to your waist, pinch just-shy of mean against your hips. “Watch it, pot. And this kettle’s not fucking like a rabbit… more like a semi-interested turtle. With a semi-”

He gets shoved, for that comment, but drops down flat on the couch a bit too easily, pulling you with him.

With your ear pressed to Eddie’s chest, you can hear the whooshing of his blood, the steady thump of it against your cheek. He slips an arm around your lower back while yours encircle his torso, his sweatpantsed-legs twining with your bare ones.

“Why do we keep sleeping with such losers?” you muse aloud, breath unconsciously stalling to match Eddie’s much slower rhythm.

“Dunno.” His hand strokes down the length of your back, likely covering you in snack crumbs, but you find you don’t really mind right now. “Glad I have you to commiserate with, though. They say not all who wander are lost…”

You frown against the smooth skin below your cheek, sensing a trap. “…is that a Tolkein reference?”

“Nope. Shakespeare. Hamlet, if I recall correctly.”

He lets you laugh into his chest, squeezing gently at the soft flesh of your upper arm, like he’s trying to hold on to you and the moment at the same time.

You settle, again, breaths joining again. Joni croons on.

Wanna write you a love letter, I wanna make you feel better, I wanna make you feel free…

___

He feels the burn up the sides of his neck to his ears as he stammers, clamoring to put his bag down and straighten out his suit. You look nice today, he notes. You look nice every day, even as you stand before him, scowling. All he can think about is how pretty you look and how mesmerizing the red of your lipstick is.

“Y-yeah, sorry,” he finally apologizes, snapping to as he realizes you were waiting for him to respond. “The fight with Superman this morning ended up shutting down the A-Line, so I had to walk.”

You don’t even try to disguise the way your eyes roll at his excuse. “Superman, of course,” you mutter under your breath before raising the manila folder you were holding. “Here are the edits for the article you gave me yesterday, and remember, you still owe me the draft for the Crane case.”

“Geez, let the guy breathe for a second before jumping down his throat as soon as he gets in,” Jimmy Olsen comments with a grin as he saunters over, grabbing another cup from the holder on Clark’s desk. He pats Clark on the shoulder with a faint ‘thanks, man’ all the while pretending you’re not glaring daggers at him as he falls into his chair, sipping happily on his coffee.

You point the folder at Clark, who stands there awkwardly as you turn your fury to Jimmy. “He wouldn’t need a chance to breathe if he got here on time like the rest of us,” you fume. Jimmy holds his hands up in surrender, sending a sympathetic smile to Clark before ducking his head and turning back around to face his monitor. As much as Jimmy loves Clark, he was not going to put himself in front of your wrath for him.

When you turn back to Clark, he at least has the decency to look apologetic, hunched in a way to make himself appear smaller, and the corners of his lips pulled into a remorseful smile. You curse his dimples silently in your mind. “I was hoping getting you a coffee might soften the blow of me being late… again.”

You look down at the two remaining cups and see your name written in Clark’s chicken scratch handwriting with a wobbly smiley face drawn next to it. The sticker with the order on it displaying that he’d gotten you your favorite from the shop down the road that you loved to go to whenever you managed to pull yourself away from your desk for longer than ten minutes. That is to say that it is a luxury around here.

Your eyes narrow and lips purse for just a moment before you shove the folder into his chest, and he scrambles to catch it before it hits the ground. “I’m serious, you better have it to me by six P.M., Perry has been on my ass about it,” you assert before plucking your coffee from his desk and turning to walk back to the editor block, the click of your heels like a siren song that has his eyes following after you trailing up your form before settling on your plush backside before he realizes what he’s doing and looks away quickly, suddenly very interested in the broken ceiling tile above his desk.

He hears a snort of laughter and glances back over at Jimmy, who is not even attempting to hide his shit-eating grin. “What?” Clark asks.

Jimmy shakes his head in disbelief. “Dude, you have it so bad.” Clark dares to look confused as to what Jimmy is referring to. He motions to you and Clark can’t help but to sneak another peek at you as you’re stopped in the middle of the bullpen talking to one of the summer interns, the stern brow you’d had with him has softened as you’re inevitably explaining something you have already gone over at least twice with her before with far more patience than you ever afforded Clark.

Clark doesn’t even realize the dopey smile that works its way onto his face as he stares until Jimmy snaps his fingers. “Yeah, see! That!” He points at Clark’s face, which has now settled into what could only be described as a pout.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clark insists.

Jimmy groans as he spins in his chair. “Just ask her out already, the worst thing she could say is ‘no’.”

Clark’s brows furrow. “Actually, the worst thing she could say is ‘you’ll be hearing from HR’.”

Lois rolls out from behind her desk, looking a bit more chipper than five minutes prior, cup of coffee still securely in her hand. “Fired for sexual misconduct would look really bad with future employers,” she teases.

Clark gives her an exasperated look, and Jimmy waves his hand at both of them dismissively. “I’m telling you, there’s no way she’d say no or report you to HR.”

“Jimmy, I hate to break it to you, but she cannot stand Clark,” Lois informs.

“Yeah, she can’t—” He whirls around to look at Lois, a distraught look on his face. “What do you mean she can’t stand me?”

“Clark, you’re always submitting drafts to her late —” “Yeah, because I get really nervous and end up re-writing it like five times before I give it to her.” “— You’re also always showing up late for work—” “I can’t help if the city is attacked and an entire subway line gets shut down!”

Lois gives him a sharp look, and he swallows, something unspoken between them that Jimmy at least doesn’t pick up on.

“Listen, some women just aren’t impressed with the whole… naïve farm boy vibe you got going on,” Lois finishes with a shrug. “Don’t take it so personally.”

Clark looks to Jimmy for some backup, and luckily, the redhead takes pity on poor Clark, coming to his friend’s rescue. “Lois, I respect your opinion on this matter as a woman, but trust me, she may seem like she’s not impressed, but—”

“Oh, don’t even give me that she’s playing hard to get spiel,” Lois rolls her eyes with a disbelieving smile on her face.

“—But, I think she’s playing hard to get.”

“Oh my god, you’re both HR violations waiting to happen,” she chides before taking another sip of her coffee.

“Aw, c’mon, look, you made him sad.” Jimmy gestures to a very downtrodden Clark, who is simply staring in the general direction where you had disappeared back into the editor block with a visible frown on his face.

Guilt creeps up Lois’s spine, and she sighs. “Listen, if you really like her, then just ask her out already and spare us having to endure the puppy dog looks.”

“There ya have it,” Jimmy nods. “Lois Lane approved office romance.”

Lois lets out a bark of laughter as she and Jimmy dive into their own conversation, leaving Clark to his thoughts. He drops into his seat, starting to look over the edits you’d handed him. The amount of markups on the page doesn’t even surprise him. Bright blue ink scratches out entire segments of sentences, circling others, neat handwriting tucked into the margins explaining each cut and need for clarification.

The first article you edited for him had been even worse. There was more blue penned onto the page than black printed ink. You had torn his article into shreds, the one he had shyly placed into the tray on your desk after he had tried to email it to you, only to be told you only accepted printed copies of drafts, something none of the other editors requested.

(Lois would later tell him that you preferred having something physical in your hands when you edited, and she’d made the same mistake in her first week)

He had been so proud of that article when he’d handed it over. Less so when you’d given the folder back to him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow before walking back to your desk, it took all of five minutes before he’d shown up in front of you, the marked-up draft crinkled nervously between his hands, clearly upset by the sheer amount of edits.

You had stared at him, unblinking, as he stammered all over himself, waiting until he talked himself into an awkward silence before saying anything. Dealing with uppity journalists who took personal offense to edits was nothing new to you. “If you don’t make the edits, then I won’t approve it and it won’t go to print,” you’d said simply. “Unless you’d like to make an argument for the run-on sentences?”

There wasn’t any malice in your voice, and that was the moment Clark realized it wasn’t personal, it was just your job, and you were not just good, but great at your job. He must have been as red as a tomato by the time he turned and fled back to his desk with his tail tucked between his legs.

He made the edits, and when Perry walked by his desk the next day, he was complimented on the pacing and tone of the piece. It didn’t make the front page… not even second or third, but it was his first article in the Daily Planet.

You had even smiled at him and congratulated him on his first article when you were making your rounds that morning.

That was where this inconceivably tiny, bite-sized crush started.

Because even when you shredded his article into pieces, his heart sang at the tiny compliments left in the margins.

‘Good pacing here.’

‘This passage really shines.’

‘Beautiful.’

And of course, it doesn’t help that you are pretty. Walking around the office with your face done up and hair perfectly styled in outfits he doesn’t think he has seen a repeat of since starting here almost three years ago. He always feels like a mess in front of you, especially when he comes in late (which is often) and sees you standing there, arms crossed, looking like you want to go up one side of him and down the other (which you have before).

There is also the fact that you hate Superman.

Well, maybe hate isn’t the right word.

Strongly disapprove of?

He remembers the first time a clip of Superman played while you all had gathered in the newsroom. When everyone else was oohing and ahhing at Superman’s heroics (which Clark may or may not have been preening a bit at), you stood there, sipping at your overly expensive coffee with such an unimpressed look.

“Just what we need, another jackass in tights wandering around.”

Clark deflated at that.

While you never explicitly said you disliked his caped alter ego, you definitely never had anything kind to say either. The articles he submitted to you about Superman? If he had gotten those edits when he was a freshman in high school writing for the Smallville High newspaper, he would’ve never written another article again.

Entire paragraphs marked for deletion or simply ‘TONE’ in all caps next to specific passages. The worst had been when you crossed out a sentence and just put ‘No’ next to it in the margins.

“It’s a feature, not an op-ed, Kent.”

It was brutal. Even Lois couldn’t help the grimace whenever she happened to catch sight of those drafts, her and Jimmy saluting Clark when they knew he was walking over to the editor block to submit a Superman article to you.

Despite that, he looked forward to seeing you every day. You had become the person he looks for the moment he enters a room, without him even realizing it.

So much about you and the way you move through the world has been noted and categorized by Clark.

He loved the moments when he caught you while editing, two or three pens stuck in your up-do because you kept forgetting you’d placed them there and grabbed a new one each time, chewing on your bottom lip as you carefully marked up whatever draft you were working on.

He loved how you took care of the people around you in your own, sometimes standoffish, way.

“Have you eaten?” You’d asked him one day, his second year of working at the Planet. It was late, and it was just you two and a handful of others in the office working towards deadlines that were creeping far too close for comfort. He’d been having the hardest time with the beat Perry had assigned him and had worked through his lunch and any subsequent breaks.

“O-oh, I don’t really have money to order out right now,” he said, almost embarrassed. He’d just paid rent, which meant he would be living off of cup noodles and breakroom coffee until next week when his next paycheck hit.

You glanced up at him from your phone that you were tapping on. “I didn’t ask if you had money, I asked if you’d eaten,” you replied pointedly before returning your attention to your phone. “Beef and broccoli, yeah?” You confirmed, and he was a bit stunned but managed to nod in response. Warmth rolling through his chest that you remembered his food order. “I’ll get those eggrolls you like, too.”

“I can pay you back next week,” Clark offered, and you just waved your hand at him, not looking up from your phone.

“I’m not worried about it, Kent.” You walked off, calling out to the others in the office that you were ordering food, leaving Clark’s heart to simmer in your wake.

He loved how unafraid you were. How confident you were in your convictions. There weren’t many people at the Planet who would go to bat against Perry, but you did constantly. So many times, he’d walk into the newsroom to see you two having a screaming match about whether or not an article should go to print.

“We are not printing this!”

“Oh, come off it, Perry, if you want to play it safe, go work for Newstime Magazine!”

The article almost always went to print. Not without a lot of griping from Perry, and you never were smug about it. Satisfied, yes. But it was about journalistic integrity. It was about publishing articles that no other company would touch with a ten-foot pole due to the fear of backlash because no one else would do it. There were many other employees at the Planet who shared the sentiment, but you were consistently the one who fought for it, loudly.

So yeah, Clark Kent had a crush on you because why wouldn’t he? And maybe Jimmy was right, and he should ask you out.

(Or maybe he was wrong and Clark would be looking for a new job by Friday)

By the end of the day, he decides he will ask you out to dinner. Hyping himself up in the moment as he starts to finish the article that he has already rewritten twice now.

Except he doesn’t end up asking you out at all. Instead, it is five P.M., and he stands in front of your desk, freshly printed draft clutched in his hands as he watches you type away at something on your monitor.

You don’t even look up at him, and he knows that you know he is standing there.

Time stretches on for what he could only imagine to be an eternity, and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he waits until, finally, you push back from your desk, turning to face him. “Is there something you need, Clark?” The eye contact you make sends his heart sputtering, but the way his name rolls off your lips has his knees so weak he almost falls against your desk in a heap. Your gaze flickers down to the papers in his hand. “Is that the Crane case draft?”

“O-oh! Yeah!” He says dumbly, and when he doesn’t do anything but continue to stand there, you blink, briefly wondering if he’d suffered some head injury in the last few hours.

“Can I… have it?” you question, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare up at him.

You watch a flush creep up his cheeks, and he practically slams the folder onto your desk. “Y-yeah, of course! I’m sorry it took so long to get to you, I was having some trouble with one of the sources and…”

“I’ll have the edits to you tomorrow morning,” you confirm. “Try to get here on time, Perry wants this to run for the evening issue.”

He nods, pushing up his glasses as they slide down his nose, and pretends not to notice as you follow the movement. “Don’t worry, I’ll be on time, I promise.” You stare at him for a pause before turning back to your computer, muttering something akin to ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ and Clark is struck by the way the setting sun backlights you, wisps of gold brushing against your profile. His heart his hammering in his chest as he tries to will himself to say something, anything else to you.

“Okay, bye.”

Not that.

“Have a good night,” you call out, not looking up from the screen.

Clark shuffles away, already mentally beating himself up as Jimmy appears behind him, bag swung over his shoulder. “That was rough to watch, buddy.”

“Shut up,” Clark groans as he grabs his things from his desk. “I don’t know why there’s such a disconnect between my brain and my mouth when I’m around her.”

“Hey, I get it, man,” Jimmy nods. “She is scary, but in a really hot way—” Clark’s head snaps up, and he gives Jimmy a sharp look because he knows Jimmy’s reputation. “Relax, relax. She’s all yours, I can assure you. I think she’d eat me alive.”

As Clark follows Jimmy to the elevator, he glances back over his shoulder, seeing you still sitting at your desk as everyone else has begun to pack up for the night. You give a smile and bid another editor goodnight as she tells you not to stay too late.

He knows you will anyway.

As they step into the elevator with a handful of their coworkers, all conversing about their plans for the rest of the night, Clark decides that tomorrow he will definitely ask you out.

He does not end up asking you out tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, as a matter of fact. Every single time he resolved himself to doing so, he felt the words turn to mush in his mouth the moment he saw you.

Once, because you had been standing with Lois in the breakroom, laughing in a way he’d never seen before, the snort of laughter so uncharacteristic and unexpected, he had walked straight into the mail cart, sending envelopes and parcels flying all over the place.

The second time, he had gone into the archives to grab some old records to reference for a story he’d been working on, and turned the corner to see you up on a stool, half bent as you tried to wrestle with a box buried on the shelf. Clark could only focus on the swell of your backside in the tight slacks you were wearing and didn’t even register that you had turned to him.

“Clark? Help, please?”

Whatever words that came out of his mouth were unintelligible as his body went into autopilot, grabbing the box you’d been battling with ease, nodding like an idiot as you thanked him before turning on his heel and walking out, completely forgetting about the entire reason he’d gone in there to begin with.

The third and final time, you weren’t even doing anything special, just sitting at your desk, humming along to the desk radio you had quietly going, sorting through papers. Clark was determined this time. He’d spent the entirety of last night rehearsing what he was going to say, all the while fighting an interdimensional creature that was terrorizing downtown.

He had approached you with confidence, and then you’d turn to face him, lips wrapped around a cherry lollipop that one of the secretaries had given out as extras from her daughter’s birthday party over the weekend.

Whatever confidence he had rapidly warped into panic as words fell out of his mouth in a jumble. Indiscernible and certainly not a sentence asking you to go to dinner with him. He stood there as you stared up at him, and he could see the stain of the lollipop on your lips and tongue.

“Clark, what?”

And then he made some sort of noise and, with haste, fled the vicinity, leaving you there blinking, wondering what just happened.

It is that afternoon that he hears you in a quiet conversation with Lois as he is once again unjamming Printer 4. You perch on her desk, leaning close to whisper to her, completely unaware that Clark can hear every single word you say.

“I think Clark has a concussion,” you inform with a solemn look on your face.

Lois almost laughs at that, but keeps her face trained in faux concern. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t think that man has said a coherent sentence to me this entire week,” you explain. “He’s basically resorted to communicating with me in grunts like a caveman.”

That has Lois snorting with laughter, trying to hide the smile with her coffee cup as she takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid that’s been sitting on her desk for the better part of the morning. “I can assure you he does not have a concussion.”

You give her a pursed look, clearly not believing her. “Then what is his deal?”

It is at this moment that Lois makes eye contact with Clark from across the newsroom. He feels the dread build up in him as a smirk tilts its way onto Lois’s face, and he can almost see the exact moment the thought formulates in her head.

And then the building shakes, lights flickering as a deafening ‘boom’ echoes from somewhere outside. Silence settles in place of panic, as everyone listens with bated breath, hoping it was nothing to be concerned about, perhaps just some construction down the road. Until the second explosion rocks the building, and then chaos erupts.

People are scrambling all over. Clark sees you grab Lois and push her towards the stairwell, yelling at the gaggle of people who are trying to file into the elevator. “Are you idiots? Use the stairs!” That gets them moving, and Clark is moving with everyone else.

As you all get to the ground floor, you can see the source of the explosions, Green Lantern, Mr. Terrific, and Hawkgirl are fighting some idiot on a hoverboard who keeps tossing explosives around like he’s giving out candy on Halloween. Another one detonates, and a building down the street crumbles from the explosion. Debris and dust are scattering through the streets as people run from the epicenter of the fight. Cops are trying to divert traffic away, and the wail of ambulances approaches.

It’s pandemonium.

“C’mon, Kent, move it!” There’s a hand on his arm, and he looks down to find you pulling him along. The crowd around you is a shifting sea, but you’re firm and steady beside him despite the chaos. He realizes he’s going away from where he needs to be, but he lets you pull him anyway.

And then an explosion hits from somewhere above, and suddenly the air is filled with dirt and smoke, and the crowds push forward even as people sputter and try to regain their bearings. You lose your grip on Clark after getting knocked around by the surge of people, and that’s when panic sets in for you as you stop amidst the mass of people, shouting for him. “Clark?” You don’t see his massive form in the crowd of people, and your throat constricts. “Clark?!”

Someone behind you pushes, and you keep moving because it’s either that or be crushed by the swath of people. There’s a barricade another block down, and by the time you make it there, the crowd has begun to disperse, and there’s still no sign of Clark Kent. You feel nauseous as you think of the plethora of things that could’ve happened to him, though the thought of him lying dead in the street with people rushing over him is at the forefront of your mind.

You ask people as they rush by you.

“Excuse me, have you seen a guy, about this tall?”

“A man, curly hair, and glasses?”

A sonic boom cuts through the chaos, and people cheer as Superman flies onto the scene. You don’t, though. Your phone is in your hand as you search for Clark’s number, which has been unused until now in your contact list. It rings once, twice, all the way until the voicemail picks up.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

You hang up and try again, ignoring the tightness in your throat when it goes to voicemail once more.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get—”

You feel your lip wobble. And again.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message—”

With Superman coming to their aid, the heroes make quick work of the lone villain. You barely notice that the crowd has waned as the heroics come to an end. Instead, you’re pacing under the awning of a building, being met with Clark Kent’s voicemail message again and again each time you call him.

You had already called Jimmy and Lois, both of whom hadn’t seen their friend, though Lois tried to convince you that he was fine. You couldn’t help the worry that nagged at you.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” Someone asks from behind you.

You whirl around, pulling the phone from your ear, and you can’t even help the wide-eyed look that appears on your face. Superman himself stands before you, bathed in the light of the setting sun that creeps through the skyline of Metropolis behind him. He’s bigger in person, you realize. Broader than you thought he’d be.

“Ma’am?” There’s concern on his face when you don’t answer.

“Yes,” you reply quickly. “Yes, I’m sorry, I’m fine.”

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but—.”

You look back down at your phone and press the ‘end call’ button, biting your lip.

“I’m looking for Clark,” you tell him. “Clark Kent. You know him, he’s interviewed you before. He was beside me, and then an explosion hit above us, and I lost him in the chaos, and I can’t find him, and he’s not answering his phone—” Your voice cracks, and you don’t even notice the way Superman’s face crumples with it.

“Hey,” he calls out softly as he steps closer. You feel a warm hand on your shoulder, and you look up, your eyes meeting an earthshattering shade of blue. “It’s alright,” he assures. “I’ll find him. Why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

You shake your head. “No, if something happened to him, I—”

“Nothing happened to him,” he promises. “I’ll find him, and when I do, I’ll make sure he calls you, how about that?”

You want to be stubborn. You want to tell Superman to shove off. But you’re tired, and there’s a burn in your lungs from all of the dust and smoke. Gripping your phone harder, you shove the edge of it into his chest, and he looks a bit surprised, if not a little amused by the action. “You make sure he calls me,” you order, and there’s a fragility in your voice that Clark doesn’t think he’s heard before, despite the way your jaw is set. You’re putting on a brave face.

A soft smile spreads on Superman’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”

An hour and a half later, just as you fit your key into the deadbolt of your door, your phone rings. The name ‘Clark Kent’ flashes across the screen, and pure relief floods you as you pick up on the second ring. “Clark?”

“H-hey,” his soft voice comes through the other end, and you never thought you would be so happy to hear that Kansan accent. “I’m so sorry, I left my phone at the office and I finally just went back to get it.”

“Are you okay?” you ask as you close your door behind you.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he replies.

There’s a pregnant pause between you two. You think you should say ‘okay’ and hang up, not draw out the conversation any longer than it needs to be. But you don’t. The bizarre want to hear his voice some more, tugging at you in a way you’ve never experienced before. “Don’t think you get to be late to work tomorrow just because a couple of buildings on our street exploded,” you tease, breaking through the tension of the quiet.

He laughs, and even though you’re silent, he can tell you’re smiling too. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he says.

“Goodnight, Clark.”

“Yeah, goodnight.”

Clark surprises you the next morning by not only arriving on time, but arriving early. He’s so early that it is just you two in the newsroom. The shock is written on your face as you spot him walking from the elevator while standing at the copier, eyes wide and mouth agape.

He gives a shy wave, cheeks dimpling as he smiles at you. “Good morning,” he calls out.

What he does not expect is for you to grab the stack of papers off the copier and march towards him, smacking him repeatedly with the pile of papers. “You can’t just disappear like that during a crisis!” He doesn’t flinch as he is hit. You don’t even notice how gently he’s looking down at you, too busy giving him a piece of your mind like you always do. “Like, what the hell, Clark? I thought something happened to you!”

You run out of steam surprisingly quickly and meet his gaze.  “I really am sorry,” he whispers, and you take a moment to study his face and the blue of his eyes, and you’re struck by a thought that leaves your mouth dry.

Clark is handsome.

“Don’t do it again,” you warn, giving him one final half-hearted swat to the chest that has him giving you a laugh that leaves you lightheaded. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

He smiles and nods, and when you go to leave, he can feel the end of the moment between you two rapidly approaching. He doesn’t want it to end. “Would you wanna go out to dinner with me?” he asks before he can even think long enough to get nervous about it.

You blink once, then twice as though you’re not quite sure you heard him correctly. “Dinner?”

He nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Is this a date?”

He nods again and can feel his palms begin to sweat.

“Yes,” you say after a beat. He grins, dimples and all, and warmth spreads through your chest, a feeling you’re hesitant to embrace.

“Friday? Seven P.M.?” He asks.

“Gino’s?” You suggest, a lilt to your voice that isn’t normally there, and he’s mesmerized by the look in your eye as you do, by the way you’re trying to disguise the smile that itches at your face. He nods, leaning in a bit. The papers in your hand are a shield between you two, and you step back. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.” He wouldn’t be.

Gino’s Italian Restaurant, Metropolis - 7:43 PM

He was late.

You didn’t miss the sympathetic looks the hostess and waiters sent you every time they passed by your table for two, which was occupied by one. Your glass of wine was nearly empty, and the bread basket was alarmingly full despite the hunger that gnawed at your insides.

You had been trying not to glance down at your phone for the last half hour, knowing that if you had gotten a text, the screen would light up. However, it had remained dark since you sent Clark your last message, asking where he was.

With one final swig, you empty the glass, catching the eye of the waiter, waving him over. “Can I have the check, please?” you ask.

After paying for your singular glass of wine, once you were out in the cool breeze of the summer night, you finally recheck your phone. The absence of any new message sent a trill of fury through you, only amplified by the news report notification about Superman fighting some gigantic monster in midtown.

“Great,” you grumble. “Let’s hope they don’t knock out the T-Line this time.”

The trek home takes far too long with people getting diverted away from the kaiju battle, and the pleasant buzz you had from the glass of wine had long since worn off as you shove through your apartment door, flinging it closed behind you as you kick off your pumps, breathing in the relief for your aching feet.

You’re desperate to get out of the dress you’d squeezed into (after spending far too long debating what dress Clark would like better on you), but the desire to get absolutely shitfaced after being stood up by your coworker was overwhelming. And that’s how you found yourself lounging on your balcony, watching Big Blue himself battle an enormous alien creature from across the city with nothing but a bottle of chardonnay to keep you company.

You stay there until long after the light show ends, just taking sips from the bottle every so often, sitting in your sorrow. Honestly, you don’t even know why you’re so upset. It’s not as though you even liked Clark all that much; you were just looking forward to a free meal.

Like, yes, he was objectively good-looking, and yes, he always remembered your coffee order. And, yes, maybe you prodded him just a little more than you did others because you liked watching him get flustered.

But you didn’t like him.

(You could have, though)

A loud knock at your door startles you from your thoughts. Your bare feet pad against the floor of your apartment as you softly step to your door, peeking through the peephole, finding none other than Clark Kent himself standing outside of your apartment.

If you were any other person, you might have just ignored the knocking, letting him stew in the silence, but you were not any other person, and with half a bottle of chardonnay in your system, you want nothing more than to give him a piece of your mind.

When you rip the door open, Clark looks at you wide-eyed and sputtering. “I’m so—”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you interrupt, shoving your finger into his (startlingly firm) chest. “You have a lot of nerve, Clark Kent.”

“I know, I know, please just let me—”

“Let you what? Explain? Explain how you left me waiting at Gino’s for forty-five minutes for you? Explain how now at—” You lean back to glance at the microwave clock in your kitchen. “—9:57 PM, nearly 3 hours after we were supposed to meet for our date, you show up at my door expecting to grovel at my feet for me to what? To forgive you?”

“No, that’s not it, please just let me explain,” he begs.

You don’t, though. “You made me look like an idiot.” Your voice is soft, and there’s vulnerability, the bite you had seconds prior, leaving your body rapidly. You can feel the way your throat tightens, and the pit in your stomach feels like it could swallow you whole. You hate feeling like this, feeling this small. Clark looks at your eyes and realizes they’re tinged red and clouded with unshed tears. He wants to throw up. “You made me feel like an idiot.”

“I’m really sorry.” His voice cracks, and it looks like he wants to reach out to touch you, but he doesn’t.

“Me too,” you say back, tone empty and despondent.

“I got you these.” He holds out a lightly crumpled bouquet that’s been hanging limply at his side this entire time. You stare at it. It wasn’t one of those grocery store bouquets, no, this one is full of your favorite flowers, clearly and explicitly curated for you.

You blink back tears and grab the bouquet, holding it close to your chest. “Thank you.”

“You look really pretty.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He doesn’t say anything as you shut the door, your gaze catching your reflection in the hallway mirror. It’s almost pathetic, you all dolled up with a bouquet of all your favorite flowers, looking like you were a moment away from the dam breaking.

And then there’s a burn at the back of your throat that you can’t ignore, and you can’t help as the tears finally fall from your eyes, you suck in a deep breath on instinct, feeling the sob try to wretch out from you. You don’t know that Clark is standing on the other side, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he blinks away his own tears.

The weekend passes by horridly fast. As much as you had wanted to waste away and lament about the date that never was (that you would definitely not admit you had gotten your hopes up for), you would not let being stood up consume your entire weekend; they were a precious commodity after all.

So, after spending Friday night ugly crying into your pillow, you pulled yourself together by Saturday morning. You went out to a boozy brunch with some of your college friends, took yourself on a walk around the park to enjoy the sunshine, and spent some time in your favorite bookstore buying books that you promised yourself you would read and not let sit untouched on your bookshelf like the entire neglected pile of others.

By Sunday, you were feeling better. That is, until you were getting ready for bed Sunday night and the dread hit you.

You spent the night tossing and turning, feeling like you wanted to crawl out of your skin at just the thought of having to see Clark again. By morning, it took a generous application of concealer to hide the bags under your eyes and a heavy pep talk in the mirror to even think about stepping out your door.

As with most Monday mornings, as soon as you walked into the bullpen, it was a cacophony of chaos, but at least it was chaos you were familiar with. You make your way to your desk, offering halfhearted greetings, and feel slight relief as you settle into your seat, hoping that work will keep your brain busy enough not to let the anxiety ruin your day.

Then your gaze fixes on the paper coffee cup placed in front of your keyboard. Your name is written in a familiar chicken scratch handwriting. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you swivel in your seat, looking back at the writer block to see that Clark Kent is already sitting at his desk. Hunched and fidgeting with a stack of Post-it notes as he catches your eye. His mouth tilts up into an uncertain smile.

You purse your lips, a scowl forming on your face as you grab the coffee cup, maintaining unblinking eye contact as you proceed to drop it directly into the garbage can next to your desk, and then you spin back around.

Clark grimaces. “Yeah, I deserve that,” he mutters as he looks back at the blank Word document that’s been taunting him since he got in this morning.

It wasn’t any surprise how quickly word got around about Clark’s spectacular failure. Steve had walked by his desk after the morning meeting, giving a ‘womp womp’ that made Clark nearly snap the pencil he was writing with.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jimmy slides over, munching on some yogurt and granola. “You finally ask out the woman you’ve been pining after for who knows how long, then proceed to miss the date entirely without texting her that you wouldn’t be able to make it, and then show up at her apartment with flowers, thinking that would make up for the complete lack of communication?”

Clark sighs. “Yeah, that about covers it.” His voice is muffled as he buries his face in his hands.

“Buddy,” Jimmy starts. “You really fucked up.”

Clark groans, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, Jimmy, I know.”

He didn’t even want to look over at Lois because all she kept doing was sending him looks of disappointment the whole morning. She had stopped by your desk this morning with a grin on her face that quickly morphed into a look of horror as you recounted Friday night’s events.

Even Cat, who was usually all honeyed words with Clark, had been giving him the stink eye.

Honestly, though, no one else could make Clark feel as bad as he made himself feel about the whole thing. He had spent the weekend agonizing over how badly he had messed up with you. The sound of you crying on the other side of the door replaying in his head like his own personal version of hell.

He even called his parents.

“Oh, Clark, honey,” Martha soothed. “You wounded that woman’s pride, you just gotta give her some time to cool off.”

“I don’t know, Ma, I think I really messed this one up,” he said, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he felt the telltale pressure of tears building up.

“Now, Clark, no problem worth fixin’ is ever easy.” He couldn’t see them, but he knew Pa was nodding along. “If this girl is everything you’ve made her out to be, she’ll come around.”

The week passes by, and you coming around is nowhere in sight. Every cup of coffee he left on your desk went directly into the trash, the bouquets of your favorite flowers were pawned off to the secretaries, and the lunches were donated to the breakroom on a first-come, first-served basis.

When he went to drop off drafts for you to edit, you pointedly ignored him. To your credit, the edits you made were not as harsh as he’d thought they’d be in light of everything, though there was an apparent lack of any compliments in the margins that he always found himself looking forward to reading (and re-reading).

“Why don’t you come out tonight?” Lois asks on Friday morning. You give her a look, knowing the standing invite for Friday night drinks includes everyone in the office. “C’mon, he won’t be there, he never shows up.”

You pause, chewing at the inside of your lip, internally hemming and hawing. “I’ll think about it,” you finally concede, which is enough to get Lois to grin, a little pep in her step as she makes her way back to the writer block.

Friday afternoon, Jimmy comes sauntering over to you like a cat that got into the cream. He plants himself on your desk, ignoring your look of indignation when he crumples a few drafts you were working on with his ass. “Check out these photos I just finished developing,” he says as he spreads a handful of photos of Superman in front of you. They’re remarkably clear, some of the best pictures you have ever seen of Big Blue. “I was testing out that new lens I just got.” They were from a fight earlier this week in uptown.

Despite your frequently voiced objections to Metropolis’s favorite hero, you give Jimmy a hum of approval, picking one up to closer inspect it. “These are pretty good, how’d you get such a good shot of him in the air?” you ask.

“Climbed up a light pole,” he informs nonchalantly, grabbing some M&Ms from the candy bowl on your desk.

Your neck snaps to look at him. “James!”

“What?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Gotta do what it takes to get the shot.”

You let out a huff. “Unbelievable, you’re gonna break your neck one of these days.” You continue to sort through the photos, setting aside the ones you know Perry will submit for the front page.

“Haven’t yet,” he says, cheekily popping a few M&Ms in his mouth with a wink.

The final photo is a zoomed-in shot of Superman’s face. He’s smiling down at a few children who have gathered around him in the aftermath of the battle, a familiar softness to his face. You straighten up a bit, holding the photo closer to examine it.

“What’s up?” Jimmy asks when he sees your shift in posture.

You feel like you’ve seen it before, the blue of his eyes, the gentle tilt of his lips hinting at dimples, but the rest of the face is… wrong.

Maybe you’re losing it.

“Nothing,” you reply. “Really great work, Jimmy. Perry is definitely going to run this on the front page.”

Jimmy gives a grin.

You end up at the bar, thinking it might be good for you to let your hair down, literally and figuratively, for the night. Lois lights up when she sees you making your way through the Friday night crowd, and Jimmy has a drink in your hand before you even get a chance to sit down.

You’re listening to Cat go on and on about the guy she’s seeing, and given the debacle of the last week, it should annoy you to hear someone gush about their dating life, but the giddiness on Cat’s face is infectious so instead you sit there resting your chin on your hand with a smile on your face as you nod along asking all the appropriate questions.

It’s loud in the bar between all the people and the music playing, so you barely register the bell above the door ringing. You do, however, clock Jimmy turning to Lois and saying, “He never comes out.”

Instinctively, you turn in your seat, immediately locking eyes with Clark. He looks like he just left the office, suit coat slung over his arm and tie loosened. He’s moving through the crowd towards you, not breaking eye contact as though he’s scared you’ll disappear if you do, only to be intercepted by Lois. “Hey, Clark,” she greets, a tight fake smile plastered on her face. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Uh, yeah, well, not a lot going on tonight, so I figured I’d come… socialize,” he says lamely. You don’t see the flat look that Lois gives him.

Both of them look back at you. You catch Lois’s eyes and give her a little nod of your head, calling off your (very effective) guard dog. However, she narrows her eyes at Clark in a silent warning before returning to her conversation with Jimmy, who had been watching the entire exchange while taking a very long sip of his fruity cocktail.

Clark takes the empty seat next to you. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, fidgeting with his tie.

You stare at him as you play with the straw of your nearly empty cup, unabashedly tracing the slopes and contours of his face. He shifts nervously under your gaze, and you can’t tell if the flush creeping up his neck is due to you or the stuffiness of the bar. You still don’t say anything as you lean forward, and he’s too stunned to move away as your hand reaches out, fingers pressing through the curls hanging on his forehead, brushing them back into a tidier position, spending maybe a bit too long smoothing back the sides. The caress of your nails against his scalp sends a tingle down his spine, and his breath gets caught in his throat.

You don’t say anything for too long, just maintaining eye contact with him, like you’re searching his eyes for something.

“Vodka cran,” you say, resting back into your seat, and Clark wonders if you found what you were looking for.

His ears are red, and he quickly turns to the bartender to wave them down and grab you another drink, getting a soda for himself. Conversation flows between the two of you in a surprisingly easy manner, given the events of the past week. Work-related mostly. Clark is doing a better job of not stumbling all over himself, something he’s silently patting himself on the back for.

“You’ve been on time all week,” you note. Clark tries not to focus on how your lips wrap around the straw or how your gloss has stained the plastic.

“Yes, ma’am,” he confirms, the gentle lilt of his Kansan accent slipping through.

You fall silent for a moment, looking at him with such clarity in your eyes that it’s almost startling, and Clark can’t help but feel like he ground your entire conversation to a halt with just two words. “I’m gonna head out.” And then you’re grabbing your purse, tossing a few crinkled bills onto the bar as a tip before standing up.

“O-oh, okay,” Clark stammers, disappointment creeping up in him.

You’re about to step away until you glance back over your shoulder at him. “Are you going to walk me home?” You ask as though that had been the plan all along and he had just forgotten.

He blinks owlishly at your question like he’s not sure he quite heard you right. “Y-yeah!” He scrambles up, nearly knocking over his barstool, and you both head out after bidding your coworkers a goodnight. Lois cocks an eyebrow at you, but you just wiggle your fingers in goodbye.

Jimmy is giving Clark some waggling eyebrows with an enormous grin on his face that Clark is pointedly trying to ignore.

The walk home is quiet. The cool summer air is refreshing on your skin after sitting in the humidity of the bar, and the couple of drinks you had have left you a little light in the head, though it’s not an unwelcome feeling; you figure you’re going to need some liquid courage tonight anyway.

When you arrive at your apartment building, Clark walks you up to your apartment. You still don’t say anything as you take out your keys to unlock your door, and Clark swallows the lump in his throat, already preparing to say goodbye. “You coming in?” You question as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as you step into your apartment, leaving room for him to follow in after you.

“I—” He looks like a deer in the headlights. “You sure?”

You give a nod, and he steps in, albeit hesitantly, closing the door behind him. As soon as it clicks shut, you’re on him, hand pulling at the tie loosely around his neck, jerking him forward despite the other hand firmly on his chest pushing him back until he hits the door with a thud.

He looks shocked, face flushed and pupils blown wide as he doesn’t know what to do with his hands that hover at your waist but do not touch. You’re leaning up and he’s leaning down, gaze darting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. He thinks the strawberry smell is your lip gloss, and his heart won’t stop beating symphonies into his ribcage.

He doesn’t cross it, though, the invisible boundary that’s between you, even when he feels your breath fan against his lips. “I’m giving you the chance to be honest with me,” you whisper like it’s a warning, your voice husky in a way that has his insides twisting and turning.

“Okay,” he says softly.

You don’t move away as though you’re afraid he might try to run if you do. He can hear your own heart hammering in your chest. You’re nervous, he realizes. “You’re Superman.” Your tone doesn’t suggest it’s a question. It’s a statement. You know he’s Superman, and you’re allowing him the opportunity to be honest with you about it.

“Yes.”

Your heart rate speeds up. “That’s why you missed our date.”

“Yes,” he breathes like it’s painful to remember.

You finally blink, breaking eye contact to look down, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. “You really like me?” This one is a question. This one you’re unsure about.

Clark’s hands finally find purchase at your waist. The boundary between the two of you is barely hanging on by a thread. “Immensely.” Your grip on his tie loosens, and both hands are pressed gently against his chest. It wouldn’t take much; he would just have to lean down another inch or two to bring the whole thing crumbling down, but he doesn’t. “How’d you figure it out?” he asks.

“Your eyes,” you murmur like it was an evident thing, “—and your little… Midwestern-isms.”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. Oh, he was in so deep. “My Midwestern-isms?”

“’Yes, ma’am,’” you mock with a bad accent, not at all what he sounds like, and you bite your lip to hide your grin. “How does it work? Your face is… different than Superman’s.”

“The glasses,” he informs, tilting his head. “They’re hypno-glasses, make me look a little bit different, just enough.”

Your hands surge upward before you even know what they’re doing, stopping just shy as you look to Clark for permission, and he nods. As you take off the glasses, it’s like his face comes into focus when you never even realized it had been blurry before. Edges sharpen and define, his nose a little straighter, lips a little fuller, jaw a little squarer.

Moreover, he stands differently when the glasses come off. His shoulders rearrange, and he’s taller now, more confident… broader.

Superman.

“You know everything is starting to make sense,” you ponder as you set the glasses on your entrance table, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. You’re still standing close, his hands on your hips, not allowing you to wander too far from his orbit.

“Yeah?” Even his voice seems crisper, deeper now.

“Mhm,” you hum, “—you’re constantly being late, disappearing whenever some crisis pops up…” You laugh a bit. “I’m actually kind of mad at myself for not realizing it sooner.”

“I thought you might’ve thrown a shoe at me or something,” he admits.

You pull back, giving him an incredulous look. “What?”

“With you not liking Superman and all,” he elaborates. “Figured you would read me the riot act, at least.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s not that I don’t like Superman.”

“Oh?” Eyebrows raise on his forehead. “First time I’m hearing this.”

You shove him, lightly, though he doesn’t move, solid under your touch. “It’s this… dependency we have on him—you,” you correct. “Superman—you—you’re not our savior, and we shouldn’t rely on you to fix every problem or to always show up. We should be able to stand on our own two feet.”

“But I want to help,” he insists, and you see it in his eyes, the earnestness in them. It’s so… Clark. “When things get hard and the world needs someone to lean on, I can carry that weight.”

“And what happens when you need someone to lean on? You may have super strength and can fly and shoot lasers out of your eyes, but you’re still—”

Human.

He doesn’t pretend the implication doesn’t crash around him like tidal waves.

You pull away a bit, not out of reach, not with his hands still wrapped around your waist. “Who’s going to carry the weight for you?” There’s sincerity in your question, and he doesn’t know how to respond because he doesn’t have an answer.

“I—”

You bite your lip as if you’re uncertain whether you should say the next part aloud, nervous to speak those feelings into the universe. “I can,” you say softly.

“I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“But I want to help.” You throw his words back at him, and he’s at a loss for what to say. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon. He wants to kiss you so bad, but he’s afraid of being the one to cross that line.

“Clark.”

He doesn’t know if there’s a sweeter sound than his name on your lips.

“Just kiss me already.”

Except maybe that.

He’s surging forward in the next moment, mouth hot against yours. The barrier is dust between you. He tastes like the remnants of the sugary soda he’d ordered at the bar, and a quick swipe of his tongue against your lips confirms that your lip gloss is strawberry flavored.

You walk backwards, unsteady but confident, hands firmly tugging him along by his shirt, all the while not breaking the kiss that has your brain in a dizzy fog. You can’t help the giggle that escapes as you bump into your destination, the couch, causing your teeth to clatter together.

Clark smiles against your lips as his hands lower, gripping at your thighs as he lifts you off the ground so effortlessly that it has you letting out a quiet ‘oh’. His deep laugh goes straight to your core, and he settles onto the couch with you on top of him, your hands running through his hair, gripping it in a way that has him giving a low groan.

“Is this okay?” he asks in between kisses as though you’re not actively grinding down onto him.

A whimper escapes you as his hard-on catches the seam of your pants just right. “I will actually kill you if you stop.” The normal bite of your tone has given way to desperation. Clark’s entire body warms at that.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs into your mouth, hands wandering to your ass, pressing you harder down onto him while bucking up into you. He leans back for a moment, placing another peck on your lips as his fingers start making work of the buttons on your blouse. When your cleavage comes into view, accentuated by your bra, something plain and practical, you hear Clark let out a shaky breath followed by an ‘oh, golly’ that has you a giggling mess on top of him. He grins, grabbing hold of the side of your neck as he pulls you back into a kiss. “You’re so pretty.”

You nip at his bottom lip. “I could tell by the ‘oh, golly,’” you tease, though your smugness doesn’t last for long as Clark has you on your back against the couch pillows a second later.

You watch reverently as he unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off before pulling off his undershirt. He’s like a peacock, the way he fluffs up as your mouth goes slack, seeing what he was hiding underneath oversized button-ups and baggy suits for the last three years.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe. “What the fuck were they feeding you in Kansas?”

He shakes with laughter as he leans back down, slotting himself in between your legs so he can reconnect your mouths, hand sliding up your side to palm your breast, not waiting long to slide underneath the cup of your bra. You arch up into him as his thumb brushes against your nipple, moaning quietly into his mouth, a sound he eagerly swallows down.

He trails kisses to your cheek, down your neck, spending a bit more time nipping and biting there when you give a shaky gasp. He continues down, pressing kisses to the top of your breasts, before trailing down to your ribs to your stomach until settling right above the waist of your pants.

You barely register him unbuttoning your pants until he drags them and your underwear down in one fell swoop. You cant your hips, letting him take them the rest of the way off, trying not to giggle as he throws the heap across your living room. A problem for tomorrow you.

Self-consciousness pricks at your brain as he spreads your legs, fingertips biting into your thighs, and in the glow of the moonlight streaming in through your apartment windows, you watch him lick his lips as he stares down at you, suddenly, any self-doubt fizzles away. One hand trails up your inner thigh to your core, spreading you so he can take in more of the sight. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs before he bends down.

A breathy moan escapes you as he licks a stripe up your center. “Fuck, Clark.” That eggs him on, and he swirls his tongue around your clit in a way that has you reaching down and gripping his hair. There’s a finger prodding at your entrance and then two that are curling into you at just the right spot.

Your chest heaves as you sink further into the couch, eyes fluttering to the back of your head as your apartment is filled with the obscene noises of Clark eating you out, groaning as he mutters about how good you taste. The feeling of his spit mixed with your own liquids trailing down your ass is overwhelming, and then he sucks at your clit in a way that has your toes curling.

“Clark, please,” you beg. You can feel the band at your core tightening with each swipe of his tongue and thrust of his fingers.

He pulls back slightly, now three fingers deep, hitting a spot inside you that has you seeing stars. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaches. “Cum on my fingers.”

Your breath hitches at mild-mannered Clark Kent telling you to cum on his fingers. He dives back in with enthusiasm, which is all it takes as your hips buck up into his face, and he gladly lets you grind against his mouth, especially with the sounds you’re making as you tighten around his fingers. His fingers continue pumping in and out of you as you ride out your orgasm, his name on your lips like a prayer as his lips greedily drink up all you give him.

He leans back, cheek resting against your inner thigh as he watches you catch your breath and give a little whine when his fingers don’t relent, tugging on his hair. A grin works its way onto his face, and he takes pity on your overstimulated self, pulling his fingers out as he presses a kiss to your thigh before crawling back up to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he licks at your bottom lip.

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, drawing him deeper into the kiss, and you can feel the heavy weight of him against your thigh.

“Good?” he asks as he draws back from you, breathless.

“I think I blacked out at one point,” you respond, still feeling a little lightheaded, which is only exacerbated when he grinds his hips against yours and nips at your neck. “Now take your pants off.” You order as you push him back, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“Bossy,” he teases as he stands, unbuttoning his slacks, letting them drop to the floor. You don’t even have time to register anything else when he pulls down his briefs, and you can only stare with your mouth wide open and brows raised high on your forehead at the size of him. Clark looks a bit uncertain. “Is this okay?”

You surge to your feet and pull him down into a kiss. “It’s always the quiet ones,” you murmur more to yourself as you push him back onto the couch with no resistance and climb up onto his lap. He practically whimpers when you grind onto him. “Seriously, what the fuck were they feeding you?” You question against his lips as you slot yourself against his cock. Naked against him, you really take in how large Clark is in every capacity.

His hands have settled on the globes of your ass, letting you take the reins as you move your hips against his, the wet friction has him moaning into your mouth. “You feel so good,” he breathes. “Thought about this so much.”

“Yeah?” You ask. “Thought about me on top of you a lot, huh?” He nods and tilts his head back as you jut your hips against just at the right spot. You kiss down his jawline, whispering into his ear. “What else have you thought about? Stuffing me full of your cock?”

He stammers a bit, his brain short-circuiting at your dirty talk, and heat spreads up to his ears. “Y-yeah, thought about how good you’d look with me inside you,” he admits.

You reach down between you, grabbing hold of him, and his hips stutter up against your hand, moaning at the feel of your soft skin against his cock. The next thing he knows, you’re sinking onto him and he’s committing the hot, wet heat of your pussy to memory. The burn is expected given his size, and you whine with each inch of him you take.

Clark is a whimpering mess beneath you, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries not to move, letting you set your own pace, though the iron grip he has on your waist is going to leave bruises tomorrow. “So good, so good,” he repeats as he presses kisses into your shoulder. “Gosh, you’re so tight.”

You let the ‘gosh’ slide, given how full of him you are right now. It’s almost overwhelming the size of him, and just when you’re sure you’ve taken him all, you feel yourself slide down another inch. “Christ, you’re so big,” you whine, and you can feel his cock twitch inside of you at that.

“You can’t just say that,” he practically begs, voice cracking slightly, and he’s so tense, you can feel how taut all of his muscles are beneath you.

It’s sweet relief when you feel him bottom out in you and you stay there for a moment, letting yourself adjust, the stinging pain of the stretch not unpleasant, and when you feel more confident you’ve adjusted, you give an experimental thrust of your hips that has you both gasping.

You give another, and you can practically hear Clark grinding his teeth together, and then you raise yourself up, thighs shaking, before slamming back down. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as you set a rhythm, a little sloppy at first as you lean forward to mash your mouths together, Clark whispering praises against your lips.

Every now and then, he leans back to take in the sight of you bouncing on his cock, completely hypnotized by the sight of your pussy swallowing him and the noises you make each time he bottoms out in you.

The rubber band begins to pull tight in your belly, and your thighs wobble, the rhythm faltering. “Clark.” It comes out as a plea. “Fuck me.”

Whatever restraint Clark has snaps at your words. One hand reaches up, grabbing hold of you by the back of your neck as the other digs into your waist, and then he’s forcing you up and down on his cock, hips jutting up to meet yours halfway, setting a bruising pace that has you keening, “Fuck—” you gasp out. “Oh god, I’m gonna—”

Your orgasm rips through you before you can even finish your sentence, and you feel like you’re drowning in the sensation as the world turns to white noise around you. “That’s it, sweetheart, you’re so good for me.”

Clark doesn’t even give you time to come down from your high as he manhandles you off of his lap, the sudden emptiness is jarring, but it doesn’t stay that way long as he bends you over the couch, hefting your ass into the air and sliding back in.

“Such a good girl,” he groans as he resumes the hard thrusts that have you gripping the back of your couch for dear life. The only thing you can focus on is the delicious slide of his cock into you, and you think you feel tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

You’re whining, overstimulated as all hell, already feeling another orgasm beginning to bubble to the surface. “Clark, oh God, fuck—” You’re arching your back, and he hits it just right. “Ohmygod.”

A loud ‘smack’ echoes through the apartment, and you barely even register the sting on your ass cheek. “Gonna give me another one, baby?”

“Mhm,” you whine pathetically into the couch cushion. Body shaking, just trying to keep yourself up, though Clark is doing most of the heavy lifting. He reaches down, fingers circling your clit once, twice, and that’s all it takes as you buck back into him, a long, breathy moan escaping you as you cum again. It feels like every nerve in your body is on fire, and you think you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

You barely register him asking, “Where do you want it?”

Your mouth automatically babbling out, “Inside—fuck—cum inside me.”

That has his hips stuttering before he buries himself to the hilt, groaning lowly, and you can feel the warmth spread inside you. You’re both frozen like that, breathing heavily, and then Clark pulls out with a low hiss, gathering you up in his arms before collapsing back onto the couch, you cradled on top of him, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you finally breathe after a moment of silence, and you can feel his chest shake with laughter. You tilt your head up to look at him, and he captures your lips with his before pulling away, reaching up to caress the side of your face, tracing the contours of your cheekbones with his thumb.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest—a feeling you welcome with open arms.

“So, if I agree to let you take me out to dinner again, think you’ll show up this time?”

He grins. “Yes.”

The weekend passes in a blur of tangled limbs and soft confessions. You tease Clark about all it took was you on top of him to get him to talk to you in full sentences, finally. He stammers and blames you for being so pretty.

On Monday, when Clark comes in late, he does so with a cup of your favorite coffee, and you give him a hard time, despite the smile on your face, with no real bite to your words. Clark is on the receiving end of some light teasing from Lois and Jimmy, who, quite frankly, are relieved they won’t have to deal with a pining Clark any longer.

(They quickly realize, though, that even being together, he still stares after you as you flit about the newsroom, possibly looking even more lovestruck)

the cup nearly slips out of his hand. his jaw clenches, something sick curling in his stomach, because you sound so sure—like it’s been sitting heavy on your chest for weeks and you finally let it out. he freezes in the doorway, coffee cup creasing between his thick fingers, staring at you and lois huddled by her desk like the world didn’t just tilt sideways. he forces himself to move, to keep walking, though each step feels wrong, like wading through cement. he sets the extra coffee down on your desk without a word, the gesture suddenly hollow, stupid. his throat is tight, his ears ringing with the echo of your confession.

"ugh, my hero," you grin, looking up to see him. he just nods, eyes looking everywhere but you. then, without a sheepish goodbye, or a murmured compliment, he trudges to his desk. you furrow a brow, watching the way his shoulders slump and his mouth curves downwards. you shrug and sip the coffee, practically groaning at the taste.

clark can barely focus for the next ten minutes because lois is still laughing at whatever you said, patting your back, and putting way too much sugar in her cup. when he moves his chair farther away from her chattering, he's met with the sight of perfect little jimmy olsen. clark knows it's wrong, but he can't help but feel hatred towards the red-head. of course you’d want jimmy. why wouldn’t you? he’s—he’s everything. he’s normal. he’s good. he's not…clark. he exhales deeply, pushing the thoughts out of his brain and rising to his feet. he mutters something about interviewing superman to lois before slinging his bag over his broad shoulder. for the first time in months, clark passes your desk without tripping over his own feet or offering to bring you back lunch. he just keeps his gaze straight, ignoring the small smile you send him that would've had him in cardiac arrest last week. when he shuts the door to the stairwell, he slams it harsher than usual.

"huh," you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. it’s odd, the absence of his usual stammer, the way he doesn’t even pause to ask if you’ll need anything while he’s out. clark kent doesn’t just leave. not without fussing. not without that earnest, big smile that always makes you laugh under your breath. you glance toward the glass doors just in time to see the back of him vanish into the street. his frame seems even larger when weighed down with that invisible heaviness, his shoulders hunched like the city itself pressed down on them.

lois waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to dream girl. what’s got you staring holes into the exit sign?”

“nothing,” you say quickly, taking another sip of your coffee. it burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch. “he’s just…weird today.”

lois smirks, like she knows something you don’t. “maybe you’ve finally scared him off.” you roll your eyes, but there’s a seed of unease tucked somewhere beneath your ribs. clark, ignoring you? clark, walking out without a word? something’s off, and you don't like it.

meanwhile, he’s already halfway down the block, jaw tight, breath sharp against the collar of his shirt. every noise in the city seems louder, harsher. he wants to fly, to tear through the clouds until the ache in his chest evaporates, but even that won’t fix the image burned into his head—your smile, your voice, the certainty when you said something about loving jimmy. he adjusts his glasses, forces his hands into his pockets. you deserve jimmy, he tells himself. you deserve someone simple. someone safe. not a man who lies every day just to keep you from finding out what he is. but god, it really does feel like he’s been punched through a building.

~

the next morning, the newsroom is its usual chaos of ringing phones and rustling paper. you’re perched at your desk, expecting the familiar shadow of clark kent to appear at your elbow with a steaming cup balanced carefully in his hand. but he doesn’t. he walks straight past you, no “morning,” no stammered compliment about your outfit, not even the ghost of his bashful smile. his stride is stiff, mechanical. he sits, adjusts his glasses, and pretends the stack of notes on his desk is suddenly urgent.

your brows pinch, the silence where clark usually is buzzing like a mosquito in your ear. from across the bullpen, lois notices immediately. she grins like a cat with cream, rolling her chair over until she bumps against clark’s desk with a little thunk. “wow,” she drawls, crossing her arms. “no coffee or expensive danish for your girlfriend today? what’s the world coming to, kent?”

normally, clark would flush bright red, choke on his words, maybe even sputter something about she’s not my girlfriend. today, though, he just stares at his computer, jaw tight. “it’s not funny, lois.”

her smirk falters, curiosity sparking. “okay, grumpy. what’s crawled up your cape?”

he exhales slowly through his nose, voice quiet enough that only she can hear. “i heard you two yesterday. by your desk. i wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but i couldn’t not hear it. she basically confessed her love for jimmy.”

lois blinks, letting the information sink in, then lets out a bark of laughter so loud perry pokes his head out of his office and scowls. she waves him off, shoulders shaking. “oh, clark,” she says finally, grinning like she’s just been handed front-page gossip. “you are so out of your depth.”

he looks at her, confused and a little wounded. “lois-” but she’s already rolling back toward her desk, still laughing under her breath, deciding it’ll be far more entertaining to let him stew in his own misery than clear things up for him. from your desk, you glance between the two of them, unsettled by the storm cloud hanging over clark’s usually sunny face.

~

by the end of the day, you’re convinced something’s wrong. it’s not you—at least, you don’t think so. clark isn’t avoiding eye contact out of shyness, he’s dimmer. a man sized shadow slumped in his chair, typing but not seeing, answering questions with one-syllable words. it unsettles you. so, on impulse, you stop by his apartment that evening, balancing a warm paper bag of his favorite takeout against your hip. you knock, humming under your breath, rehearsing some lighthearted line about him looking like he needed it.

when the door creaks open, you almost drop the bag. clark stands there, hair mussed, tie still crooked from work. his glasses slide a fraction down his nose and he doesn’t even push them back up. his expression is blank, exhausted—nothing like the clark kent that you know. “hi,” you start, lifting the bag like an offering. “i, um…thought you might want dinner. you seemed…i don’t know. sad, today.”

for a beat, he just blinks at you. no blush, no stammer, just an emptiness that makes your stomach twist. and it’s impossible not to remember the last time you stood at this doorway. it was months ago, when you came to return the coat he’d forgotten at the office. he’d opened the door with his shirt half-tucked, papers scattered behind him, his ears blazing red. he’d practically yelped, slammed the door in your face, and by the time he opened it again—thirty seconds later—his hair was brushed, his apartment spotless, his shirt pressed like he’d just stepped out of the dry cleaner. you never questioned it, just laughed at how adorably flustered he was.

but tonight, none of that frantic effort. no rush to impress you. just clark, a shell of himself, standing there like he doesn’t quite know what to do with your kindness. “you didn’t have to do that,” he says finally, voice low, almost flat.

you frown. “clark, it’s just noodles. not exactly a grand gesture.” he steps aside reluctantly, letting you in. the apartment is dull, curtains drawn, papers stacked haphazardly on the table. he doesn’t make any excuse for the mess, doesn’t try to straighten anything. you set the bag down, glance back at him. “are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do i have to guess?”

his throat works. he looks at you, then away, as if the sight of you burns. clark rubs a hand over his face, glasses skewing, and mutters, “it’s nothing. really.”

you narrow your eyes. “you look like your dog died.”

“i don’t…have a dog. well, not really,” he says, almost defensively, before realizing how stupid it sounds.

you huff out a laugh despite yourself, unpacking the food. “exactly my point. sit down before you collapse on me.” he obeys, but slowly, like his body weighs twice as much tonight. he doesn’t even move to help, just watches as you set the cartons on his table and search his cabinets for plates. normally, he’d be at your side in a second, fumbling for napkins, tripping over a chair leg in his rush to make himself useful. “you’re freaking me out, clark,” you say finally, sliding a plate of noodles toward him. “yesterday you were fine, and today you’re like this. did perry yell at you? did lois make some crack about your tie again?”

“no.” his fork stirs aimlessly through the noodles, appetite nonexistent. his eyes flicker up to yours for a heartbeat, then drop to the table. “just—don’t worry about it.”

but you do. you can’t not. this is clark, the man who once apologized three times in a row because he accidentally bumped your chair. the man who leaves sticky notes on your desk when you’re having a bad day, with scribbled little cartoons that always make you smile. seeing him dulled, detached, is like finding the sun burned out overnight. “too late,” you murmur, softer than you meant to. “i’m already worried.”

his throat tightens. he pushes his food away, elbows braced on his knees, palms clasped so tightly his knuckles blanch. he wants to say it—that he heard you, that he knows you’re in love with jimmy, that it’s tearing him apart. but the words wedge in his chest like shards of glass. so instead, he shakes his head. “you don’t have to take care of me. i’ll be fine.”

you stare at him, unsettled. the clark you know would’ve blushed at the sight of you standing in his doorway with dinner, would’ve tripped over his gratitude, would’ve told you a dozen times you didn’t need to, but thank you, thank you, thank you. this version of him? he feels distant—even untouchable. “so who will?” you sigh, reaching out to rub your manicured nails up and down his arm. he flinches at the sudden contact. “if i don’t take care of you, who will?” you repeat the question, voice quieter this time.

for a beat, there’s nothing but the hum of his old refrigerator, the distant honk of a horn outside. then, the sudden snap of his words. “maybe you should go take care of jimmy instead.” the words land like a slap. sharp, petty, and completely unlike him. his voice isn’t raised, but it cuts through the room like glass.

your lips part in confusion. “what?”

instantly, his face crumples, shame flooding in. he drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “i—god, i didn’t mean that.”

but you’re still staring at him, confusion knitting your brow. clark kent doesn’t snap. he doesn’t sulk like a child or spit out jealous little barbs. he doesn’t tell you to go take care of someone else. except, apparently, tonight he does. you whisper, incredulous, “where did that even come from?”

that’s when the words begin to spill out like you’d given him truth serum. “iheardyouandloistalkingaboutjimmyyesterday.” he babbles, eyes pinching shut in pure embarrassment. “i wasn’t eavesdropping—well, i guess i was—but that’s only because i have really, really good hearing.” you blink at him, stunned into silence. his words tumble over themselves, frantic and messy, and it’s so painfully unlike the careful, gentle clark you know. “you said he was super amazing and he was perfect and blah blah, and it really upset me because i really like you.”

your chest goes still, like the air’s been punched out of you. clark’s face is pink, his glasses slipping low on his nose as he finally dares to glance at you. his expression is raw, almost desperate. and then, all at once, it clicks. the conversation he must’ve overheard. the laughter with lois. the exaggerated tone you’d been using.

your lips part. “oh my god.”

he flinches. “i knew i shouldn’t’ve said-”

“no, clark,” you cut in quickly, leaning forward across the little table. “you didn’t hear the whole thing.” his brows pinch, confusion warring with the nerves flickering across his face.

“jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him,” you’d said, slouched against lois’s desk, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. lois had nearly spit out her coffee, laughing as you mimicked the wide-eyed gush of the new intern who couldn’t string two sentences together without swooning over poor jimmy olsen. “and she didn’t know that he was right behind her! i almost died.”

back in clark’s apartment, you cover your mouth, a laugh threatening despite the tension. “clark… i wasn’t talking about me. i was making fun of that new intern, melanie. you know, the one who brings jimmy muffins every morning like she’s feeding a baby bird?”

his entire body stills. he blinks once, twice, the words catching up like bricks tumbling into place. “…oh.” clark’s ears flame instantly, red creeping down his neck. he scrubs a hand over his face like he can hide inside his palm. “i-” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “i thought—i really thought-”

“that i was in love with jimmy?” you supply, a mix of incredulity and something softer curling around the words.

he groans, deflating like a balloon and dragging his fingers through his hair. “god, this is humiliating. i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have assumed. i just—i heard it, and it felt like someone punched a hole straight through me. and then tonight i went and…” his jaw tightens, guilt coloring every syllable, “snapped at you. you didn’t deserve that.”

you study him, the way his shoulders slope in defeat, the way his chest still rises and falls too fast. you’ve never seen clark kent like this. it makes your heart ache. “clark,” you say gently, resting your hand over his where it grips his knee. he jolts at the touch, eyes flying to yours. “you like me?”

the question cracks something open in him. his throat bobs as he nods, slow, reluctant, but honest. “more than i should.”

your lips curve into a wide grin. “you’re serious.” you try your best to feign disbelief.

his laugh is humorless, quiet. “painfully.”

you tilt your head, studying him, the way his broad frame looks so small slumped forward on the couch. “i had a hunch.”

that makes him look up, startled. “you…what?” sure, maybe he was a little obvious. okay, more than a little. but in his defense, how else was he supposed to act around you? how do you look at someone who makes the whole room feel like it’s finally in color and not trip over your own feet? he thought he’d been careful. that the coffees and lunches and endless, nervous “thank yous” were just gentlemanly. the kind of things anyone would do for a coworker. except no one else at the planet is lining up outside your favorite deli to grab your lunch when you’re too swamped to get it yourself. no one else memorizes how you take your coffee down to the sugar packet.

but you noticed. of course you did.

you shrug, trying to bite back your smile. “clark, you bring me coffee every single morning without fail. you pull out my chair like we’re in a black-and-white movie. you once carried my bag down three flights of stairs because you said it looked heavy—it had one book in it.”

his ears are glowing now, eyes wide behind his lenses. “i—i thought i was being-”

“discreet?” you finish for him, laughing softly. “you aren’t very discreet.”

he groans, hiding his face in his hands, muffling something that sounds like, “oh, god.”

but you reach forward, gently prying his hands away until his flustered face is bared again. “hey.” your voice is softer now. “for the record i like you too. i have for a while.”

his mouth parts, a little stunned breath catching like he doesn’t quite know how to hold it. the corners of his lips twitch up, like a smile is fighting its way through all that disbelief. “you—really?”

“painfully,” you echo back, teasing but oh so true.

Immediately, a blush dusts over his cheeks and you nearly catch yourself smiling in your sleep-deprived state. Despite the tips of his ears going red, he sounds indignant. “We’re not even undercover this time. We’re literally there with press access.”

“Technicalities,” you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “How many times do I need to remind you we’re going in as press and then hiding any evidence of the fact so we can snoop. That means you can’t trip over nothing and let your flashcards with the blueprints on them fall out of your pockets and all over the floor this time.”

The others immediately start cracking up and Clark sits up straight. “Okay, that was one time. And you’re leaving out the part where it provided a great distraction for Superman to come out the second they started pointing guns at us and everyone else in the warehouse.”

“True,” Jimmy pipes up. He couldn’t stop talking about that night for weeks after it happened. “He was pretty awesome.”

“Hey, you should get some stealth tips from your boyfriend to avoid things like this in the future,” you nudge him with your elbow and smile innocently at his blank expression.

“Really? Boyfriend?”

Cat snorts into her fist, but Lois schools her own expression and joins in the bit straight away. “Well, there has to be a reason he’s always giving you interviews, right? You’re the only guy in the world who says ‘golly’ unironically. That has to be a turn on for someone.”

“Hm,” you agree, picking up the cup of coffee nearest to you and fighting a grin. “Maybe his type is just 6’4, earnest, kind, dorky journalists with puppy dog eyes.”

You try not to choke on a laugh as you take a swig of lukewarm coffee, freezing mid-sip. “Oh my God,” you shudder, forcing yourself to swallow and immediately gagging afterwards. “Can we please get Lois her own cup with a neon warning sign so the rest of us can avoid multiple cavities?”

“My bad.” She winces, taking her cup back and drinking deeply without so much as a shudder.

Clark’s broad shoulders shake with barely contained laughter from beside you and you consider taking back the word ‘kind’ when he shrugs at your glaring face. “Can’t say you didn’t deserve that. Also, I’m only 6’1. Also, did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m just a good journalist?”

“Nope,” you deadpan, not missing a beat. “Also, I didn’t peg you for a liar,” you respond, mocking him with as much ire as you can.

He rolls his eyes, but it bugs you more than you let on.

You’ve noticed the way Clark tries to make himself look smaller with the way his posture is bad enough to rival your own. But there’s no way he’s any shorter than 6’4 and you’d bet good money on it. Call it good journalistic instinct or stalker tendencies, but he’s not exactly easy to miss. It’s not like you’ve been staring at him.

You’d also mention the fact that his slightly oversized clothes do nothing to hide his huge biceps every time he reaches over your desk to steal a pen, but at the risk of getting written up by HR, you refrain and keep it to yourself.

Cat hops off her desk and her heels make a loud clacking noise that has everyone grimacing in the otherwise silent office. “Okay, we’ve done as much as we can tonight,” she declares, picking up her bag with a sigh. “I’m going home and getting my much needed beauty sleep. I suggest the four of you do the same.”

“I’m right behind you,” Jimmy says, shoving his notes unceremoniously into his briefcase. Lois does the same and you reluctantly start packing your own things.

“Well, that’s my cue to leave too,” you mumble through a yawn and shrug on your jacket. “Don’t leave me alone with Boy Scout and his love for municipal law.”

Clark’s lips twitch. “I do enjoy a good public records database.”

The fact that he’s pretending not to be sincere about the fact is almost endearing. You can begrudgingly admit that to yourself. Outwardly, you scoff and ignore the fact that he’s following you out with a teasing grin, close behind.

“Everyone clear on what to do?” Lois asks, pointlessly — you’ve all gone through the plan five times in the past half hour. “Cat chats up the senator or anyone in his near vicinity, including the PR manager to get the event schedule. Jimmy takes candids for cover. I’m going to create a distraction for the guards—”

“And Clark and I sneak upstairs and break into the senator’s office,” you finish for her. “Go time?”

“Go time,” Cat rolls her shoulders like she’s about to square up before walking off with all the confidence in the world.

The others break away to do their respective jobs and you and Clark make your way to the alcove near the exit to await Lois’ confirmation text to slip upstairs. As soon as your phone dings, you tap Clark on the arm and begin walking away, all without looking up from your device as you put it on silent.

He follows you dutifully, glancing behind every now again to keep watch as you rush up the stairs. The upper floor is darker, quiet save the sound of your heels clicking too loud for your liking on the sleek marble floors.

You stop abruptly when you notice the ostentatious door standing out from the others and Clark clumsily bumps into your back, nearly knocking you over.

“Oh, shoot, sorry,” he whispers, steadying you by the waist, but you’re barely paying attention, reaching for your purse and digging around for any old loyalty card in your wallet. “Uh, what’s that for?”

“For Plan A,” you mutter, sliding it into the space between the door and the frame, right above the handle. You wiggle it around for a second, tilting and angling the card with no particular method, praying it works. “Please open, please open, please— Ha!”

The door opens miraculously and you fight the urge to do a victory dance as Clark watches with wide eyes. “Huh… What was Plan B?”

“Getting you to break the door down, obviously.”

You don’t wait for an answer as you barge into the room and head straight for the cabinets while Clark heads for the desk and starts scanning it with his eyes like he’s trying to look straight through the wood. By the time you’ve turned around properly, his glasses are back on and you find yourself wishing you’d looked a little earlier, suddenly wondering what his face looks like without the dark frames.

He seems to settle on one particular drawer, jimmying it open with a crack and somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re wondering what kind of idiot senator has such lax security measures protecting his documents. Surely he could afford some stronger drawers.

“Look at this,” he says, voice low as he holds up a receipt stapled to a glossy invoice. “Private jet to a development site in Dubai. Paid for by the foundation tied to his campaign manager.”

“I’ve seen this account name somewhere else… This is good stuff, Kent.”

“I think this is all we need from here,” he decides, folding it up and taking your purse to neatly tuck it away. You let him, too busy looking at him like he’s gone crazy. “What? There’s probably not much else on paper.”

“What are the chances that we can get into his computer using ‘Password123’?”

Clark opens his mouth to reply before he abruptly cuts himself off. He grabs your arm, and steers you to the door. “Security’s on their way.”

”What? How do you—?”

Heavy boots clatter up the stairs along with the sound of voices, making you straighten up and practically run out the door.

Your stomach drops when you realise they’re coming from both sides of the hallway and without thinking too much about it, your eyes latch onto a door that reads ‘Supplies’ and you shove it open, dragging Clark in there with you and twisting the lock.

Immediately, you feel the lack of space as you’re surrounded by stacked boxes and shelves and trolleys and him. You press your back to the wall, but his body is inches from yours, warm and solid and tense like he’s painfully aware of the limited air between you.

“6’2, my ass,” you whisper, trying to angle your body so you’re not shoved completely against him. It does nothing and Clark sighs, gently holding you in place before letting go to raise his arms to steady himself against the wall above your head, giving you a little bit more space to move. “God, how are you so… large?”

“Maybe you’re just small,” he retorts, sounding like a petulant child.

“Good one, Clark,” you deadpan. “You should write that one down on one of your flashcards.”

Through the crack under the door, you see shadows moving near the office door and guards doing a sweep of the room inside and out. Voices murmur. “Nothing. Probably just noise from downstairs.”

“I think they’re leaving,” you whisper, straining to hear.

Clark stays staring at the door, quiet.

“I heard them go. They’re—”

“They haven’t left,” he says softly, furrowing his brows.

You freeze. “What?”

“I think they heard us in here. They’re faking it and waiting outside the door.”

“How the hell do you know that, Clark?” you whisper-yell, practically looking up at him. The second you hear some shuffling, you realise he’s right and your brain kicks into plan mode. “Shit. Okay. Don’t freak out, Smallville.”

You start to muss up his hair and tilt his glasses slightly so they sit crookedly on his face before you move to loosen his tie, using it to pull him down a little closer to your level. “Uh, okay. Freak out about what? And what are you… Oh—”

You try your best not to process the feeling of his entire body shuddering against you as you press a firm kiss to the side of his neck that’s in the line of sight to anyone entering the closet, leaving an obvious mark in the shade of your lipstick.

“I— I don’t… Wh—” he can barely stammer out a sentence and you wish you had the time to appreciate how much of a mess he’s become from a few pecks to the neck and cheek. Most of all, you wish you had the time to make fun of him from being such a Kansas farm-boy type. His eyes become glassy the second you slip the strap of your dress down your shoulder. “What a-are you doing?”

“Oh, relax,” you whisper, rolling your eyes. “You never seen a bare shoulder before? Quick, lift me up onto the shelf, so I can reach.”

He obeys immediately, like it’s a reflex with the way his large hands automatically wrap around the sides of your waist and pick you up like you weigh nothing to settle you onto the uncomfortable metal rings. “Reach what?”

You sigh when his hands go respectfully back to his sides and so you pick them up and settle them right back onto your hips, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer than the already unforgiving distance. As soon as you do this, Clark lets out a shuddering breath like the wind has been knocked out of him and his eyes never once leave your hips. Exactly where his hands are firmly squeezing.

It’s professional, you tell yourself. Just… good, old-fashioned, professional journalism when you’re unbuttoning his dress shirt, eyes focused on his chest so you don’t get distracted by your lipstick marks on his milky white skin, or the way his blue eyes are as dark as you’ve ever seen them right now.

He isn’t exactly stopping you, and so you unbutton as far down as you can before a flash of blue and red lycra stops you in your tracks. “Oh my God,” you exhale, fingers frozen at his chest.

“What?” he murmurs, dazed as he glances up at your face. There’s no time for him to realise what you’re looking at because there’s a sudden rattling of the doorknob and you hastily button his shirt back up before threading your fingers in his hair and using your grip to pull him closer. He swallows hard.

“Make it look real, Kent,” you breathe out and as soon as the door breaks open, you’re pressing your lips against his and kissing him deeply.

It’s clumsy at first, considering the way you’ve practically attacked him, but the second your hand trails down to his jaw, it’s like he’s jumping into action with the way he slants his lips against your own. All for the job, you repeat in your head like a mantra in an attempt to justify the way you’re making little noises when he kisses you back like he’s getting graded.

“Hey,” a voice booms out through the now open door, but thankfully Clark follows your lead and acts like he doesn’t even notice them. “Hands up where we can— Ah, what in the hell is this?”

The way he’s kissing you is so Clark and it has you melting against him. Your hands slide down his chest to the sides of his arms where you grip his biceps that you absolutely knew would be as firm as they are, despite his ill-fitting suits.

The men outside of the closet are complaining under their breaths like they’re not getting paid enough to deal with this kind of thing, but you want to be as convincing as possible and so you ignore them completely. Instead, you kiss Clark even deeper, slipping your tongue into his mouth. Immediately, he allows you entry and lets out a low moan like you’re completely alone.

It takes you off guard and heat pools in your lower stomach, because damn, he’s convincing.

“Hey, break it up!”

Clark moves his lips against yours hungrily, his breath catching when your chest rises up to press against his front, your hips slotting perfectly between his own. The movement spurs him to lift one of your legs so it’s further settled up his waist and his hand stays at your upper thigh, pushing your dress up with the motion.

“NOW!”

The sound of a fist banging against the door makes you jump and you whip your head around and act like you only just noticed the two guards in your presence. Clark still has his eyes shut and his forehead rests against your temple as you’re turned away from him. He’s breathing even heavier than you.

“Oh my goodness,” you laugh, weakly, smoothing down your hair in faux embarrassment. “We are so, so sorry. We just needed some, uh, privacy.”

One of the guards looks at you incredulously. “You can’t be here, lady! Find it elsewhere.”

“Of course,” you exhale, smiling apologetically as you fix the strap of your dress and tug the fabric down your legs. You tap Clark’s forearm and he leans back slowly and lifts you by the waist again to set you down. “We’ll just be on our way. Uhm, sorry again.”

Grabbing Clark’s hand, you tug him behind you as you speed-walk down the hall and the staircase. The air cools you down a little and once your head clears, you shove Clark into yet another tight space in a little alcove beneath the stairs where you’re sure no one is listening.

You look up at him and your breath is nearly taken away when you notice his pupils are completely blown, there’s a flush going all the way down his neck and his lips are bitten and swollen. Worst of all, his eyes are glued to your mouth.

It takes a lot of self control to snap out of it, but you somehow manage to. “So. Are we going to talk about it?”

Clark blinks, eyes flickering back up to meet your own. Once your words register in his mind, he takes a deep sigh. “Yeah… yeah I guess we should.”

Tapping your foot against the marble, you cross your arms and raise an expectant brow. “Well?”

“Okay, here goes,” he murmurs, nodding like he’s trying to convince himself that speaking is a good idea. “I can’t stop thinking about you. And you kissing me like that was probably the worst thing you could have done, because I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to recover from it now. Like, seriously, it’s replaying in my mind as we speak and maybe kissing you back like that was wildly inappropriate, but you’re a really good kisser and I really like you—”

“Wait, what?” you cut him off, head spinning from his words. “I wasn’t talking about the kiss! I was talking about the fact that either it’s laundry day and you’re wearing a blue swimsuit to substitute your underwear, or…”

You trail off, looking pointedly at his chest and signaling in the shape of an ‘S’.

Clark’s jaw goes slack and he looks down like he’s making sure his shirt is buttoned up. It still is, thanks to your previous forethought, but it has you realising that he still doesn’t know that you know.

“Smallville,” you inhale, pinching your nose bridge. “Are you telling me you were so affected by a couple of pecks that you still haven’t realised that I know you’re— him?”

He’s silent for a second. “It’s entirely possible.”

“Oh my God, I knew it!” you say, fighting a derisive laugh. “Well, I mean… I heavily suspected. And doubted a lot. But the thought was there, so it counts!”

Clark winces, burying his face in his hands like he’s hiding. “You knew?”

“Come on, Clark,” you scoff. “You clearly don’t need glasses. You’re the only one who gets interviews with the guy — which, can I just say, is definitely toying with the boundaries of journalistic ethics. You’re built like a tank. You also mysteriously disappeared during that one shootout when Superman suddenly appeared and then you came back as soon as he left!”

“You noticed I went missing?”

“I—” Shaking your head, you come to another realisation tonight and think that it’s only fair to be as honest with him and he’s being with you. “Of course I noticed, Clark. Whether I choose to or not, I always notice you. God, it only makes sense that you’re Superman, I mean you’re just so good. As Clark, you’re always kind and polite and unwavering in your beliefs and… Yeah. I noticed.”

You finish the sentence off lamely, suddenly very aware of the silence between you both. You’ve never been one for long silences and eventually you decide you’ve had enough. “Are you going to say something?”

“I notice you too,” Clark whispers, looking at you in awe. The man from another planet, who could probably hang out amongst the stars any day he chooses, is looking at you like you’ve personally hung them all in the sky. A slow smile begins to grow on his face and your chest aches at how beautiful he is. “Sometimes, you’re all I notice.”

“I know,” you say teasingly, stepping closer to cup the side of his jaw with your hand. “It’s super creepy, Smallville.”

His grin only widens and you’re mesmerised with only one thought in mind.

“Can I?” you ask, gesturing at his glasses. He nods straight away, like he doesn’t even have to think about it and the trust he has in you makes you want to melt into a puddle there and then.

The second the specs leave his face, he’s just as beautiful. Just as striking. And so very Superman.

“There he is.”

The lunch rush was already in full swing, the kind of chaos that made the air feel heavy with steam and the scent of frying onions. You balanced a notepad in one hand, pen in the other, as you crouched slightly beside a booth of regulars—two truckers who smelled like diesel and black coffee.

“Two Big Belly Burgers, one extra pickles, one no onions. Fries with both. And two cherry Cokes,” you repeated, flashing them your waitress smile before heading toward the kitchen pass-through.

Eddie was there, leaning against the stainless-steel counter like the picture of laziness, a spatula twirling in his fingers. His hair was tucked under a red Big Belly’s cap in the loosest possible interpretation of the dress code, a few curls already escaping.

You slapped the ticket down in front of him. “Table three,” you said. “Don’t burn them this time.”

He gave you that grin—the one that was half challenge, half trouble. “Please. My burgers are the only reason people come here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sure. It’s definitely not because they’re desperate and this is the only place open after eleven.”

“Jealous,” he shot back, flipping a patty onto the grill with more flair than strictly necessary. “Admit it—you’d kill to be back here in my kitchen kingdom.”

You leaned an elbow on the counter. “Right. Because smelling like fryer grease all day is my dream.”

From the other side of the kitchen, one of the dishwashers called out, “Just kiss already!”

Without missing a beat, you and Eddie both shot back in perfect unison—

“She wishes!”

“He wishes!”

You caught each other’s eyes then, both of you trying not to smile too wide, and it was ridiculous how much heat could pass over a counter full of burger buns.

The diner was humming with clinking cutlery, chatter, and the tinny hum of a Foreigner song crackling through the overhead speakers. You moved from table to table, the coffee pot in your hand your trusted sidekick.

“Top you off?” you asked one of the truckers, steam curling from the pot as you poured. A couple of high school kids in the corner booth waved you over next, their notebooks and milkshake glasses sharing precious table space. You kept that practiced smile on, the one you could wear through a ten-hour shift without cracking—though it always turned real when someone tipped decently.

From behind the pass-through, Eddie’s eyes tracked you. He tried to make it look casual, like he was just glancing up to check if an order was ready to be run out, but the curve tugging at his mouth gave him away. It wasn’t his usual smirk either—more like something softer. So soft, in fact, that he nearly missed the angry hiss from the grill.

“Shit—” He lunged for the spatula, flipping the burger just in time to save it from turning into charcoal. Well, mostly save it.

When you finally swung back around to the kitchen, you picked up the plate he’d slid under the heat lamps. “Uh-huh.” You tilted your head at the patty. “Looks a little… dark, Munson.”

Eddie braced his arms on the counter, leaning toward you with exaggerated offense. “That’s called caramelization, sweetheart. Adds flavor. You’re welcome.”

You smirked, shaking your head as you grabbed the plate. “If the customer sends it back, I’m telling them you tried to assassinate them via overcooked beef.”

“Tell them it’s gourmet,” he called after you as you wove back into the dining room, and you didn’t have to see him to know he was still watching.

By the time the last table was wiped down and the coffee pots were dumped, the air in Big Belly’s felt calmer—just the hum of the refrigeration units and the scrape of chairs being set back in place. In the kitchen, Biggie was barking goodnights as the staff worked through their closing checklist, mopping floors and stacking clean pans.

You pulled on your coat over your uniform, the fabric still carrying the faint smell of grease and fryer oil. Through the front windows, you spotted Eddie outside, leaning against the brick wall by the dumpster, a cigarette hanging from his fingers. The tip glowed orange in the dim light, his hair catching bits of neon from the diner’s flickering sign.

When you stepped out, the night air felt sharp after the heat of the kitchen. Eddie glanced over, a little smile tugging at his lips, not the cocky grin he wore during shifts—just something easy.

“Thought you clocked out already,” he said, voice low.

“Was just finishing up.” You tucked your hands in your coat pockets, standing beside him. For a few seconds, it was quiet except for the faint hiss of his exhale.

“All the food looked good today,” you said finally, tilting your head toward him. “Well… besides that one dark one.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Still on about that?”

“I’m just saying, you’re lucky I didn’t have to deal with an angry customer.”

“You wound me,” he said, but there was no real defense in his tone—just the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, like he liked that you’d noticed at all.

For once, neither of you rushed to fill the silence that followed.

Headlights swept across the parking lot, and you spotted Karen’s beat-up Buick pulling up near the curb. She leaned over from the driver’s seat to wave, the muffler rattling like it might give out any second.

You glanced back at Eddie. The smoke from his cigarette curled into the cool night air, his eyes still on you like he wasn’t quite ready for you to leave. You shifted your weight, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture more nervous than you meant it to be.

“Well… guess that’s my ride,” you said, your voice softer now, without the sharp edges of your shift banter.

He gave a small nod, the kind that felt like it meant more than it seemed. “See you tomorrow, waitress.”

“See you, cook,” you replied, letting the words linger between you before turning toward the car.

As you slid into the passenger seat and Karen pulled away, you caught one last glimpse of him in the side mirror—still leaning against the wall, cigarette burning low, watching until you were gone.

The morning rush hadn’t started yet, but you could already hear Biggie clattering around in the back kitchen, muttering about invoices and delivery schedules. You were wiping down the counter when the front door chimed, and in strolled Eddie—hair a mess under his cap, leather jacket over his white shirt like he hadn’t bothered to change until the last possible second.

You smirked. “Well, well, look who decided to show up.”

He only raised his brows, unfazed, as he sauntered past you toward the kitchen.

“Oh, Biggie!” you called out loud enough to carry to the back. “Guess who’s late again—”

Before you could get another word out, Eddie’s arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. His hand came up over your mouth in a lazy, practiced motion, like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Don’t listen to her, Boss,” he said, strolling through the swinging doors with you half-dragged along, his voice smooth as ever. “She’s delirious from too much caffeine. Happens every shift.”

You mumbled against his palm, swatting at his arm as he grinned down at you, walking at the same casual pace as though he hadn’t just been caught sneaking in late.

Biggie poked his head out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Munson. Clock in. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” Eddie said brightly, finally letting you go with a dramatic flourish like he was saving you from yourself. He tossed you a wink before ducking fully into the kitchen, leaving you standing there with your arms crossed and an involuntary smile tugging at your lips.

The shift passed without incident—no spilled milkshakes, no burned patties, no customers yelling about wrong orders. By the time the dinner crowd started thinning out, you found yourself at the counter, refilling the straw dispenser. The neat little red-and-white paper tubes clinked softly as you stacked them in place.

“Psst.”

You looked up, and there was Eddie—head poking out of the pass-through window like some kind of overgrown raccoon, curls slipping out from under his cap. His elbows rested on the ledge, chin propped in his hand, watching you with that crooked grin that usually meant trouble.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Just wondering… hypothetically… would it kill you to go see a movie with me sometime?”

Your hand froze halfway to the dispenser, a straw dangling loosely between your fingers. You blinked at him. “A movie?”

“Yeah, you know,” he said, voice casual but the faintest thread of nervousness sneaking through. “Dark room, big screen, overpriced popcorn. Whole civilized experience.”

You set the straw down carefully, schooling your face into its usual smirk. “Hmm. I don’t know. Sounds risky.”

Eddie leaned further out the window, his grin widening. “Risky how?”

“Spending two whole hours with you? What if you talk through the whole thing?”

He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “I would never. I am a gentleman of the cinema.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “We’ll see, Munson. Maybe.”

As you turned back to the straws, your eyes flicked up—and immediately caught Karen’s from across the counter. She was wiping down a booth, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in barely contained laughter. And as if you both had the same mind, giving each other a wide-eyed oh my god look.

The night air outside was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain on pavement and the greasy tang of the fryer vents. Eddie was in his usual spot by the wall, one boot pressed against the brick, cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers. The glow at the end flared when he took a drag, his head tilted back like he was soaking up the quiet.

You tugged your coat tighter around yourself as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud. He noticed you immediately—of course he did—and that small, crooked smile curved onto his face like it belonged there.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite waitress,” he said lightly.

You stopped a few feet away, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “So…”

“So?” he echoed, blowing a lazy plume of smoke to the side.

“You can’t just—” You waved a hand vaguely, searching for the words. “Drop something like ‘go to a movie with me’ in the middle of a shift and then not elaborate.”

His grin tugged wider. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

You gave him a flat look, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you. “Don’t push it, Munson.”

He flicked ash onto the cracked pavement, then gestured with the cigarette like it was a pointer. “Alright, picture this: The Hawk, Saturday night. I pay for the tickets, I don’t talk during the show—unless it’s to make fun of the trailers—and I even spring for popcorn. Big spender, right?”

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, lips twitching despite yourself. “That’s your big pitch?”

“What, not impressed?” he asked, feigning outrage. “I’ll even let you pick the movie. Total gentleman move.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he countered, smoke curling past his grin.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. “Maybe.”

And the way his gaze softened at that single word made your chest feel strangely light, like maybe you’d just agreed to more than popcorn and a dark theater.

The theater lobby smelled like butter and sugar, a mix of popcorn and candy that clung to the carpet and the air itself. The neon lights buzzed faintly overhead, flickering just enough to remind you this wasn’t exactly a glamorous movie palace, but for Hawkins, it was as good as it got. Eddie held the door open with an exaggerated bow, and you gave him a look as you stepped inside, brushing past him.

At the ticket counter, the bored teenager behind the glass slid two tickets under the slot after you’d pointed to the poster on the wall. Labyrinth. David Bowie’s painted face stared down with a piercing gaze, all mystery and glitter. Eddie blinked at the poster, then at you, one brow arching high.

“Labyrinth?” he asked, half incredulous, half amused. “Huh.”

You turned to him, clutching your ticket, tilting your chin in challenge. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away. “Just… didn’t have you pegged as the fantasy type.”

You shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I like fantasy. Big worlds, magic. Makes real life seem a little less boring, you know?”

Eddie tried to play it cool, tried to make it seem like he was only half-listening as he shifted his weight and adjusted his jacket, but there was no mistaking the way his grin softened into something warmer. He coughed into his fist, looking away like the popcorn machine had suddenly become fascinating. “Yeah, uh… fantasy’s cool. Definitely. Totally respectable choice.”

You squinted at him. “Respectable?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, the picture of nonchalance. “I mean, what’s not to love?” His tone was light, but underneath the sarcasm, something else flickered—relief, maybe. Relief that you, of all people, shared the same thing he secretly adored.

He bought the popcorn before you could reach for your wallet, handing it over with a flourish as if he were presenting you with some rare treasure. “M’lady,” he said dramatically, bowing again.

Rolling your eyes, you tugged the bucket from his hands, though your smile lingered. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re here with me,” he shot back, following you toward the dark theater doors.

The movie hadn’t even started yet, and already you could feel the edges of your usual banter softening into something else, something less guarded. And though Eddie pretended to be casual, slouching in his seat with his boots propped on the sticky floor, he kept sneaking sidelong glances at you as the lights dimmed—like he couldn’t quite believe you’d chosen this movie, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

The theater lights dimmed, the chatter of the crowd dissolving into the swelling orchestral opening of Labyrinth. The screen bathed the room in pale light, flickering across rows of heads. You shifted the bucket of popcorn onto your lap, stretching your legs into carpet space ahead of you. Eddie slouched low in his seat beside you, a picture of exaggerated casualness, arms folded for all of two minutes before his hand crept toward the popcorn.

“Don’t hog it,” you whispered, nudging the bucket toward him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispered back, already fishing out a handful.

For the first twenty minutes, you were absorbed, eyes fixed on Sarah navigating glittering forests and bizarre creatures. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Eddie watching—sometimes the screen, sometimes you. He looked a little too invested for someone who’d pretended this wasn’t his thing. Every time a puppet cracked a joke, he hid his laugh behind the back of his hand, like letting it out would ruin his tough act.

Then came the cliché.

A low, clearly staged yawn stretched from him, his arm lifting in an arc of theatrics so overdone it could have been in the movie itself. And then—oh so casually—it dropped behind you, on your shoulders, fingers grazing the fabric of your coat.

You turned your head just slightly, meeting his profile lit by the flickering screen. His eyes stayed stubbornly forward, jaw tight with fake innocence.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, focusing hard on the screen. If he noticed the way your shoulders shook with the effort of holding back a laugh, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, Eddie leaned just a fraction closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear: “Smooth, right?”

You gave a quiet huff through your nose, still keeping your eyes ahead. “Ridiculously obvious.”

“Really?” he murmured, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You didn’t answer, only popped another piece of popcorn into your mouth, fighting to hide your grin in the shadows of the theater. Eddie, for his part, looked smug as hell, even as his fingers drummed nervously against your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide if he’d gone too far, or if maybe, just maybe, he’d done exactly enough.

The van rattled to a stop outside your place, headlights washing over the quiet street. The engine gave a final grumble before Eddie killed it, the sudden silence leaving only the ticking of cooling metal and the faint echo of music still humming in your ears from the theater lobby.

You hugged your coat tighter as you shifted in your seat, the faint smell of popcorn still clinging to your fingers. Eddie drummed his rings against the steering wheel for a beat, then finally turned his head toward you, hair falling into his eyes in the low glow of the dashboard.

“So…” he drawled, voice casual but with that undercurrent of nerves he tried to hide. “How’d I do?”

You arched a brow. “Do?”

“Y’know.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “First outing. Movie. Popcorn. Stellar company.” He gave a lopsided grin. “I’m fishing for a review here.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “Hmm. Not terrible.”

He gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Not terrible? That’s all I get? I executed the classic arm move and everything.”

You snorted. “Executed is the right word for it. Subtlety? Zero.”

But your smile gave you away, and Eddie’s grin softened, pride flickering in his eyes like he’d won something anyway. He leaned back, tapping the wheel once more before clearing his throat.

“Okay, but—hypothetically…” His voice dipped a little lower, suddenly less teasing. “If I were to ask you to hang out again… would you?”

You let the silence stretch, turning slowly to meet his gaze. His usual bravado faltered just a little under your pause, like maybe you’d actually make him sweat. Then you let the corner of your mouth lift.

“Yes.”

For a split second, he looked caught off guard, and then that grin broke across his face again—bright, a little wild, the kind that made it hard not to smile back.

You reached for the door handle, but not before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and glancing at him one last time. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

“’Night,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost like he didn’t trust it not to give too much away.

And as you slipped out into the cool night air, Eddie stayed leaning over the steering wheel, watching until you disappeared inside, grinning like he’d just pulled off the heist of the century.

And whether or not you called Karen immediately to tell her all about that night, giggling and swooning, he didn’t have to know.

The rush hit earlier than anyone expected. By noon, every booth was full, counter stools packed tight, and the bell over the door didn’t stop jingling. The air grew thick with fryer heat and chatter, and you could practically feel Biggie’s stress radiating from the kitchen.

You’d just dropped off an order of pancakes when the pass-through window stayed suspiciously empty for too long. Usually Eddie would be there, flipping you a cocky grin along with the plates, but now all you could see was the flare of flames off the grill and Biggie barking something about timing.

When you finally leaned on the counter, tapping your order ticket meaningfully against the metal ledge, Eddie shot you a look fro. His curls were sticking to his forehead, and for once, his smirk was gone.

“Don’t even start,” he said, spatula clattering as he tried to keep up with three different pans at once.

“I wasn’t gonna,” you said sweetly, though the edge of impatience slipped through. “But my table’s starting to wonder if they’re eating lunch or waiting for dinner.”

“Tell them the chef is a perfectionist,” he grumbled, flipping a patty with more force than necessary.

Biggie barked from the fryer station: “Tell them the chef’s drowning!”

Eddie shot him a glare. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Boss.”

You could already feel the tension building—customers starting to shift in their booths, forks tapping on tabletops. If you let it boil too long, the whole shift would tip into disaster territory.

So you improvised.

You grabbed a tray, snagged a basket of fries fresh from the fryer (the one thing they were ahead on), and portioned them into little red plastic bowls. With your brightest waitress smile, you swooped through the dining room, setting them down one by one.

“Compliments of the kitchen,” you announced, voice carrying just enough to hit the back booths. “Our fry guy’s in a generous mood.”

Eddie’s head whipped toward you from the pass-through, spatula frozen midair. “What the hell are you doing?” he mouthed.

You ignored him, dropping another basket on a table of high schoolers who instantly lit up. “Don’t worry, folks—burgers are worth the wait,” you added cheerfully, as though the whole thing was part of a plan.

Within minutes, the restless shifting turned into casual snacking, the edge of irritation smoothed out with salt and grease. By the time you circled back to the counter, Eddie was leaning on the ledge, spatula tapping against the metal rhythmically. His smirk had returned, though it looked a little tighter around the edges.

“You just gave away half my hard-earned fries,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, propping a hand on your hip. “Crisis averted.”

“Or crisis caused, depending on how Biggie tallies the inventory.”

“Please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You’ll thank me when no one storms out.”

Biggie’s voice bellowed from behind Eddie: “She’s right, Munson!”

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Then, quieter, just for you: “You know you’re way too good at this, right?”

The heat in the kitchen wasn’t just from the grill anymore, and you had to busy yourself with refilling coffee mugs to keep from smiling too wide.

Sure enough, once the fry distraction bought the kitchen a little breathing room, plates started sliding onto the pass-through one after another. Eddie worked like a man possessed, sleeves pushed up, curls sticking damply to his temple as he barked times back and forth with Biggie. Within fifteen minutes, the backlog had cleared, trays of burgers and shakes weaving their way out to every booth.

The diner’s mood shifted right along with it. Customers leaned back into their seats, laughing again, munching fries between bites of their meals like they’d never been impatient in the first place. Even the truckers at table three—your usual grumblers—were cracking jokes as you topped off their cherry Cokes.

When you swung back to the counter, Eddie was there waiting, one arm braced against the ledge. His cheeks were flushed from the heat, hair escaping everywhere from under his cap, but he was grinning like he’d just won a battle.

“Well,” you said, balancing an empty tray against your hip. “Look at that. Everyone’s fed, no riots, no casualties.”

Eddie pointed his spatula at you. “Because of me.”

You scoffed. “Because of me and my genius complimentary fries idea.”

“That was reckless,” he argued, though there wasn’t much fire behind it. “You could’ve doomed us all.”

“Or,” you said, leaning just close enough to drop your voice, “I saved your ass.”

His smirk faltered—just for a second—before it came back sharper, softer somehow. He twirled the spatula like a drumstick, shrugging. “Guess I’ll allow it this time.”

Biggie clattered a pan onto the drying rack behind him. “You two done flirting or should I get a mop for the counter?”

Your head snapped toward the kitchen boss, cheeks heating, but Eddie only laughed—loud, unbothered.

By the time the chairs were flipped onto tables and the last of the coffee pots were scrubbed out, the diner had settled into its usual late-night quiet. You tugged off your apron and slung it over the counter, rubbing at the faint smell of fryer grease that clung to your uniform.

Eddie was waiting by the door, jacket half-zipped, hair still a little wild from the kitchen heat. For once, he didn’t look like he was about to crack a joke.

“Hey,” he said, catching your attention before you could step past him. He shifted his weight, scratching at the back of his neck, then let out a short laugh like he hated that he was being earnest. “You, uh… did good today. With the fries thing. Really took the pressure off.”

You blinked, thrown by the sudden sincerity. “Well, someone had to save your kitchen kingdom.”

That got you a crooked grin. “Yeah, yeah. But seriously—good job. Thanks.”

And before you could get a word in edgewise, his hand came up, ruffling your hair in a quick, boyish motion. The gesture was so casual, so utterly Eddie, that you just stood there with your mouth open as he strolled out the door.

By the time you caught up, he was already crossing the lot toward his beat-up van, keys jingling in his hand. He glanced back once, just long enough to flash you that grin again—the softer one, not the troublemaker’s smirk—before climbing in.

The engine roared to life, and you were left standing under the hum of the diner’s sign, hair mussed, heart hammering way harder than a simple “good job” should’ve allowed.

Another dinner rush had faded, leaving only the low hum of the refrigeration units and the occasional clink of silverware from the stragglers. You were wiping down the counter when the front door chimed, letting in a burst of cool air and three familiar figures.

Gareth, Jeff, and Doug shuffled in like they owned the place, each of them grinning as they headed straight for their usual booth in the back. Jeff tossed you a lazy salute, Gareth immediately sprawling across the bench like he’d just run a marathon, and Doug called out, “Hey, superstar waitress, what’s good tonight?”

You didn’t need to look at the clock to know why they were here. Corroded Coffin always rolled in late, just late enough that Eddie could slip away from the grill without Biggie barking at him.

“Same as always,” you said, grabbing your notepad out of habit even though you could recite their order in your sleep. “Three burgers, three fries, three Cokes.”

“Make mine a shake,” Gareth cut in, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. “Vanilla. Band practice was brutal.”

“Practice,” Jeff muttered, smirking. “You mean you couldn’t keep time if someone stapled the beat to your forehead.”

“You wanna fight, man?” Gareth shot back, but the half-asleep look on his face gave him away.

You shook your head, scribbling the order anyway, when Eddie appeared through the swinging doors. He’d shed his apron, cap stuffed in his back pocket, and the second he spotted his bandmates, his whole face lit up.

“Look at this sorry bunch,” he said, striding over like he wasn’t still technically on the clock. “What, garage run outta chips again?”

Jeff snorted. “Nah, figured we’d mooch off your employee discount instead.”

Eddie slid into the booth beside Gareth without hesitation, draping an arm across the back of the seat. He looked lighter here, out from behind the grill, like slipping into his other world was as easy as changing shirts.

You stood there with your pad, arching a brow. “You’re actually gonna make me write this down when I already know it?”

“Hey, don’t ruin the illusion,” Eddie shot back, grin tugging at his mouth. “Makes it seem official.”

You rolled your eyes but scribbled anyway, mostly for show. “Fine.”

“You have bad customer service,” Eddie said instantly, and his friends laughed like they’d heard this kind of exchange a hundred times before.

The booth was a mess of fry baskets and empty ketchup packets by the time the band’s chatter turned serious—or as serious as Corroded Coffin ever got. Gareth leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, drumming absentmindedly on the salt shaker.

“So,” he said, glancing at Eddie. “We’re still good for Friday, right? The Hideout’s expecting us.”

Jeff smirked. “Expecting us to bring five friends and drink just enough to cover the power bill.”

Doug shrugged, already halfway through his second Coke. “Hey, a gig’s a gig.”

You had just approached with the water pitcher, ready to top them off, when Eddie spread his hands dramatically. “Gentlemen, this is not just a gig. This is the night Corroded Coffin shreds Hawkins to its very core.”

“Yeah, until the amps short out again,” Gareth muttered.

“Operator error,” Eddie shot back, jabbing a finger at him. “Don’t slander the gear.”

You poured water into Jeff’s glass, trying not to smile as the conversation washed over you. But when Eddie leaned back with that lopsided grin, bragging about their setlist, curiosity got the better of you.

“You’ve got a show?” you asked, glancing between them as you filled Gareth’s cup.

All four of them looked up at once, like they hadn’t realized you were actually listening. Eddie’s grin widened instantly. “Why, sweetheart, you interested?”

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “I was just asking.”

“It’s at The Hideout,” Doug jumped in, eager. “Friday night. We start at, like, ten. You should come.”

Jeff smirked into his glass. “Yeah, we could use an unbiased critic who doesn’t have a guitar in his hands.”

Eddie leaned an elbow on the back of the booth, eyes fixed on you. “You’d like it. Loud, chaotic… kinda like a diner during rush.”

You lifted a brow, meeting his look head-on. “Guess I’ll just have to see if I’m free.”

Gareth let out a low whistle, elbowing Eddie not-so-subtly. Eddie only shoved him back, still grinning, but when you turned to walk away with your water pitcher, you caught the flicker of something softer in his expression—like maybe the idea of you being there mattered more than he’d admit.

The Hideout was exactly the kind of place you’d expect a band like Eddie’s to play—dim neon lights buzzing over a haze of cigarette smoke, sticky floors, and a stage barely raised above the crowd. A handful of regulars nursed beers at the bar, while a couple of high school kids loitered by the corner, pretending they weren’t too young to be there.

You slipped through the door just as the noise in the room swelled—Eddie and his band climbing onto the stage. Gareth twirled his sticks, Jeff fiddled with the amp cords, Doug tuned the bass with a practiced scowl. And then there was Eddie—hair loose around his shoulders, guitar strap slung across him, confidence radiating like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact spotlight.

He leaned toward the mic, flashing a grin at the crowd—or maybe just to himself—and tapped it with two rings. “Alright, Hawkins,” he drawled, voice rough but electric. “Let’s make some noise.”

The first chord ripped through the room, gritty and loud enough to vibrate in your chest. Heads turned, conversations stalled. It wasn’t polished—raw edges everywhere—but it was alive. Eddie was alive.

You hadn’t expected much when you walked in, but seeing him there—grinning wide, lost in the music, every bit the showman—it was impossible not to be caught up in it.

And when his gaze swept across the room mid-song, snagging on you for just a second, his grin stretched wider. Like he’d been waiting to see if you’d show.

The music hit fast and heavy, no warm-up, no easing in. Just Gareth pounding the drums like he was trying to break them, Jeff grinding out power chords that rattled the amp, Doug keeping the bass steady underneath it all. It was loud, unpolished, and unapologetic.

And Eddie—Eddie owned it.

He prowled the tiny stage, hair whipping with every sharp tilt of his head, rings catching the stage lights as his fingers tore across the fretboard. He wasn’t just playing; he was performing.

And then his eyes found you again.

It wasn’t long—just a flick, a half-beat too long on your face before he turned back to the mic—but you felt it all the same. That grin of his shifted, sharper, like he’d just been given the best kind of secret.

By the time their final song crashed to an end, Eddie ripped one last scream from his guitar, holding it high like a victory banner. The room erupted—small as the audience was, it was enough to shake the walls.

And over the noise, Eddie looked for you again. Not the crowd, not the bar. You.

You clapped until your palms stung, and when his grin split wide and wild in return, it felt like maybe he’d just played the whole set for you alone.

The amps buzzed as the last note faded, Gareth throwing his sticks onto the snare with a flourish while Jeff muttered something about needing new cables. The crowd scattered quickly, most heading back to the bar, leaving only a few lingering claps and whistles in the air.

Eddie set his guitar down gently—surprisingly gently for the way he’d manhandled it on stage—and jumped down, weaving through the tables until he found you against the wall. His face was flushed, sweat glinting at his temples, curls sticking to his neck. Still, that grin hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Well?” he asked, spreading his arms wide like he needed you to hand down a verdict. “Did we rock your world or what?”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Not terrible.”

He pressed a hand over his heart, staggering back a step like you’d mortally wounded him. “Not terrible? Again? After I nearly set the strings on fire for you?”

“You looked like you were having fun,” you said, tone lighter than the words.

“Fun,” he repeated, grinning crookedly. “Yeah. Guess I was.”

For a moment, neither of you filled the silence—his breathing still heavy from the set, your pulse still humming with the noise of it all. Then, almost abruptly, Eddie glanced down at himself, tugging at his sweat-soaked shirt with a grimace.

“Christ, I probably look like hell,” he admitted. “And smell worse.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Eddie, I see you in the kitchen every day. This isn’t that different.”

That startled him into a chuckle, a real one, low and a little disbelieving. He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck as if you’d said something far kinder than you meant to. “Guess you’ve got a point. Fry grease, sweat… stage sweat. Same thing.”

“Almost the same,” you teased.

“Almost,” he echoed, meeting your eyes again with a look softer than the grin he wore on stage—like maybe the chaos of the performance hadn’t burned all the way out of him yet.

Eddie was still rubbing the back of his neck, half-embarrassed, when the words slipped out of you before you could think twice.

“You still look good, though.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide for half a beat like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then that grin started creeping back in, slow and smug, but with just enough warmth under it to give him away.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled, leaning a little closer. “Sweaty, half-dead Munson still does it for you?”

You rolled your eyes, heat rising in your cheeks. “Don’t push it.”

“Too late,” he shot back instantly, smirk widening.

You shook your head, biting back your own smile. “Honestly, though… you surprised me.”

He arched a brow. “Surprised? Thought I’d trip over the amp and take Gareth down with me?”

“I mean,” you said, drawing it out like you were weighing every word, “I was expecting, you know… a shitty garage band.”

Eddie gasped, hand flying to his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Was expecting?!”

“Keyword: was,” you teased, holding his gaze. “Turns out you’re… not half bad.”

“Not half bad?” he echoed, staggering back a step like he’d been shot. “Sweetheart, that’s practically a rave review from you.”

You laughed, unable to help it, and Eddie’s grin softened just a fraction at the sound. For all the dramatics, for all the swagger he’d carried on stage, here with you he seemed almost lighter—like your words mattered more than the applause had.

By the time the gear was packed away and the crowd had thinned, Eddie jingled his keys in his hand, leaning toward you with that familiar lopsided grin.

“C’mon. I’ll give you a ride. Perks of knowing the talent.”

You arched a brow. “Oh, talent, is it?”

“Damn right,” he said, holding the door open with a mock bow before leading you out to the van.

The drive back was quieter than you expected. The van rattled like it always did, an old cassette of Dio humming low in the deck, but Eddie wasn’t filling the silence with his usual wisecracks. Every so often, you’d catch him drumming his rings against the steering wheel, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye before looking quickly back at the road.

When he finally pulled up to your place, the engine gave its usual protesting cough as he shut it off. The world outside was hushed, porch lights glowing faint in the dark. Eddie climbed out without hesitation and rounded the van to walk you up the path, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

At your door, you turned to face him, the night air cool against your skin after the stuffy warmth of the Hideout.

“Well,” you said, shifting your weight. “Thanks for the ride.”

He nodded, rocking back on his heels. “Thanks for, uh… y’know. Showing up. Didn’t think you’d actually…” He trailed off, shrugging like the rest didn’t matter.

“Yeah, well,” you said softly, “I was curious about your rockstar persona.”

That grin tugged at his mouth again, a little crooked, a little shy around the edges. For a beat too long, he just stood there, looking at you like he was deciding something. His hand twitched at his side, then he leaned in—close enough that you felt the warmth of him, close enough you thought maybe—

But at the last second, he chickened out.

Instead, his hand shot up to ruffle your hair in that boyish, maddening way, leaving it mussed as he stepped back with a grin that was far too casual to be believable.

“Goodnight, waitress,” he said, voice a little softer than usual.

You huffed, fixing your hair, though you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Goodnight, cook.”

He lingered a second longer before backing away, heading for the van. You stood at the door until the headlights faded down the street, your hair still in disarray and your heart thumping like maybe you’d just been cheated out of something—though somehow, the ruffle still felt like a promise.

The lunch rush was already pushing everyone to their limits—coffee cups draining faster than you could refill them, plates of burgers flying out in every direction, Biggie barking for someone to mop up a spill near the counter. You were three steps from losing your “waitress smile” when the front door chimed and a newcomer slid into a booth by the window.

She looked harmless enough—just passing through, maybe—but the second she opened her mouth, you knew it was trouble.

“I’ll take a Big Belly Burger,” She said, tapping the menu thoughtfully, “but no bun. And can you sub the fries for a salad? Oh, and no onions. Actually… make it no cheese, too. But can you add mushrooms? And… can the patty be well-done, but not too well-done?”

By the time she finished, you were gripping your pen like it might snap. “...Right. Got it,” you said, because arguing was pointless.

The kitchen was its usual storm of sizzling grease and shouted timings when you slipped through the swinging doors and slapped the ticket onto the counter. Eddie snagged it without looking, spatula spinning in his fingers. But as his eyes scanned the order, his brow furrowed, then furrowed deeper, until he looked up at you with utter betrayal.

“What the fuck is this?” he demanded, waving the ticket like it was written in code.

“Don’t look at me,” you shot back, leaning an elbow on the ledge. “I just take the notes. That—” you pointed at the paper—“is all them.”

Eddie jabbed the ticket toward the grill like it had personally offended him. “No bun? No cheese? Fries swapped for a salad? Who even is this person?”

“New in town,” you said flatly. “Apparently from the planet ‘Make Eddie’s Life Difficult.’”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is sacrilege. A burger without a bun is just—meat. That’s not a burger. That’s sadness on a plate.”

“Welcome to customer service,” you said sweetly, though the edge of your voice betrayed your own fraying patience.

The diner bell chimed again out front, and you glanced back to see another group sliding into a booth. You sighed. “Anyway, good luck with that. I’ll be drowning in refills if you need me.”

Eddie threw his arms wide. “Oh, sure, abandon me in my darkest hour.”

Meanwhile, the grill hissed angrily behind him, and the ticket still fluttered in his fingers like a curse.

Somehow—miraculously—Eddie actually pulled it off. The patty came out dark but not burnt, topped with mushrooms, perched miserably on a plate beside a sad little house salad Biggie had thrown together. No bun, no fries, no cheese—nothing that made it look like it belonged in Big Belly’s at all. Eddie shoved it into the pass-through with a scowl like he was personally offended.

“There,” he said, spatula clattering against the counter. “A crime against burgers. Delivered without love.”

You shot him a look but took the plate anyway, balancing it on your tray as you wove back into the dining room.

The newcomer was waiting, arms crossed, a tight little smile on her face like she’d been timing you. You set the plate down gently in front of her.

“Big Belly Burger, no bun, no cheese, mushrooms added, salad instead of fries,” you said, professional as you could manage despite the chaos buzzing behind you.

She looked at the plate. Then at you. Then back at the plate.

“What is this?” she snapped.

You blinked. “Uh—your order.”

Her expression twisted into something sharp. “Are you stupid? This isn’t what I asked for.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “I—this is exactly what you said. Burger, no bun, no cheese—”

“Don’t you dare talk back to me,” she cut in, voice loud enough that a couple of truckers at the counter glanced over. “This is pathetic. You can’t even get a simple order right? God, no wonder you’re stuck in this dump.”

The words landed like slaps, sharper for how easily she threw them. Your practiced waitress smile faltered for the first time all shift, your throat tightening as you clutched your tray to your side.

The customer gave a scoff, pushing the plate away like it was contaminated. “Unbelievable. Absolutely incompetent.”

And suddenly the noise of the diner—the hiss of the grill, the chatter of the booths, the clatter of cutlery—felt miles away, all of it drowned out by her voice, by the sting of it.

You tried to swallow the heat burning in your chest, tried to paste that waitress smile back on, but the woman wasn’t letting up.

“You must be new,” she sneered, eyes flicking over your uniform. “No one with half a brain could last long in a place like this. Honestly, how do you people even stay open? The food looks like garbage, and the service is even worse.”

Your grip on the tray tightened, knuckles white. A dozen comebacks sat on your tongue, but you bit down hard on every one of them—because what was the point?

Then the kitchen doors banged open.

“Alright, what’s the problem now?” Eddie’s voice cut through, dry and sharp as a blade. He still had his apron on, spatula in hand like he’d stormed out mid-flip. His gaze snapped from you to the customer, and his grin was nowhere in sight. “’Cause if you’re complaining about the food, lady, I cooked it exactly the way you ordered it.”

The customer turned her sharpness on him in an instant. “Oh, wonderful. The cook. Figures.” She gave him a once-over, curling her lip. “What kind of kitchen lets someone like you handle food? You look filthy. Disgusting, really.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the spatula like he was fighting not to let loose everything in his head. “Listen here Wicked Witch of the West, say what you want about me,” he said, voice low, “but you don’t get to talk to her like that.”

Before the woman could bite back, another voice rumbled from behind him—deep, booming, and far less patient.

“Excuse me?”

The customer’s head snapped up just as Biggie stepped out of the kitchen, towel still slung over one massive shoulder. The man lived up to his nickname—broad, tall, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. His usually warm face was set in stone.

“Who,” he asked slowly, voice carrying across the diner, “are you to talk to my employees like that?”

The woman froze, all her sharp edges crumbling under the weight of his stare. Around the diner, regulars had gone quiet, watching with open curiosity. The customer shifted in her seat, suddenly small against the booth.

“I—I was just saying—”

“No.” Biggie’s voice was final, heavy as a gavel. “You were insulting my cook. My waitress. My diner. If you don’t like it here, you can leave. Now.”

Color drained from her face. She sputtered, muttered something under her breath, and finally grabbed her purse with a huff. The legs of the booth squeaked as she scrambled out, the whole diner’s eyes following her as she stalked toward the door.

The bell chimed as it swung shut behind her. Silence held for a beat—then a couple of the truckers clapped, and laughter rippled through the room, easy and relieving.

Eddie finally let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Well. That was fun.”

Biggie only grunted, heading back to the kitchen with a mutter of “Don’t let her waste my plates.”

The rest of the shift blurred by in a haze of clinking glasses and the hiss of the fryer. You kept your head down, smile fixed but dimmer than usual, every “top you off?” and “anything else tonight?” running on autopilot. The regulars still laughed, still tipped, but the spark you usually carried—the one Eddie never stopped noticing—just wasn’t there.

From behind the pass-through, he watched you. Saw how your shoulders drooped just a little more with every table, how your smile never quite reached your eyes. And it made his chest twist in a way he couldn’t shake.

By the time the last table cleared and the chairs were flipped onto the booths, Eddie was waiting by the door, leaning against the frame with his jacket slung over one shoulder. You tugged your apron off, folding it neatly, ready to slip past him with a tired “see you tomorrow.”

But he caught your arm.

“Hey.”

You blinked up at him. His grin was there, but softer, not the cocky one he wore behind the grill. He studied you for a second, then—without warning—he reached out and framed your face in his palms, squishing your cheeks together.

“Look at this face,” he said, exaggeratedly mournful. “All sad and pouty. Can’t have that. It’s a diner crime.”

You let out a muffled chuckle, your words garbled against his hands. “Ehd-dee—”

He wiggled your cheeks between his palms, eyes wide with mock-seriousness. “Nope. Not allowed. Smile regulation: strictly enforced.”

Despite yourself, a real laugh bubbled out, and you swatted at his wrists until he finally let go. Your cheeks were warm, partly from his hands, partly from laughing harder than you’d meant to.

“There she is,” Eddie said, his grin settling into something softer, more genuine. “Knew you were still in there.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heaviness in your chest had lifted just a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but it worked.” He slung his jacket fully on and gave you a small, crooked smile. “Don’t let some jerk knock the shine off you, alright? You’re too good at this job to let her win.”

For a moment, the quiet hum of the empty diner was the only thing between you. Then you nodded, tugging your coat tighter. “Thanks, Munson.”

He only ruffled your hair—gentler this time—before pushing the door open for you. “Anytime, waitress.”

Your room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp on your nightstand. A record hummed faintly in the background, needle crackling as you flipped through a book halfheartedly. It was the first night in weeks you hadn’t had to smell fryer grease or hear the hiss of a flat-top grill, and the stillness almost felt strange.

Then—three sharp knocks rattled your window.

You froze, heart jumping before you crept toward the glass. When you tugged the curtain aside, you nearly laughed out loud.

There was Eddie, standing on the patch of lawn outside, curls spilling wild under the streetlight, leather jacket zipped up against the chill. In his hands he held a grease-stained cardboard box like it was a treasure chest.

“Pizza delivery,” he said, grinning wide, tapping the box for emphasis.

You slid the window open an inch, leaning against the frame. “Pretty sure I didn’t order anything.”

“Lucky for you, I don’t check receipts,” he quipped. “House special: one large pepperoni, no bun, no cheese, mushrooms added.”

You snorted, unable to stop yourself. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s hilarious,” he countered, eyes glinting. “C’mon, you laughed.”

The night air slipped in, cool against your skin, while he shifted his weight, tilting his head up at you like some backwards Romeo. For a moment you both just stood there, divided by the glass, the strangeness of it making you grin.

“Seriously, Munson,” you said, voice softening, “what are you doing here?”

“I was bored. Thought I’d drop by. Share some fine Italian cuisine.” He lifted the box again with a flourish. “Figured you could use a break from diner food.”

You leaned your chin against the sill, smiling despite yourself. “You know you look ridiculous right now, right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “But I also look heroic, standing out here in the cold with piping hot pizza. Which brings me to my next point…” He gestured dramatically toward the night sky, then fixed you with an exaggerated pout. “Are you really gonna let me—and this innocent, defenseless pizza—freeze to death out here?”

You sighed, shaking your head, but your hand was already on the latch. “Alright, fine. Get in before the neighbors call the cops on you.”

Eddie’s grin widened as you shoved the window open, and with all the grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times in his head but never once in real life, he swung a leg over the sill and half-tumbled inside. The pizza box tilted dangerously in his hands, but somehow, miraculously, it survived.

“Ta-da,” he announced, straightening up like he hadn’t just made a complete mess of climbing through.

You arched a brow. “Very smooth.”

“I meant to do that,” he said breezily, plopping himself cross-legged onto the floor and setting the box down in front of him. He popped the lid open with a flourish, steam curling into the room. “Behold. Dinner of champions.”

You hesitated a moment, arms crossed, but the smell was too good to resist. With a small shake of your head, you lowered yourself onto the carpet beside him, tucking your legs under you.

“Don’t say I never bring you anything,” Eddie said, offering you the first slice with a dramatic bow of his head.

You took it, biting back a smile. “Very generous. Totally worth climbing through a window for.”

“Exactly. This is romance, sweetheart. Shakespeare had nothing on me.”

You laughed around your first bite, leaning back against the side of your bed as you chewed. The two of you sat there in the soft glow of your lamp, sharing pizza on the floor, trading pieces back and forth until greasy napkins littered the box lid.

For once, there was no diner rush, no angry customers, no stress. Just the warmth of Eddie beside you, licking pizza grease off his thumb and talking with his mouth full, and the quiet realization that nights like this felt… easy.

The pizza box was nothing but grease stains and empty space by the time you leaned back with a satisfied sigh. Only one lonely crust sat abandoned in the middle—the one you’d been saving.

Eddie’s eyes zeroed in on it instantly.

“You finished with that?” he asked, already reaching.

You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

“Cool,” he said, snatching it up anyway. He took a huge bite, grinning through the mouthful. “Now you are.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head as you balled up a napkin and tossed it at him.

He caught it one-handed, looking far too pleased with himself, but the smugness didn’t last. You leaned forward suddenly, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth where a smear of pizza sauce and crumbs clung.

“There,” you said simply, wiping your hand on your own napkin. “You’re a mess.”

Eddie didn’t freeze or flinch—he just went a little sheepish, laughing under his breath as he rubbed at the same spot like he could erase the evidence of your touch. “What can I say? High-class dining brings out the animal in me.”

You snorted. “You’re lucky I don’t work room service, or you’d have been blacklisted already.”

“Please. You’d miss me.”

The words were easy, teasing—but the way he looked at you then, soft in the glow of your bedside lamp, made it feel like there was more weight under them than he’d ever admit out loud.

“Maybe I would,” you said quietly, surprising yourself as much as him.

For a moment, Eddie didn’t joke back. His grin faltered into something smaller, gentler. He tilted his head, studying you like he wasn’t sure if you were teasing or telling the truth.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice lower now, stripped of its usual bravado.

You shrugged, trying to play it off, though your chest felt tight. “I mean… you make shifts less miserable. And nights like this—” You gestured vaguely at the empty pizza box between you. “I don’t hate it.”

Eddie laughed softly, but it wasn’t his usual sharp bark. It was warm, almost nervous, like he couldn’t believe you’d said it out loud. He leaned back on his palms, hair falling loose around his shoulders, and for once there was no smirk—just a boy sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, looking at you like you’d cracked him open.

“You know,” he said, voice thoughtful now, “I wasn’t sure you’d let me in tonight. Figured you’d call me an idiot and shut the window.”

“Maybe I should’ve,” you teased, but it came out softer than you meant.

“But you didn’t.” He gave a little shrug, like it mattered more than he wanted to admit.

Silence stretched between you, not heavy, just… charged. You realized you were still sitting close, knees brushing lightly, his rings glinting in the lamplight as his fingers drummed nervously against the carpet.

And then—like it was the simplest thing in the world—Eddie leaned in.

Slow enough that you could’ve stopped him. Slow enough that you didn’t want to.

His lips brushed yours, tentative at first, tasting faintly of pepperoni and soda, and the world seemed to narrow to just that—his breath, his warmth, the way his hand hovered uncertainly before resting against the side of your face like he needed the anchor.

It wasn’t dramatic or perfect. It was a little clumsy, a little nervous. But it was real.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, he searched your face with wide, uncertain eyes. “That okay?” he murmured.

You smiled, heart hammering. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

Relief broke across his face in a grin that was equal parts joy and disbelief, and he ducked his head like he couldn’t quite handle it.

You stayed there on the floor together, the empty pizza box forgotten as the minutes stretched. The conversation drifted in circles—music, movies, the diner—nothing world-changing, just the kind of easy talk that felt like you could get lost in forever. Every so often Eddie leaned over again, stealing another kiss, a little bolder each time, and every time you kissed him back, you felt the nerves in him melt just a little more.

Eventually, though, he sighed, glancing at the clock on your nightstand. “I should probably head home before the van decides to die in your driveway.”

You walked him back to the window, the cool night air spilling in as he swung a leg over the sill with considerably more grace this time. He landed lightly on the grass, then turned back to you, hands in his jacket pockets, grin tugging at his lips.

“So…” he drawled, rocking back on his heels. “Girlfriend?”

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Really, Munson? That’s the best you’ve got? You can do better than that.”

He let out a mock groan. “Everyone’s a critic these days.” Then, tilting his head up at you with a lopsided grin: “Fine. Will you give me the honor and be my girlfriend?”

This time you let the smile show, leaning just a little further out the window. “Yes.”

Eddie’s grin exploded into something bright and wild, and before you could second-guess it, he leaned up and caught your mouth in one last kiss—warm and quick, but it left your pulse racing anyway.

When he finally stepped back, he was still grinning, eyes shining like he’d just pulled off the impossible. He gave you a little salute, turned, and practically skipped toward his van, boots scuffing against the pavement in a celebratory bounce he didn’t bother to hide.

You stayed at the window, chin resting on your arms as you laughed watching him go, his figure lit by the streetlights until he climbed into the van. The engine sputtered to life, and even as he drove off, you couldn’t stop smiling.

The morning rush hadn’t hit yet, but the diner was already humming—coffee brewing, booths filling one by one, the hiss of bacon from the back kitchen. Everyone was in place: Karen wiping down the counter, Biggie barking about a missing order of hash browns, you moving between tables with your notepad at the ready.

The bell over the door jingled, and in strolled Eddie—late as usual, curls barely contained under his Big Belly’s cap, leather jacket slung over one arm. “Good morning, lovely people!”

“Morning, sunshine,” Karen called, rolling her eyes.

“Munson,” Biggie barked from the kitchen, not even looking up.

“Boss,” Eddie replied cheerfully, giving him a two-fingered salute. He made his way down the diner, exchanging nods and lazy greetings like nothing in the world was out of the ordinary.

And then he passed you.

“Morning,” you said lightly, slipping by with a pot of coffee in hand.

Eddie paused mid-step, glanced at you, then stopped entirely. “Oh—wait.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Forgot something,” he said casually.

Before you could ask what, he turned back, caught you gently by the wrist, and pulled you into a kiss. Right there in the middle of the diner.

It wasn’t long—quick, soft—but it was unmistakable.

The room froze for half a heartbeat. Then—

Gasps. Laughter. A cheer from one of the truckers at the counter. Karen clapped her hands together with a squeal, while someone from the back shouted, “Finally!”

Your face burned as Eddie pulled back, that cocky grin plastered across his mouth like he’d just won the lottery. He gave an exaggerated bow to the peanut gallery, then winked at you before sauntering toward the kitchen as though he hadn’t just caused a scene.

“Let's do a good job, sweetheart,” he tossed over his shoulder, absolutely smug.

You stood frozen with the coffee pot in hand, your coworkers still buzzing with laughter and commentary, and all you could think was—of course he’d make it public like that.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The first thing you noticed was the warmth. The second was the ache in your legs that reminded you exactly why you were waking up tangled in Eddie’s sheets, his arm slung heavy across your waist. Sunlight slanted in through the blinds of his trailer window, catching the dust motes in the air and the soft mess of curls tickling your shoulder.

You shifted slightly, and Eddie groaned low in his throat, pulling you closer before blinking his eyes open. His grin spread slow and lazy across his face, like he’d been waiting all night for this exact moment.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice rough with sleep. “Sleep okay? Or did I wear you out too much?”

You smirked, tilting your head toward him. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected, nosing at your neck, pressing a kiss just under your jaw. “There’s a difference.”

You laughed softly, but it broke into a gasp when his hand slid across your hip, tugging you closer. “Eddie…”

“Mhm?” he hummed, mouth trailing down your collarbone. “Don’t mind me. Just appreciating my girl.”

“Pretty sure you did plenty of that last night.”

“Not enough,” he shot back without missing a beat, his lips brushing your skin with every word.

You shoved lightly at his shoulder, grinning despite yourself. “God, you’re insatiable.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, hair falling into his face, grin absolutely wicked. “Say the word, and I’ll make you a very happy woman all over again.”

For a moment, you considered it. His eyes glinted, his hand already tugging at the sheet, but then you arched a brow and leaned close enough that he thought you might actually take him up on it.

“You know what else would make me happy?” you murmured.

Eddie froze for half a second, then smirked. “Do tell.”

You grinned. “If you made me breakfast. Preferably pancakes.”

He stared at you, utterly betrayed. “Pancakes?”

“Yes, pancakes,” you said sweetly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “With syrup. And maybe bacon if you’re feeling generous.”

Eddie groaned, flopping back against the pillow like you’d just asked him to scale a mountain. “Ten months together, and this is what it’s come to. I bare my soul—and my body—and you want pancakes?”

You leaned over him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth before pulling away with a smirk. “Yup. Pancakes.”

His grin returned in full force, mischievous and warm all at once. “Fine. But only because you’re cute when you beg.”

“Beg?” you scoffed.

“You just did,” he teased, sliding out of bed with a stretch. “And for pancakes, no less. Don’t say I never spoil you, sweetheart.”

The trailer smelled like butter and sugar, the kind of sweetness that stuck to the air. Eddie stood at the stove in nothing but sweatpants, hair pulled back haphazardly, spatula in hand. He hummed something familiar as he flipped the last pancake onto the growing stack, tongue peeking out in concentration like it was the most important performance of his life.

“Voilà,” he declared, turning with a flourish as he set the plate down on the table between you. The pancakes weren’t perfect—edges a little uneven, one definitely darker than the others—but they were stacked high, steam curling up like a promise.

You cut into the first bite, fork sliding through the fluffy center, syrup dripping down the sides. The second it hit your tongue, your eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my god. Heaven.”

Eddie’s grin spread wide, smug and boyish all at once. “Yeah?”

You licked a bit of syrup from your lip, giving him a pointed look. “See, I knew I was smart dating a cook.”

He laughed, sliding into the chair across from you, his knee brushing against yours under the table. “So that’s all I am to you, huh? Free food and pancakes on demand?”

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Among other things.”

Something shifted in his grin then—still playful, but gentler around the edges. He leaned forward, chin propped on his hand as he watched you eat like you were the whole show. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Good trouble,” you corrected, nudging his foot with yours.

“The best kind,” he agreed, reaching across the table to brush his thumb over your knuckles. His rings were cool, but his touch was warm, grounding.

For a moment, the world was just that—the smell of syrup, the sunlight spilling across the table, and Eddie looking at you like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“You really like ’em?” he asked softly.

“I love them,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze. “And you.”

His grin turned shy then, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned across the table and kissed you—slow, sweet, tasting faintly of syrup and butter—before pulling back just enough to whisper, “Best damn review I’ve ever gotten.”