℮liza

Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”

You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.

“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”

The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.

“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”

“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.

She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”

“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”

Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”

You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”

Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”

“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”

“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”

He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.

You perform.

You scroll through dating profiles, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.

He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:

Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.

Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.

Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”

His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.

“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”

Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”

Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”

“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”

Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”

You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.

Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.

“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”

He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.

His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—

“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.

You blink hard. “What?”

He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”

You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.

Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.

You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.

Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”

You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”

He hums. “Sure.”

“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”

He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.

“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.

You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.

The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.

In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.

To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.

Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.

“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.

You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.

“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”

You frown slightly.

“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”

“What’s she right about?”

You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.

“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”

He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.

“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”

Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.

Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.

“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”

Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”

You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”

“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”

Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.

You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”

You finally blink. “What?”

“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”

You frown. “What are you—”

“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”

“Reid.”

“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.

Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.

Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”

Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”

Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”

Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.

You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.

“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.

Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.

You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.

The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.

Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.

“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.

“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”

Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”

You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”

“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”

You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”

“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.

With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.

You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.

And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.

Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.

You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.

There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.

It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.

You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.

It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.

Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.

You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.

No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.

One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.

Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.

That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.

The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.

Twelve notifications.

You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.

After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.

But one of the messages catches your eye.

DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.

You snort, then type out a reply.

You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.

Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.

“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.

Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.

You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”

You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given. DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.

That answer comes a little too easily.

You: Workaholic. You? DCRunner00: I get bored easily. DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment. You: Sounds like a public safety issue. DCRunner00: Depends who you ask. DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.

You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.

You shake your head, typing quickly.

You: Yeah, I should. You: Night, Running Man.

Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.

TUESDAY 9:50AM

“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.

Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”

Hotch ignores him completely.

“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”

He glances once around the table.

“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”

Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.

The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.

Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.

“You should probably blink.”

Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”

He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.

Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.

You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.

You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.

Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.

You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”

“How late were you here last night?” he asks.

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”

“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”

“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”

Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”

He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.

“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.

You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.

By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.

You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

DCRunner00: Running Man? DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.

You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.

You: Better than ‘Workaholic’. You: You read Stephen King?

“Hey, you busy?”

You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”

He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”

You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”

“I could use your help.”

“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.

He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.

“Where do you want to start?”

“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”

You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”

Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?

“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”

He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”

You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.

“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”

He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.

“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”

Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.

You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”

“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”

You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.

“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”

Your face heats.

“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”

Oh my God.

“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”

You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”

He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.

You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—

Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.

You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.

When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.

DCRunner00: I’ve read a few. DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?

You type your reply as you step out of the building.

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.

“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.

You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”

Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.

DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like? DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person. You: Nah. That’s my boss. You: My schedule is chaos, though.

“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.

You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.

He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.

“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”

Your face heats instantly.

“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.

You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.

You: Long hours. You: Weird hours. You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.

Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.

Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.

You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.

DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people. You: Rude.

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.

You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.

DCRunner00: Sounds boring. DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?

You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.

You: Sort of. You: But if my boss calls, I answer.

He replies instantly again.

DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked. You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.

You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.

DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy. You: Probably. What about you? What do you do?

You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.

He’s already replied by the time you log in.

DCRunner00: Run. DCRunner00: Read. DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally. You: That sounds made up.

You open your protein bar.

DCRunner00: It mostly is. DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?

You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.

You type out a vague response.

You: Sometimes. You: Occupational hazard, I guess. DCRunner00: And you always answer? You: Pretty much. You: He’d only call if it mattered.

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

DCRunner00: Hm. DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.

You: Jealous already, Running Man? DCRunner00: Should I be?

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online. DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: You still replied, though.

“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”

You: I’m going to sleep. You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.

His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.

You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.

“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”

You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.

“Is Garcia in yet?”

He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—

“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”

His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.

You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”

His brows pull together slightly.

“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”

You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.

It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.

She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”

“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”

“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”

You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.

“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”

She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”

You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.

“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”

She nods.

“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”

You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.

“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”

You wince.

“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”

You hesitate.

“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”

She squints at the screen.

DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.

“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”

You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”

“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.

“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”

Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”

You frown. “In English?”

She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”

“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”

“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”

Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke. DCRunner00: Mostly.

She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”

You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”

Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”

“No.”

She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”

You nod.

“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”

You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.

“You’re the best, Pen.”

“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”

By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.

Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.

“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”

Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.

You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.

“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”

You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”

“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”

You stare at him.

“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”

When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.

You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

DCRunner00: You disappear a lot. You: Workaholic, remember. You: I told you my schedule was chaos.

You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.

Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

You: Trust me, that’s not the reason. Garcia: So there IS a reason? You: Shh. I’m working. Garcia: Boo!

You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.

It doesn’t work.

Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.

If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.

An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.

One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.

DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me? DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”

“You saw me this morning.”

“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”

You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”

“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”

“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”

You press your free hand against your forehead.

“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

Garcia scoffs loudly.

“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”

She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”

“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”

You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”

“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”

You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.

You: Lucky guess.

The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.

At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.

When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.

By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”

You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.

“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”

You pause mid-motion.

“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”

“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”

He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—

“Agent.”

You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”

You nod once. “Of course.”

He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”

Your breath catches.

He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.

“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.

You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”

Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.

You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.

“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”

You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.

And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.

The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.

“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”

Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.

Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.

“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.

You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”

She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.

DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.

You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.

You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.

Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.

“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”

You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”

“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.

DCRunner00: Refreshing DCRunner00: Most people hide too much. You: Depends what they’re trying to hide. DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide? You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing. DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight. You: Long day. DCRunner00: I noticed. You: How was yours?

You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.

Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.

“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”

“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”

You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.

THURSDAY 6:45AM

You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.

Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.

The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.

Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.

“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”

You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”

Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”

Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”

“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”

Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”

“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”

Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”

Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.

“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”

“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”

Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”

“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”

Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”

Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”

Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.

“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.

Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.

You want to die.

The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.

“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.

Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.

“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.

You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.

Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.

It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.

“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”

Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.

But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.

“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.

You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”

He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.

The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.

It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.

From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.

Your stomach flips.

“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”

You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.

“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.

You turn back to him, frowning.

He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”

You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.

You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.

Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?

The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”

She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”

“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”

You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.

Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.

“What’s going on?”

His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.

Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.

Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.

“Who sent this?”

Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.

It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.

Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.

“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”

Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.

Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.

“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”

You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”

“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”

Could this day get any worse?

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”

“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”

You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.

“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”

Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”

“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”

You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”

The room goes still for half a second.

“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”

Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.

“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”

You sink lower in your chair.

“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”

“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”

Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”

Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.

“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”

“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”

Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.

“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”

Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.

“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”

“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.

“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.

Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.

“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.

You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.

“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.

Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.

Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.

“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.

He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.

He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.

“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”

The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.

Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”

You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”

He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.

Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”

Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.

Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?

He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.

You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.

The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.

Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.

Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.

Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.

And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.

By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.

“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.

Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.

“I’m fine.”

You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”

He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”

You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.

“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”

His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.

“You think this is nothing?”

His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.

“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”

Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.

That’s all.

You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”

His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.

Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.

You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.

If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.

“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.

“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”

The name hits you immediately.

“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”

You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.

“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”

“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”

Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”

“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”

He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.

He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”

The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.

“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”

The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”

“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”

Your pulse stutters.

“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”

“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”

Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.

“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.

“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.

“You track me.”

The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.

“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.

“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.

He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.

“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”

Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.

“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.

And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.

You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.

“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.

He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.

“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.

You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.

“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”

“Oh.”

“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.

“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.

“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”

Hotch stills.

Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”

“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”

He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.

“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”

His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.

“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.

But you can’t.

All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.

You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.

Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.

His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.

Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.

His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”

FRIDAY 6:15AM

Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—

Oh God.

The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.

Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.

You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.

“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.

“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”

“Oh my God.”

You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”

You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.

“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Mm, sure.”

You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.

The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.

That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.

Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.

“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”

You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”

Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”

You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”

Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.

“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.

You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”

Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.

You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.

“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.

You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”

“I was.”

Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.

“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”

Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.

“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”

Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.

“…Huh.”

You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

You close your eyes. “Spencer… don’t.”

His cheeks practically hurt from all the smiling he had done by the time he got home. He could already hear you shuffling about inside, and he couldn’t wait to sit next to you on the couch and relax while watching a show together. The apartment was nice and warm when he got in, dropping his keys into the dish by the door with a clatter. Dress shoes abandoned, he worked to undo the buttons on his coat, calling your name softly.

“I’m home! You know, I was thinking we could try some of that tea you bought the other day,” His coat slung over the rack, he rounded the corner into the living room, rustling through the bag of oranges, “A nice lady gave these to me, and I really think they would pair well together.”

You looked up at him from across the room, situated on the couch with your legs pulled tight to your chest, chin resting on your knees. Your phone was brightly lit, and held way too close to your face. Speaking of…

The smile you had on was one of thinly veiled amusement. The apples of your cheeks are full, the lines of your brows soft. Borderline mischievous. Clark’s movements slowed- like you were a grizzly bear and he was trying to decide whether he should play dead or run.

“What.”

“What? I didn’t say anything,” You chirped, falling back onto the couch and pulling your phone close to your chest.

Clark crossed his arms.

Your grin grew impossibly wide, turning onto your side to a better look at him. “Just, you know, scrolling through twitter.”

“You know that stuff isn’t good for you!” Clark chided, moving into the kitchen so he could turn on the kettle. “It’s all so negative. Everyone’s so mean.”

He could hear you laugh again, throw blankets from the couch rustling as you got up to join him. You leaned against the pillar separating the rooms as Clark grabbed two mugs from the rack. A quick glance told him you still had your phone cradled close to your face. “Oh c’mon there’s some really interesting stuff on here…” He could practically feel the amusement dripping off of your words. Dumping the oranges into the sink, he turned on the tap to wash them, peeling away the stickers as he went. “...Like how, apparently, both sexes of Kryptonians can get pregnant.”

The orange slipped from his grasp with a splash of water, soaking the counter as well as the front of his dress shirt. You burst out laughter, hurrying to grab him a hand towel. 

Clark's ears always flushed first, the tips a bright red by the time you handed the towel over. “I- How… I just-” He stumbled, taking off his glasses and shoving them onto the counter after thoroughly drying it off. 

He was so cute when he was flustered, even if it was just off of some baseless internet rumour-

“I mean… How do they even know that? There are only two of us left-”

Hold up. Pause.

Your laugh was instantly wiped from your face, a look of sheer bewilderment replacing it as Clark stumbled through his words.

“-I mean, obviously I have archives of it, from what was sent over with me… in the pod and stuff. Not everything! Of course, just the basics, you know-”

“Clark Joseph Kent,” You said slowly, like this was all an elaborate prank being pulled on you by your beautiful boyfriend and the evils of twitter. But it couldn’t be, Clark could barely stand to open the damn app. “Is twitter right?”

He’s made a mistake. Clark recognizes that instantly. He tries to go back to washing the oranges and making you tea, but he knows it’s a moot point. You’re at his side now, phone entirely discarded on the countertop, looking at his profile as he really, really tries to ignore you.

“Can you get pregnant?”

“It just makes more evolutionary sense for both sexes-”

“Oh my god!” You’re getting fucking yolked right now. Whipping your head around the kitchen, you wait for the camera crews to start barreling in. “Really? Really?” You say incredulously, hands running down your face in pure disbelief.

Clark shakes his head, hands held out wide as if to say ‘Is this my life?’ “I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal!”

“So why wouldn’t you tell me? Oh my god, I found out my boyfriend can get pregnant through fucking twitter-”

The oranges were finally discarded, because apparently this was how tonight was going. Clark watched, face flushed and hands shaking, as you zipped towards your phone. Luckily Clark was closer. “You are not posting about this-”

“That wasn’t what I was going to do!” You insisted, bent at the waist over the counter, laughter bubbling out of your lips, tears edging your lashline. “I was just gonna see if anything else they’re saying online is right!”

Luckily, one of the few things Clark knew how to do with a phone was turn it off. Cloistering you against the fridge, he shoves the phone on top of it, hidden just out of reach. You buried your face in Clark's chest, muffled laughs still wracking your frame. You smelled nice, and you were warm- so all wasn’t totally lost. You mumbled an apology into him, and he sighed.

“But for real,” You asked, laughter finally subsiding, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well for starters, you just laughed so hard you cried,” Clark said, thumb gently wiping away errant tears from your flushed cheeks, “And I guess it just… isn’t really important?”

You gasp, affronted, and pull away to rest your hands on Clark’s trim waist, turning him side to side, “Not important? I wanna know everything about you- like, where would the baby even go?”

Clark tried to ignore your wandering hands, trying to ignore the fact that he’s practically hardwired to your touch that was travelling dangerously low, “Well we weren’t like the main ones getting pregnant, it was just something we could do-” He gingerly grabs your wrist before you can start tugging his damp shirt from the waist band of his pants. You let out a noise of discontent as he lifts you up onto the counter, trying to distract you with a flurry of kisses across your face, “-Anyways, It’s not like you could really… get me pregnant.”

You pull away, and Clark has made his second mistake of the evening.

“We could test it out.” You say, running your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks gently. Clark lets out a low chuckle, letting you manhandle him, tilting his head like you would a particularly adorable puppy. 

“It wouldn’t work-”

Your hands shifted to the back of his head, threading through the dark curls situated there, and pulled him in. Close enough for him to feel the amused huff you let out fan across his lips. “C’mon Clark,” A chaste kiss, “You won’t even let me try to get you pregnant?”

Clark smacked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, face hot and dazed. He tried so hard to be better than his instincts, but he could smell you- all bothered, wriggling beneath him- which made him kind of feel like a creep. Ironic, considering you were trying to convince him to… get pregnant. 

Which totally wouldn’t work. And totally wasn’t confusing him at all because it was kind of getting him hot right now?

His voice pitched up in the way it always does when he’s semi-embarrassed about his response, a shaky “I guess…” earning him a proper kiss. One that’s messy and desperate in a way that makes him a little weak in the knees, pressing closer into you as your thighs clench around his waist. Your tongue barely creeps into his mouth, a teasing lick at the edge of his teeth before you retreat entirely, pulling away with a lewd sound. Clark tries to follow you, but a sharp tug reminds him your hands are still firmly wound in his curls.

And then you jumped off the counter, padding away back into the living room.

“Wait- Hold on, where are you going?” Clark protested, awkwardly readjusting himself in his slacks. You turned around, still walking backwards towards your shared bedroom.

“You wanna make a baby in our kitchen? Freak.”

You love being rough with Clark. He just makes the cutest noises whenever you pull his hair too hard, shove his head around as he goes down on you, sink your teeth into his skin and claw your nails down his arms. It’s even better because you know you can do all this without physically hurting him. Though, sometimes you wish the marks you left would stay just a little longer, long enough for him to have to stutter out some lame excuse to his coworkers. 

Clark loved it too. You knew he did, because every time you shoved him around, into bathroom stalls in restaurants, the perpetually empty fax room because no one sends faxes anymore, and any wall that seemed even remotely sturdy enough, he got hard as a fucking rock, all wide eyed and flushed. 

Your bed, the third one this year, creaked loudly as you shoved him onto it, straddling his hips in an instant. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as you grabbed his jaw, tilting it to the side to gain access to the soft spot beneath his ear- it was always deliciously sensitive, the easiest place on him to bruise. Teeth sinking into flesh, the hand not holding him in place slipped down his chest, working on the buttons to his shirt. Clark shuddered as your cold hand finally made contact with his skin, pushing his undershirt up once his button up fell open. 

You were so overwhelming- when you both got going it was like all Clark could notice was you. Your breath, your heartbeat, the thrush of your blood in your veins. He could smell the sweat clinging to your body, sweet and familiar, because you both used the same shampoo. Could taste you on his tongue, overwhelming and addictive. His hands, soft yet strong, made their way under your sleep shirt, gripping the flesh of your hips as he tried to pull you closer- flush against his body in a way that was getting pathetically needy. 

He groaned into the air of the room as your mouth abandoned the spot beneath his ear, trailing down his neck to his collarbone- he wanted more. Any longer, and he was sure he’d break the zipper on his slacks. “How are we- ngh- how do you wanna do it?” Clark pulled your head back, almost immediately missing the stickiness of your tongue on him.

Your pupils were blown wide, scanning him in his entirety before licking your lips. Considering something. “I… bought something. For us to try- you can say no if you want.”

“Show me?” Clark asked, kissing your cheek, skin hot beneath his lips.

Extricating yourself from him was almost impossible. But you found yourself rushing towards the closet in a way that you would call unsexy- if only you weren’t so dazed. A box was hidden in the back, disguised amongst your shoes. “I bought this like… kind of a while ago?” You said sheepishly, bringing it back to your bed. Clark had an inkling of what could be inside, if only because of the embossed sex toy logo on the very top. “I chickened out before I could suggest it though.”

“You can always tell me if you wanna try something.” Clark said, his sincerity only embellished by the giant tent he was pitching. You laughed softly, pulling the lid off the box and tilting it towards him. Clark considered the strap on for a moment. The silicon a midnight blue against the black velvet of the box. “It’s a little big, don’t you think?”

“I made sure it was smaller than you,” You rolled your eyes, taking it out of the box along with the harness, “You saying I’m better at taking it?”

Clark ran his hands down his face, smushing his palm against his mouth in a way that muffled his words. “I mean… definitely, you are.” It’s like an ache in his stomach, though, looking at your expectant eyes. Is this how you feel? All heavy down there? He wants to… “But yeah, let’s, uhm, we can do it this way.”

Your teeth mash against his in a sloppy kiss that you hope conveys how happy you are. Again, like in the kitchen, only a brief slip of tongue that leaves him wanting, chasing. “You wanna get undressed for me then, while I put this on?” Clark doesn’t really trust himself to speak, only nodding his head forcefully as he turns away and strips himself of his clothes. There’s a clinking noise, reminiscent of a belt, from behind him as you busy yourself. Then the slide of a drawer. Right, lube. Should he tell you that…

He’s not sure he can verbalize that either. Clark feels like he’s on fire, and wonders if it’s unreasonable to turn on the AC during winter, turning around to finally face you. You’re, fortunately, not looking at him quite yet, instead fussing over the straps and making sure everything is secure. You’re kneeling on the edge of the bed, and the sight feels like something he’s blessed to see. Because you’re stunning, and you’re all his, and… some more instinctual part of his brain seems to be clouding his judgment, something that’s screaming about the… the baby you’re gonna give him. His legs, independent of his rational mind, carry him to the edge of the bed and deposits himself at your feet.

That breaks you out of your worry, a smile beaming down at him as your hand comes up to ruffle his hair, “You ready, baby?”

It’s not really an answer, pulling apart your thighs and kissing them to the base of your strap, but it’s all Clark can manage. “I wanna…” You shudder beneath him, legs instinctively drawing in as he licks around the elephant in the room. “...like how you do it?”

“Oh,” You coo, grip tightening in his hair, “You wanna suck me off?” His big arms cage your hips against the bed, and your leg hinges against his waist, pulling him closer until his cock can rut against the bed sheets. “Want me to teach you?”

Clark nods, but he kind of has an idea of what to do. You’ve gone down on him enough times that he knows what feels good, even if you can’t technically feel it. He knows what makes you look pretty. You guide his head regardless, and he sticks his tongue out to gingerly lick the tip of you, eager but unsure if it’s right. 

You can’t feel it- but you can feel it. Know what his tongue feels like, how warm and soft and wet it is. Thumb stroking against his cheek in encouragement, Clark suckles it into his mouth fully, eyes lidded in concentration. It tastes like plastic, but if he tries he can almost imagine the taste of your sweat, how sweet you are, how warm you are. He lets you push his head down further, just enough to sit on the back of his tongue. There’s more left to take, but you don’t rush it, just let your pretty boyfriend sit on his knees and suck you off in a way that feels right for him. 

Clark gulps around it, saliva pooling on his tongue, slicking up the toy. He lets it sink in a bit further, enough to make the back of his throat tickle, before pulling all the way off, spit stringing him to the tip, before he goes back to kiss the side. Your voice is like honey, “Doin’ really well for me, Clark,” If he could get drunk, he imagines it would feel like this. Like you beneath his hands, making sure he feels loved. “I’m so lucky, you know that?” You let the toy press against his lips, before it slips against his cheek, a smear of saliva along its path. 

He takes you again, bobbing his head in a way that seems tentative. He tries to look up at you, eyes round and glossy, unfairly thick lashes slightly damp. Clark’s curls, normally gelled, lay heavy against his forehead, your fingers pushing them away, leaving your hand on his head as an anchor. Slowly, like a request, you cant your hips upwards. 

Clark hums around you, his own hips rutting against the duvet- in tandem with your gentle thrusts. He tries to memorize this. He’s seen almost every facet of you in your time together, every little piece that comes together to form what you even are, but this is a side of you that he’s never experienced. He’s pretty sure no one has. It makes him feel even warmer, energy buzzing like a current beneath his skin, makes him feel good. His tender tip catches against a fold in the duvet cover, pre smearing against the fabric, trying to keep up with the pace you’ve set. It’s almost maddening, the stimulation, and from this alone he can feel that tension winding up in his stomach.

He finds himself closing his eyes, letting you use him until his impending orgasm- but you have this sixth sense about you. You know when he’s about to fall over that ledge, and just like that, you pull yourself from his mouth, leaving his jaw slack and empty. 

Before he can protest, voice horse, you grab his arms and pull him onto the bed, the frame squeaking beneath your weight. “I think we’re getting carried away,” You laugh, thumb tracing his bottom lip, swollen and wet. “You still wanna do this?”

Clark has always been honest to a fault. You think the only lie he’s ever really kept well was Superman. “Yes- want it, want it real bad.” His hands are all over you, pushing you down onto your back like he was the one in control. You remedy that quickly, pushing his hips and rolling the both of you over. You can practically see the cogs turning in his head as it hits the pillows. 

You wipe the self-satisfied grin off your face, trying to give off the aura of someone who knew what they were doing. Because watching porn wasn’t really the greatest starting point. You shuffle down, knees rustling the sheets, hands warm on Clark's thighs as you spread them open for you. “I want you to tell me if anything hurts, ok? I’ll stop immediately.” Clark’s little laugh was immediately speared by a moan, your thumb brushing the base of his cock, right above his balls. You push a little, your ring finger joining to encircle him. A small, dry tug undoes him quickly. “Need you to be serious.”

“I am!” Clark insists, hips jolting at your touch. You let him buck up a few times before taking your hand away, caressing the inside of his thigh, all muscle and warmth and… wet?

Your gaze shoots down, every jolt and twitch of Clark’s hips show that he’s fucking wet. And if you think about it for like, more than two seconds, that kind of makes sense? Because other people who can get pregnant self-lubricate but, like…

Your finger nudges at his hole, and slides right across it, gathering the wetness onto your fingers. Holding them up to the dim light of your bedroom, and letting it string as you pull them apart. Brows furrowed, you looked at your boyfriend, and his sheepish “oops, you caught me” kind of look that just made the whole situation worse. He’s so lucky he’s kind of the most beautiful person on the planet, because you had unnecessarily spent thirty American Dollars on lube that you didn’t even need. You even got the strawberry flavored one! Because he liked strawberries!

Love had made you a fool.

There’s a lewd squelch as you bully one of your fingers into him, “When you’re a little more coherent, we’re going to have a loooooong talk about why you feel the need to hide things from me.” 

Clark nods his head, eyes screwed shut in pleasure as you prep him. Another finger joins the first quickly enough, curling every which way trying to find the best angle within. But that’s not good enough for you, crowding his legs over your own as your free hand grabs his jaw, “Use your words, Kent.”

“Yeah-” He pants out, “-Yes.”

Your fingers finally find that spot, the spot. The one that makes him buck up so wildly you almost lose your balance. Pre-cum oozes from the tip of his cock, smearing over the bottom of his tummy. “Right there-” He asks, hand coming up to muffle his moans. You could never stay mad at him long. 

The room fills with sounds that you’d be embarrassed for your neighbors to hear, which unfortunately they probably do. Sorry to them. You can’t stop though, pulling each and every moan and whine and whimper from your boyfriend as you loosen him up for you. Without much effort, you can slip a third finger in, trying not to disrupt your rhythm. Clark always tries to last longer than he really can, and you can tell he’s getting close by the twitch in his brow, and the way he tries to rub the tears from his eyes. “You can cum if you want to baby,” You encouraged, holding your fingers in place against his prostate, just pure pressure. 

Clark nods his head fervently, “No- I wanna save it.”

“It’s ok,” You say again, finally thrusting your fingers in again, faster, harder, “I’ll just make you cum again, you can do that for me, right?”

He clenches tight around your fingers, head hitting the bedboard with a sharp crack, one that would make you concerned if it were literally anyone else. But it’s Clark, your boyfriend who can hold a high rise above his head, your boyfriend who could fly around the Earth in the time it would take you to change into your pajamas, your boyfriend who could hold his breath for over an hour (well that one was impressive for entirely selfish reasons). Clark, your boyfriend who was cumming around your fingers, your boyfriend who was about to let you fuck him into the mattress because you were a pervert, your boyfriend who you were gonna give a baby to. 

Ropes of cum coated Clark’s chest and stomach, the sticky fluid running down between his abs and pooling in his belly button. You let him catch his breath for a few seconds, watching pridefully as his chest heaved. A gentle kiss broke him out of his daze. Clark wrapped his arms around your neck, pulling you in for another one the moment you disconnected from each other. Softly, so only he could hear, you asked, “What position do you wanna be in?”

“On my back, I need to look at you.” Like it wasn’t even a question. Your heart swelled, unable to handle just how cute and sincere he could be, ducking down into his neck to lave over the very first spot you made, still sensitive. “Can we… start slow?”

You lined yourself up to his entrance, hole still wet and ready, “Yeah,” you pushed yourself in, the tip popping just past the ring of muscle, “ ‘course baby, anything you need.”

Staying just like that, you let Clark decide when he was ready for more of you, instead taking in the view. Hands come up to squeeze his hips reassuringly. Clark, of course, was built, there was no doubt about that, but he was still soft, a cute layer of fat insulating every bit of muscle. Something to grab onto a little. Gently, Clark leans up, hand finding the back of your head to meet his kiss half way. He kisses you as softly as he wants while he gets comfortable, ignoring the itch in your own skin at your need to move.

You couldn’t feel anything, but it was like phantom pleasure. Just imagining how it felt, and being able to see how Clark was reacting to you was enough to get antsy, resisting the urge to thrust deeper into him. But he was always so gentle and abiding with you, so he deserved that in kind.

It was only when Clark broke your kiss, one tiny peck to the corner of your mouth, did he mumble “You can move a lil’ more now.” To which you gladly obliged. He flopped back down onto the mattress, wiping his sweaty curls from his eyes as they drank up the view of your conjoined bodies. Was this how you felt when he was inside you? Clark shifted his legs a little wider, muscles straining to allow you more room. He was so wet that it didn’t hurt- but there was an ache, right in his center. One that only grew as you slid further and further in. One that felt like only you could solve it.

His dick stayed hard through all of this, twitching against his abs as his back arched a little, getting comfortable with something inside of him. Clark was used to all types of extreme temperatures, the arctic cold of the fortress, the smoking heat of burning buildings, the wet humidity of Kansas summers. But the way you were looking at him, blurred and excited and lovingly, felt like he was about to melt from the inside out.

You had finally slid all the way home, your hips sitting flush with Clarks. It was intoxicating. Your soft hand moves to encase the bottom of Clark’s dick, giving it a quick tug in time with the roll of your hips- experimental, not exactly moving. The man below you full-body shuddered, something low and stuttered leaving his mouth as a moan. That was a good sign. “Can I move?”

“Please.”

You gathered Clark’s legs, one for each arm, and leaned in. The first thrust is slow, but hard, watching as blown-wide pupils hide behind lidded eyes, Clark struggles to keep his composure. He was always a bit sensitive. The second thrust is quick and shallow, and you revel in the way his eyes snap shut and his mouth falls open. You decide to alternate, not quite sure which reaction you like the most. 

Clark can feel your sweat dripping down onto him, the room muggy as you panted softly out your mouth, brow furrowed in concentration as you found your rhythm. It was so different feeling something inside of him, and a part of his mind preened at the attention, like this was something that Clark had been neglecting all this time. It’s mind-numbingly good, and all Clark can think about is you, you, you. Arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, he pulls your body down, chests flush together as he buries his face in your neck, tongue working against the area under your ear. A matching mark to his.

He can feel your laugh, breathy, against his skin, falling off into a moan.

“You feel good- makin’ me feel so good,” He mumbles, kisses placed between his words.

The encouragement drives you to go faster, trying once again to find that spot within him. “ ‘m glad,” You say, sincere, hands groping along his sides until they find his chest, fingers sinking into the plush of him. 

You pull away ever so slightly, just to down again and let your foreheads connect, breath mingling, staccato and varied along with the effort. The ache in your hips means nothing as your lips connect again in a mash of teeth and tongue, pawing at one another like it was both the first and last time. “Thank you- means everything to get to do this with you-”

Clark’s arms and legs feel heavy, every effort that screams at him to just go limp and give in, instead he hooks them around you, legs pulling you closer in. His cock is trapped against the soft skin of your tummy, humped back and forth, smearing fresh pre and last rounds spend between your bodies in a way that only slicked his thrusts further. “ I love you-”

“Love you too- love you sooooo much that I’m gonna give you a baby, alright?”

It’s involuntary, the way he spasms at those words, locking your hips even closer to his, responding to your grinding hips with his own. He shut his eyes tight- trying not to come so soon. “Yeah- want a baby, your baby-”

You kiss his temple, then his hairline, “Don’t worry, I’ll give it to you. Make you a mama, right?”

“Please,” You thread your fingers with his, your nail crossing over his ring finger.

The slap of your skin, the squelch of your bodies, is lewd beyond comparison. The headboard of your bed, cracked from earlier, is only breaking further as it jolts against the wall. You squeeze Clark’s hand tighter, “Gotta get married too- make you an honest man Clark. Be my lil’ husband-”

“Oh gosh- gonna get married?”

“Yep, get us rings, and we’ll have a baby- one big family.” Clark isn’t really sure he can last much longer, and he’s sure you won’t either, the way your thrusts keep falling out of time, tired with exertion. You’re pushing his hair out of his face again, his stubborn curls slicked back, just looking at his face in a way that makes him feel like he’s the only one on Earth. 

You give him one last kid to the nose before pulling back, hands trailing down his sticky skin to grab firmly onto his hips, thumbs tracing the area just below his navel.

“Gonna put a baby right here, mkay mama?”

Clark nods furiously, the wave of his orgasm building up to a crescendo, ready to crash any moment.

“Words-”

“I want a baby, want you to full me up- want you to get me pregnant-”

You can feel yourself getting close too- it’s almost romantic, loving someone so much that just seeing them this way can make you cum. Something to add to Clark’s never-ending list of skills. There’s a syringe on the other side of your harness, one of your hands reaching back to thumb over the button- the other envelopes the top of Clark's cock, pressing your thumb into his slit and angling him up. His tip’s practically oozing, coating your fingers in sticky pre, the same coating the bottom of your stomach, that helps your hand glide up and down in quick succession. 

Clark’s moan is almost strangled, voice cracking in a way you’ve never heard before. So cute and private and yours. “I’m gonna- oh golly- I’m-”

“Me too-”

“Really?-”

He says it with stars in his eyes, and you groan, speeding up to a pace that you definitely can’t sustain for much longer, but it doesn’t matter because-

Clark shudders beneath you, eyes screwing shut with pleasure, mouth dropping open to the cutest little “O”. His hair falls back down onto his face, and he cums. More than he ever has before, mixing with the first round splattered across his chest, some even getting up onto his chin before it drips down into his clavicle. It’s downright obscene. And then Clark feels something different.

Something warm, and wet.

Something new inside him- flooding into him, so good that he cums again. It’s like synapses popping in his brain, like floating, and crashing, and rising back up again. Clark thinks he might be drooling a bit, but he can’t find it within himself to wipe it away- not when he feels so good.

You timed it just right. Your nails brushed against the now empty container hidden behind you, legs shaking as you grabbed Clark's hips for the last time, pushing all the way in and grinding there for a moment as your own orgasm washed over you like a wave. It’s followed by a pathetic little half-thrust, and you’re kind of in awe that Clark can last multiple rounds doing this. Being Superman might help a little, but still.

It actually takes you a few seconds to catch your breath, wiping the sweat from your face because holy shit this room has gotten hot. Given by the far-away look Clark’s got in his eyes, it might take him a few more seconds to come too. For the umpteenth time tonight, you swipe his hair from his face and press a kiss to his temple, which you can feel him smile for. Slow at you might, pulling out of him is still something that draws a hiss.

“Sensitive-”

“I know,” You placate, rubbing your thumbs over his hip bones in a way you hope is comforting, “Gonna get you cleaned up, mkay? Gonna take care of you.”

Clarks huffs in acknowledgement, head flopping to the side as you get up. He tries to stifle a laugh at your attempts to get out of the harness, and you only give him a half-baked glare. The ceiling fan isn’t on, mocking him and his sweatiness. He knows the remote is just on the nightstand- but he suddenly can’t bring himself to move. Was this how you felt after? Limp and heavy and sore and satiated? He could still feel the residual pleasure holding on in his limbs, a welcome reminder. The faucet in the bathroom creaked on, and you soon returned, somewhat damp from wiping down your face and neck, with a clean, wet hand towel.

The moment the cold water hit his face he preened, leaning into your touch as you gently wiped the sweat and cum from his face and neck. “Love you.” He said softly.

You smile, searching across the bed to lace your fingers with his and squeeze before letting go, moving the cloth lower to wipe at his stomach and legs, “I love you too.”

“I love you more-”

“-We are not doing this game right now,” You laugh. The moment you're satisfied, the cloth goes in the hamper. Like you can read his mind, you reach for the remote for the fan, clicking it onto the highest setting before crawling into bed next to him. Clark finds just enough strength to draw you into his chest, resting his cheek on top of your head, pulling the covers up. It could be a million degrees and he would still cuddle you to sleep. “...You liked that, right?”

Clark definitely felt like there was more to him then even he knew at this point. Because he never really expected to… like what had happened tonight as much as he did. Sure, some of it could be chalked up to biology, but it was mostly the act of doing it with you that made it all… pleasurable, exciting, something that he… “I think I’d like to do it again- that is, if you’re up for it?”

His skin was soft as you pressed a kiss to his collarbone before looking up at him, “I think I need to, like, train or something. I have no clue how you last that long.” Clark laughs, energized just enough to roll you both onto your back, laying his weight on you like a blanket. Your hand slaps playfully at his back before resting on his shoulder blade. 

“It’s ‘cause I’m Superman,” Clark supplies unhelpfully, kissing at your cheeks, “And ‘cause I love you.” You push his face away to look into his eyes, dark blue and soulful and perfect. And you love this man, so much that you want to pour it into him, let him feel it. But you’re way too tired for that, and settle for a kiss instead.

“Love you too, Clark. More than anything else.”

You think that no amount of rest could make up for the hell of a day you had: bad days keep getting worse and worse because peace is, unfortunately, an illusion.

“Sis!”

Your face fell at the sound. That high-pitched demon shriek is all too familiar; familiar like a dirty mirror full of dust, which is also a portal to the other side where all the evil spirits get ready to haunt the first poor soul that is at the wrong place at the wrong time. Like yours.

“I must've been, like, Cruella de Vil in my other life,” You scoffed and turned around to see Louise the Mistress of All Evil standing in your building's lobby. Wait! But not Angelina Jolie's; maybe the most accurate comparison would be Perrault's Wicked fairy from the original tale because she is way worse. Actually, Maleficent would ask your sister for inspiration on how to be the most awful being ever, and maybe even create a Pinterest board with Louise's ideas if she's contemporary enough.

Or maybe Louise is just a bitch.

“I am so happy to see you,” She smirked, arrogant and fake like everything she represents.

“Yeah? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I thought it'd be nice to spend some time with you here. I needed some fresh air.”

“And you chose Metropolis and its air quality for fresh air?”

“Smarta-” she began but stopped her mouth just in time so as to not insult you. “I meant a different air.”

You scoffed. “Look, if you're here to grab dinner or something, I can't right now. Maybe lunch tomorrow?”

“I came to stay with you, duh.”

And the world fell on your shoulders at that one sentence.

Well, well, if it isn't the consequences of what you did to those puppies, Cruella. So long, Hell Hall.

“Can't you stay at a hotel or something?”

“Mom said I could stay with you,” Louise shrugged.

“That's funny since mom didn't ask me anything,”

“She's our mother, she shouldn't have to ask,”

“Considering we haven't spoken in six years, I'd say she should, but it's whatever,” You exhaled tiredly. “Not like any of you cares.”

She hid her annoyance with a sigh. “So? Where's your apartment?”

“How long are you staying?”

“Two weeks tops, I'll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Obviously out of your hair because she is like lice.

“Okay, let's go,” you agreed, immediately knowing you would regret it because that's how it always ends with Louise: in regret.

She is the kind to bite the hand that feeds her.

You will just have to be careful: hide any valuable items, keep whatever source with your information close to you at all times, bedroom door stays locked, don't speak about your personal life, don't introduce her to anybody, and, most importantly, keep Clark as far from Louise as possible.

One would question: why is that? The answer dates back to the day you were born.

Your parents were infatuated with you and your identical twin to be the same. Same outfits, same hairstyle, same bedroom, same classes, same friends, same treatment, same everything.

The only reason why you don't have the same name is because each of you was named after one of your late grandmas. If you think about it, though, that's still something in which you're the same.

The issue started in fourth grade when Louise swore she was being bullied and your parents insisted on changing you two to another school. While you had many friends, she didn't have any of her own, and yours only hung out with her because your parents used to say you wouldn't go anywhere without your sister. However, she never liked the games you and your friends would play and threw tantrums whenever you decided not to accommodate her. Louise always wanting to control everything —including trying to make you like the same things as her— caused your friends to dislike her and exclude her, which she hated.

Soon, you were studying somewhere else and had lost contact with your friends because ‘no real friend of yours would mistreat your sister’.

You started resenting her and avoiding her for that reason, so it wasn't surprising when she decided she would be her own person and, as your parents had noticed your apathy towards Louise, she instantly became their poor daughter who is always a victim and can do no wrong. Without thinking twice, she took advantage of it and decided that if the twins wouldn't be the same anymore, then one of you had to be better.

And that would be her at all costs.

Louise is narcissistic. She tends to others and fakes kindness so they think of her as a good person, all the while her micro aggressions toward you go on and on. Louise gives water to the visitors? You are too busy with your own things that you don't even care about being hospitable. Louise helps your younger cousins with their homework? You are slow-witted and useless. Thus, while she is sweet, intelligent, considerate, and kind, you are thoughtless and impolite.

All your life, it has been easier for you to make friends: out in the wild, you're more welcoming, genuine, and caring. On the other hand, Louise is contemptuous, entitled, and arrogant. The only ones who want to be her friends are those who are equally as awful as her—if not worse—, fake, and don't think as highly of her as she feels they should. She knows they're bad friends. She knows the only way she can get them to like her is by being mean and lying about how much money she has in her pocket. Raising twins isn't very easy on the wallet, meaning you weren't precisely rich unlike the popular kids Louise used to befriend. You never struggled much, but couldn't afford luxuries like her friends either.

She balances it with being even more of a bitch than her friends. Louise has done so by messing with you most specifically.

You have lost count of how many boyfriends or crushes she's stolen from you, of how many friends you have lost to her fake rumors, and of how much damage to your reputation she has caused. And, as you were so awful, of course your boyfriends would prefer her over you, clearly your crushes would like her better, and obviously your friends are right for distancing themselves from you. That's what everyone thinks.

She is the princess and you are the pauper but make it so the princess is a cunt.

So, Metropolis University was your salvation.

Once you graduated from high school, you moved and, slowly but surely, managed to limit contact with your parents and sister.

And you met Clark.

He was a year above you and the love of your life from the moment you first saw him.

You befriended him quickly the moment you met him at some frat party you were invited to and stayed friends for a long time—best friends at that.

Clark graduated, got a job at the Daily Planet, and then helped you find a job there as well.

Last year, he finally had the guts to confess, and you started dating.

Of course your family is something he has wanted to talk about for some time. You know his parents, they adore you and you adore them, too, but he knows nothing about yours, only that you would change topics drastically and avoid speaking about them, or downright tell him you don't want to talk about them.

And so the journey began.

No taking Clark's calls at your place, telling him not to pick you up, refusing whenever he mentioned walking you home, and asking him not to go to your place without asking first. It would be only two weeks and everything would go back to normal; it is a sacrifice you have to make in order to protect your relationship.

Which worked until a particularly difficult day: Louise ate some pastries Clark had given you the previous day and you got upset with her and argued; your mother called on your way to work because your sister had told her you were an anti-social and decided to scold you for around an hour, that being your first interaction in what felt like a lifetime; you had missed a deadline for an article and the editorial section had to be changed for another one, one not yours. Thankfully, Clark was there to save the day and submitted his before it was due and you got into much more trouble. You left the lunch you had prepared for the day in your kitchen, and the bathroom was never completely empty so you couldn't cry.

But TGIF, right?

So, right after work and being the sweet, perfect boyfriend that he is, Clark went to buy you flowers and bring you food from your favorite restaurant, maybe help you relieve some stress the way only he can, but, instead of seeing you when he opened the door, he found the same face and body as yours, the only difference being a beauty mark you lacked and the way she wears her hair.

“Uh, hello…?”

Louise smirked slightly, immediately catching on to the situation. “Hi, I'm Louise.”

“Hi, Louise. I'm Clark,” He frowned in confusion when she approached him to shake his hand. “And you are…?”

“I take my sister hasn't told you about me,”

You got out of the shower and finally heard Clark's voice, making you run out of your room to see him.

“Clark,” You breathed. “Hi, what… what are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” he replied. “Just wanted to check on you and, well, bring you a few things. I didn't-”

“Thanks, that's very kind of you. See you tomo-”

“You're a twin?”

“Wait, are you two dating?” Louise tilted her head, index finger dancing in a motion that joined you and Clark.

“Yes,”

“No,” you denied.

His expression changed completely when you said so, but he didn't say anything.

Louise, mischievous, questioned you again. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” You pressed your lips together. “Anyway, Clark was just about to leave.”

“But he just got here,” she noted, defiant. “I'd love to get to know your boyfriend.”

“Thanks, Louise, but I guess it's better if I leave,” He smiled softly and nodded at you. “It's nice to meet you. Good night to the both of you.”

And he left.

Your sister huffed a laugh. “Now you're embarrassed of your boyfriend?”

“Go fuck yourself, Louise.”

You: I'm sorry about last night

You: She gets the worse of me

You: Breakfast tonight at my place?

You: See what I did?

You: Breakfast at night because it's breakfast for dinner

Superboyfriend 💗: It's okay

Superboyfriend 💗: I'm not sure if I can, but I'll try my best

You: Just say no, Clark

You: I know what it means when you're like that, so just make a choice and tell me

Superboyfriend 💗: I'll be there

You sighed tiredly, sick of Louise always doing something to ruin your life.

Clark is definitely the best thing you have ever had, and losing him, too, would probably send you to a psych ward. Or to jail with first-degree murder charges.

Okay, that is a hyperbole, but the sentiment is much of a muchness.

The reason you invited Clark over is because Louise said she is going to get to know the city better by herself and hang out. The universe blessed you with that.

However, things don't go very well for you since you did awful things to puppies, Cruella.

Clark had made it to your place indeed, things a little tense if anything. Though, when he was in front of you and barely hugged you back, you noticed how much you had fucked it all up already.

You remembered how she always wins.

And you knew you couldn't tell Clark the truth; that would make him think you don't trust him, and you can't have that.

You can't lose him, too.

While you thought about how much you needed him and before the hug ended, Louise was back in your place with a big smile aimed at Clark.

“I thought you'd be-”

“Longer? No, I changed my mind,” She shrugged. “Like godsent, right? Because now I can get to know your boyfriend.”

You pressed your lips together. “I only made dinner for two.”

“It's okay, Sis. We can share yours.”

“You can have mine if you want,” Clark offered, and you felt your heart drop to your stomach, because of course he would do that. Doesn't mean it didn't hurt you that he would give up what you made for him with so much love. He must think you would do that for her and that you would be so happy about it.

“You're such a gentleman, Clark!”

God, you hate her.

You had to put up with Louise being the sweetest, kindest, funniest person in the room while you became the Grumpy Bear on his worst day.

Either way, you dissociated the entire evening and focused on not crying instead of on the lively conversation. You didn't even realize that they had exchanged numbers.

Clark is just proud of himself because he is convinced it would make you happy for him to get along with She-Scar from The Lion King.

Louise would totally throw you off a cliff to be stomped by a stampede of wildebeests. And probably involve your future kid in her evil shenanigans.

Hey, focus.

The next day, the Wicked Witch of the West —the one from the original novel, by the way— wasn't there. Morning, noon, night, and you didn't have to deal with her. You thanked the heavens for it, rejoicing in the most peace you have had since she stepped into your life once again with no explanation at all, until…

They were all giggles and jokes as Clark used his key to open the door. You left the kitchen to receive them, a kind of anger in your eyes you didn't know you had in yourself.

“Hi, Sis!” Louise exclaimed when she crossed the threshold. “What a day we've had.”

“Hi, honey,” Clark approached to give you a kiss, but you took a step back, leaving him wearing a confused frown. “Are you alright?”

“Pack up your things,” you ordered, expression firm, tense, mad at your sister. “And I don't wanna hear a thing, Louise. You can sleep under a bridge for all I care, but I want you out of here right this fucking second.”

Flabbergasted was an understatement for Clark's reaction.

“Hey, what's going on? We were just-”

“Just what, Clark? Out and about behind my back?” you questioned and turned around to face Louise before he could say anything. “If you don't pack up your things right this second, I'm gonna throw your shit off the balcony and I'm not even joking.”

“Calm down, nothing happened-”

“Of course nothing happened, I know him! And God help me, Louise, if you don't get the fuck out of my place right this instant, your ghost will have to haunt my ass in jail.”

“You can't just kick me out!”

“I pay for rent here, I could lock you out on the balcony if I wanted to!”

“Gosh. Louise, you can-” Clark sighed, giving you a disappointed look. “You can stay at my place if you feel comfortable, it's alright.”

You let out a bitter laugh, seeing right through your sister's fake innocence. “Great.”

“I wouldn't like to bother you,”

“It's no bother, let me help-”

“I am not gonna watch this shit,” You scoffed. “If I find out she slept at your place, Clark, it's over between us. You will not see me ever again.”

“Wait, what on Earth is happening with you?” he questioned, his voice raised for the first time ever in your relationship. “You're acting insane!”

Your face changed to complete bafflement while Louise's had a smug smirk, the kind one might miss if it weren't for how well you know how goodness looks on lips just like yours.

“Excuse me?”

Clark noticed he had messed up immediately, so he just retreated. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I-”

“The two of you are gonna get out of my place,” you began, trying to hide your trembling lip. “And if you wanna fuck him like you always do, proceed by all means. He's available.”

Instead of allowing any response, you went to your bedroom and locked yourself in.

You cried until you fell asleep, his soft knocks on your door like a lullaby you weren't entertaining.

The next morning, you opened your eyes with difficulty because of how puffy they were, with your face tired and a little swollen. You felt your whole body ache for the position you slept in, not to mention the emptiness in your chest. You could feel it physically, like a hole where your heart is supposed to be…, as if your body knew no one is there to make sure blood courses through your veins.

You feel dead.

You have been broken-hearted before, usually courtesy of Louise, but this… this was a whole other feeling.

Like nothing is of use. Like you had planned your future in the shape of Clark Joseph Kent and he just isn't there anymore, so what future are you supposed to have now? What will be of you now that you lost the one person in your life that showed you you're deserving of love? What now?

It hurt like hell.

But life goes on, right? Well, what if it just doesn't? What if you look at yourself in the mirror and the bags under your eyes remind you of what you no longer have? What if you never find a better brand of toothbrush after he show you this perfect one, making you think of him as the first thing you do every single day from now on? What if, when you wash your face, you can still feel the ghost of him hugging you from behind forever? What if this is what the rest of your life is going to be like? What if you open the door and— thud.

“Golly,” He groaned at the sudden fall as he had slept last night with his back on your door.

“What are you doing here?”

Clark stood quickly, body sore but more awake than ever. “Hey.”

The higher pitch of his voice almost made you fold.

“Why are you here again?”

“Again? I never left.”

“You slept here? On the floor? Against the door?”

“If I say I slept on the couch would it sound less pathetic?”

You shook your head. “Clark, uh… you know where your stuff is. You can get changed and take your things with you.”

“Come on, don't do this,”

“Did she leave?”

“Yeah, she packed her stuff and left,”

“Good,” You nodded. “If you were wondering why there are children singing Hallelujah on the streets, that's why.”

He suppressed a chuckle. “Don’t make me laugh, we need to talk.”

“Wasn't trying to be funny, just stating a fact,” you replied, sarcastic. “Anyway, talk fast.”

“Alright. Look, I thought it would make you happy that I got along with Louise,” Clark began. “I thought you were embarrassed of me so I just wanted to prove to you that I could be part of your family, too.”

Your expression softened. “I love you more than anything, Clark. I would never be embarrassed of you.”

“I heard her say it when I left that night. She even told me later.”

“And you believed her over me? Do you think that's who I am?”

“Well, you didn't do a very good job at reassuring me, to be fair.”

“Yeah, I didn't,” you agreed and sighed, tired, too faded to fight but not as much as to not let him in. “I sucked as a girlfriend and I'm sorry for that.”

“It's fine,” Clark nodded and hugged you. “Look, I love you, okay? In my life, I want nothing but you, so I need us to be on the same page.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay. Tell me how I messed up.”

“By being with her behind my back and calling me insane,”

“I am sorry for doing that. I didn't read the room very well and should've asked you before hanging out with some girl I don't know,” Clark lifted your head by the chin and kissed your forehead sweetly. “And I wasn't meaning to call you that, it just slipped. I don't think you're insane and, even if I did, I shouldn't have called you that. Especially in front of your sister, okay? Do you forgive me?”

“Yeah,”

“What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Well, would you fly her to the sun for me?”

Clark exhaled loudly. “I can't help but feel like maybe this never had anything to do with me.”

“You inserted yourself in it as soon as you decided to befriend Cerberus and her three faces,” You shrugged, and he tried not to laugh at your comment.

“I need to know all the ways you've called your sister until now, but first why?”

“We just don't get along, okay? No need to revisit that, thank you very much.”

“Uh, yes need to revisit that,” He widened his eyes to emphasize his curiosity.

You pressed your lips together. “If I tell you, would you promise to forgive me for being an awful girlfriend, hiding you things, and not trusting you?”

“You're not an awful girlfriend, we just… had a rough couple days,” Clark rubbed your back softly. “But I forgive you for everything. Now, tell me.”

“Do I really have to?”

“Look, I understand if it hurts, so… just help me understand why you hate her. No need to go into specifics if you don't feel comfortable doing so,” He kissed your hair one last time. “But first I gotta brush my teeth. You don't like kissing with morning breath.”

You smiled. “Alright.”

Clark walked to the bathroom in your room with his hand on your lower back to guide you in. Then, he started his morning routine while you lied on your bed and started talking.

“Louise and I were raised to be the same person, which was okay until I developed a sense of identity and realized I was a whole other person outside of that bubble. She's always thought she's entitled to have everyone's attention and princess treatment, which made her very difficult to be around. She couldn't make friends while I could, so she made it her mission to be the ‘better twin’ or something. She would steal my boyfriends, spread rumors about me to get my friends to distance themselves from me, make everyone think I'm awful and she's great, and basically bully me with the popular kids she befriended by being a Regina George wannabe and lying about having money.”

“She kind of came onto me once, but I just shrugged it off…” he commented and sat beside you on the bed. “I didn't want to cause conflict and hoped I was imagining things.”

“What did Ursula from Friends do to you, Clark?”

He snickered softly and lied down. “After lunch, Ursula from ‘should-I-know-who-her-friends-are-?’ insisted on going to the movies and she was a bit touchy and started telling me some story about a trip to Europe.”

“When she was backpacking in Western Europe, by chance?”

He nodded, stroking your hair. “Yeah, it sounded like a good story until I felt the urge to pretend I got a text from my boss.”

“That's the synonym of fuck me to oblivion,” You smirked. “It goes like this.”

“I'm listening,”

“Did I ever tell you about when I was backpacking through Western Europe?”

“Uh, not really. Enlighten me.”

You wrinkled your nose and started tracing the silhouette of his features with your fingers. “I was just outside of Barcelona, hiking in the foothills of Mount Tibidabo…”

Clark hummed, hands finding your waist underneath his shirt you had officially made yours.

“I was at the end of this path and… I came to a clearing, and there was this lake. Very secluded, and there were tall trees all around,” you spoke in a smokey whisper, tone that caught his attention entirely. To be fair, he always has all his senses focused on you when you're together, very few times failing at that—but with valid excuses whenever he does so. Like when you were talking like that and looking at him like this, so… inviting. “It was dead silent, gorgeous. And, across the lake, I saw a beautiful woman bathing herself, but she was crying…”

At your silence and holding gaze, he frowned softly, waiting for you to continue.

“Did you ever find out why she was crying?”

You hummed, close enough so your noses would brush. “Didn't Louise get to that part?”

“I lost track of her words at Tibidabo when I started wondering if it was a real mountain,”

“It's a hill,” You cleared, lips ghosting over his. “There's an amusement park there, and a church named the Sagrat Cor that has a statue of Jesus on top.”

“Yeah?”

“It took them almost sixty years to build it,” you added, already feeling his grasp tightening on your hips. “But, you know? The construction of the Sagrada Familia Church, which is also in Barcelona, started on the early 1880s and it isn't even finished yet. I think it was worth it. They're both absolutely beautiful, an ode to Romanticism in times of Modernism and even later. A complete contra- uhm!”

Clark kissed you deeply, silencing your fact-rant. You smiled into the kiss, making him smile, too. “Gosh, you're so smart.”

“The story worked,” you noted, kissing him again.

“I'm gonna make up one… it'll take place in South America,” he announced, making space between you and him. “Did I ever tell you about the time I went to the Ciudad Perdida?”

You hid a laugh. “I told you about that place. Be original, Kent.”

“Uh, it's in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, and it takes days to get there,” He closed his ears to your protests and continued. “I met so many people, saw wonderful views, but something unbelievable happened…”

Going with it, you entertained him by making questions. “Is that so? What happened?”

“I fell and passed out for what they told me were ten minutes but, for me, it was like an hour,” Clark pecked your lips. “I saw someone's face. A gorgeous woman, she looked so perfect… She said…”

“What did she say?” you asked.

“She said you had to kiss me or else your evil twin would-”

You snorted and smacked his arm. “Shut up, Clark!”

“What? That's what happened!” He defended himself, higher-pitch tone on, and laughed.

“Stop it!”

Clark chuckled. “I love you. I'm sorry for these awful days.”

“I love you more, dork,”

“You wish, you nerd,”

“We can call it even,”

“I’m not working with Lex Luthor,” you say. “I’m working for LuthorCorp, and it's an entry-level position. I’ll probably never even see him, let alone speak to him. I can promise you that he doesn’t, and never will, know who I am.”

He exhales hard, shoulders sagging. “You can’t promise that.”

“Clark,” you sigh, “it’s a good job. And it’ll look great on my resume, which means I can get a better job after this. But right now, I just need an income so I can find an apartment and stop crashing on your couch.”

His gaze flicks to the dark blue cushions beneath you, brow furrowing. “You’re not sleeping on the couch—you’re in the spare room.”

You roll your eyes. “It was metaphorical, you dork.”

His head tilts. “Oh.”

“Look,” you say, pushing off the couch, “I promise I’ll be careful. I’ll keep to myself, I’ll be discreet, and I won’t breathe a word about being best friends with Superman. Not even about that one time he let me try on the suit.”

Clark’s jaw tenses—not with irritation, but because he’s biting back a smile. You can tell. His lips press tight, his dimples crease, and there’s that little sparkle in his eyes that never fails to make your stomach flip.

“Funny,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You grin. “I like to think so.”

“Why can’t I just get you a job at the Daily Planet?” he asks.

You give him the look—the one you always give him when he brings this up. “Because I’m not a reporter. And I’m not going to spend my days slinging coffee for over-caffeinated, over-critical journalists.”

“You’d rather work for an evil billionaire?”

“Don’t we all work for evil billionaires?”

He narrows his eyes, brows knitting as he adjusts his folded arms—forearms flexing beneath rolled sleeves. And it’s painfully distracting, but Clark Kent is much too naive to realise what he does to you.

You drag your eyes back up to his face—which is no less stupidly distracting—and fold your own arms, mirroring him. “So, what’s for dinner?”

His frown deepens. “We’re not done talking about this.”

You roll your eyes again. “Yes, we are, Clark. I already accepted the job and signed the contract.” You give him your best levelling stare, even though you’re practically breaking your neck just to meet his gaze. “I start Monday.”

“Monday?”

“Yep,” you say with a nod. “And I’ve got two apartment viewings later in the week. Wanna come?”

His expression slips, the scowl softening into something uncertain. “That’s… quick.”

You step around him toward the kitchen. “Well, yeah. Don’t act like you’re not dying to have your privacy back,” you call over your shoulder.

His footsteps follow yours as you stop at the fridge and yank the door open, ducking down to see right to the back of the shelves—as if food might magically appear, even though Clark always eats his way through the week’s groceries by Friday night.

“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I mean, not really. I like having you around.”

It takes you all of three seconds to decide takeout is the only option.

“Don’t lie.” You shut the fridge and turn to face him, fishing your phone from your back pocket. “There’s a big difference between enjoying someone’s company and wanting to live with them—and you, farm boy, do not want to live with me. At least not full time.”

He frowns again, placing both palms flat on the kitchen island as he leans forward. “I don’t see what the big deal is. We haven’t had any… problems so far.”

You lean back against the opposite counter, needing a little space between you and your best friend’s stupid forearms. And those stupidly large hands. And that stupidly adorable little frown he gets when he’s trying to win an argument without getting too impassioned.

“That’s because we both know it’s temporary. And neither of us has tried to bring someone home,” you say, eyes locked on your phone as you flip between food delivery apps.

“Bring someone home?” he echoes.

You nod, still scrolling. “Yeah. Like a date or a hookup or something.”

“A hookup?”

“Yes, Clark, a hookup,” you mutter. “You know—sex? The thing two consenting adults do when they’re horny or frustrated or bored.”

There’s a beat of silence, the air between you thickening with something unfamiliar. Then—

“Bored?”

“Oh my God,” you sigh, eyes wide as your head snaps up. “Bored, yes. Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex or—I don’t know—jerked off out of boredom?”

Pink blooms across his cheeks. “Well, I—uh—I mean… no? Not really. I don’t really… do that.”

You still, eyes narrowing. “You don’t do what?”

He shrugs. “Jerk off… much.”

“Much?” you echo, curiosity getting the better of you.

You don’t really want to have this conversation—God knows you don’t need any more spank bank material when it comes to your best friend—but you just can’t help yourself. Whether it was Clark or anyone else, you’d press. You’re just inquisitive. Some might say nosy.

And horny. Yeah, definitely horny. It’s been a while.

His brows lift. “What? You want the weekly average, or—?”

“No,” you cut in quickly. “I don’t. Sorry. We probably shouldn’t have this conversation.”

Your eyes drop back to your phone screen as you try to will away the heat creeping into your cheeks. It’s ridiculous, really, how a man you’ve known for more than half your life can still make you feel like a nervous, blushing teenager without even trying.

“Why not?” he asks, all innocence and naivety.

You snort. “Because my sex life is non-existent, and I’d rather not be reminded of that.”

You keep your head bowed, thumb swiping too fast for you to register any of the takeout options—but you’re not really looking. You’re just focusing on steadying your pulse and ignoring the burn of Clark’s stare from across the island.

Then, after a taut few seconds that feel like an eternity, he clears his throat.

“You know,” he says slowly, voice dropping, “if you needed someone to—”

“It’s fine,” you blurt, too fast. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine, I promise.”

“Oh.” His eyes widen just slightly, and he takes a half-step back. “Yeah, talk. That’s—uh—that’s what I was going to say. But if you don’t want to, it’s—it’s fine. But I’m here… if you do.”

You nod, pressing your lips together tightly to stop yourself from saying anything else stupid. Because even though you’re pretty sure this moment couldn’t get any more awkward than it already is, you know better than to underestimate yourself.

“I’m gonna shower,” he says suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Okay,” you mutter. “I’ll order—um, burgers?”

He nods. “Yep. Burgers.”

You drop your gaze back to your phone as he turns and disappears down the hall. His bedroom door creaks open, and just before it clicks shut, you call out, “And this is exactly why I need to find my own apartment.”

-

“And this is your office,” Dennis from middle management says.

It’s not an office. It’s a desk—a cubicle, to be precise. Smack in the middle of an open-concept space that looks like it was designed by an evil genius with too much money and a vendetta against every colour except grey.

So yeah. Makes sense.

“Thanks,” you murmur, setting your bag down on the desk.

“We fired up your laptop yesterday and got everything set up for you,” he says, leaning against the steel-grey partition. “You should’ve had all your passwords sent to your personal email, so just log in and jump into your work email—there you’ll find a few links for company inductions and whatnot.”

You nod. “Sounds great. I’ll start there.”

He gives you a toothy smile, and your gaze catches on a little something green stuck between his incisors. “If you need anything at all, let me know. Otherwise, Katie—one of our other analysts—will pop by after lunch to show you some things.”

You nod again. “Thanks, Dennis.”

His gaze lingers a beat too long, just enough to make you squirm, before he turns sharply and stalks back through the office.

With a heavy breath, you drop into your new desk chair and flip open the laptop in front of you. It’s hooked up to one of those big curved monitors, which flickers to life instantly. You pull out your phone, check your emails, log into the laptop, and wait for it to load.

Then your phone vibrates on the desk.

CLARK: Please call me if you need me. Good luck.

You didn’t see him this morning. You were so worried about missing the train and being late that you left forty-five minutes earlier than you needed to. Clark was still asleep when you crept out of the apartment—which was probably for the best. You’d spent the entire weekend arguing about whether this job was a good idea, and you weren’t in the mood to rehash it right before your first day.

You quickly type out a response:

Call you as in phone you, or scream for help and hope someone super shows up?

He responds almost immediately.

CLARK: Hilarious.

You simply send back a winky-face emoji, then tuck your phone into your bag. The last thing you need is to get caught on your phone before you’ve even made it through day one.

The morning passes in a blur of menial HR tasks and mandatory videos about occupational health and safety. After lunch—which you spend alone in the breakroom, since apparently no one here actually takes a break—Katie shows up. She drops into the seat beside you and runs you through a few different tasks you’ll be responsible for.

The work isn’t hard, not really, it’s just data crunching—but you’re still nervous. You don’t know the software systems that well yet, and you feel a little like a toddler trying to jam square blocks into circular holes.

By four p.m., you’re wrecked. It’s not just the learning new things, it’s the socialising too. Meeting new people is draining, especially in the corporate world where you have to appear professional and composed. Which is definitely not how you’re feeling as you drag your feet through the lobby of the LuthorCorp building.

You’re just about to step out onto the street when you recognise an obnoxiously tall—and broad—curly-haired figure waiting outside.

You walk up behind him. “Clark?”

He spins around, blue eyes shining behind those dorky glasses. “Hey. How was your first day?”

Your brows pinch. “It... it was fine, but—what are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t let my girl walk home from her first day all alone.”

Your pulse skips, but you mask it with a short, unladylike snort. “Your girl? What is this, the 1940s?”

He blinks, cheeks flushing pink as he scratches the back of his neck. “I—uh—no, I didn’t mean it like—I just meant—”

“It’s fine, Kent.” You pat his arm, biting back a grin. “Come on, let’s go home. I’m exhausted.”

You both start in the direction of Clark’s apartment, weaving through the tide of evening commuters hurrying along the sidewalk. You’d originally planned to catch the train home, but since you have nowhere you need to be—and Clark’s keeping you company—you’re not averse to walking.

“So,” you say, shoving your hands deeper into your coat pockets, “how was your day, Mr. Journalist?”

He shrugs. “Oh, you know. The usual. Writing, editing, coffee… saving a bus full of school kids when it lost its brakes at the end of West Frank Lane.”

You arch a brow, lips twitching. “In that order?”

He grins, those stupid dimples making your heart stutter. “Yeah. In that order.”

“Impressive.” You nod slowly. “And you still had time to wait outside my building like a total stalker?”

His smile falters, a small frown creasing between his brows. “I’m not being a stalker. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

You roll your eyes. “Clark, it’s midtown, not Gotham.”

“I don’t care,” he says firmly. “I’d rather be sure.”

You watch him for a beat, tracing the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips—letting yourself wonder, just for a moment, what they might taste like. Then you shake your head, huff a soft half-laugh, and drop your gaze to your shoes.

There’s no point arguing with Clark when he gets like this—unyielding in his need to protect. You’re never sure if it’s Kryptonian instinct or just because it’s you, but either way, he’s immovable. If the weight of the world on his shoulders isn’t enough, he’s also decided that your safety his personal responsibility. And no matter how many times you tell him it isn't, he never listens.

So you continue walking in companionable silence—arms brushing now and then, trading sidelong glances, murmuring apologies as the sidewalk crowds around you. It isn’t long before you’re crossing the lobby of Clark’s apartment building, stepping into the lift, then waiting beside him while he fumbles with his keys.

When he finally gets the door open, he braces it with one arm and gestures for you to go first—as he always does. And, as always, you don’t bother arguing.

You step inside, drop your bag, and before you can even think about shrugging out of your coat, his hands are there. His fingers curl around the collar, gentle but certain, his body warm at your back as he eases the fabric from your shoulders. The heat of him surrounds you, his scent settling in your head until you almost forget to breathe. For a split second you nearly lean into it, nearly let yourself sink back against him—but then the coat is gone, and so is he.

You stand frozen, pulse stuttering, skin prickling, silently cursing Martha Kent for raising a man who could turn basic manners into pure torture.

“You okay?” Clark asks, voice low and much too close.

“Mhm,” you manage, clearing your throat before you force yourself a few steps further into the apartment.

You hear the rustle of his own jacket and the thunk of his satchel hitting the floor, but you still don’t turn around. You keep moving into the kitchen until your palms find the cool marble of the countertop, grounding yourself with the reminder that Clark is your best friend. Nothing more.

“Want me to cook tonight?” he asks, stepping in after you.

You glance up, brows raised. “So... pancakes?”

His eyes narrow, arms folding across his chest in that stupidly distracting way. “I can cook more than just pancakes.”

“Scrambled eggs, then?”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh. “I can cook more than just breakfast food.”

You shrug, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Alright, then.” He uncrosses his arms and starts rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll prove it. What’ve we got?”

You step aside as he rounds the kitchen island and pulls the fridge door open. He has to crouch down to see inside, which makes his slacks go taught over his ass and around his thighs—and God, it’s hard not to stare.

“What about... spaghetti bolognese?” he asks.

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes away from him. “Do we have any spaghetti?”

You turn toward the back cupboards and pull open the top one where you know Clark usually keeps dry goods. On the highest shelf, you spot a tall jar of spaghetti—so you stretch up onto your toes and reach for it. Your fingertips brush the glass, but the jar wobbles just out of reach.

“Here, let me,” Clark murmurs, suddenly behind you.

Before you can protest, he steps closer—closer than he ever should—trapping you against the counter. His chest presses firmly against your back, the breadth of him overwhelming, solid and hot and unmovable. The counter digs into your stomach as he leans in, arms reaching around you, chin brushing the crown of your head.

Every shift of his body makes your nerves spark. The heat of him, the faint scent of him flooding your senses, the unmistakable press of something half-hard against your ass—it’s enough to steal your breath. You swallow hard, pulse hammering, the edge of the counter biting into you with delicious insistence. You want to push back, to wriggle your hips, to turn around and do something reckless—but you don’t. You can’t.

Because Clark is just being Clark. Your best friend. A considerate man. Painfully oblivious to how easily he undoes you. Utterly blind to how intimate this is.

“Got it,” he says, tilting the jar down within your reach.

But you don’t move. You can’t. And he doesn’t either—still pressed against you, radiating warmth, crowding every inch of your body until the jar might as well not exist. You force your hand up, fingertips brushing the glass, but your body is wired too tight, heartbeat roaring in your ears.

“Thanks,” you manage, barely more than a breath—and finally, finally, he steps back.

You draw a sharp, shuddering breath, and set the jar on the counter. Then, with shaking hands, you grip the cool marble in another lame attempt to ground yourself before you fall apart.

“Is there any red wine you’re willing to sacrifice,” Clark asks, already rummaging through the fridge, “or do I need to run down to the store and get a cheap bottle?”

He’s completely unaffected. Totally oblivious. His focus fixed on tomatoes and herbs and not at all on the way he just pressed you into the counter like he owned you.

“Uh, yeah,” you mutter, stumbling back. “It’s fine, use anything.”

He pauses, glancing at you with a small, curious frown. “You okay?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yep. Yeah. I’m good. Just—uh, gonna go shower.”

You rush out of the kitchen and down the hall before he can respond, slamming the bathroom door shut and falling back against it. Your skin still tingles with his warmth, your pulse still racing as you let your head fall back against the wood with a soft thud.

You haven’t felt this wired around Clark since high school. Not since those early years when every smile felt like it might mean something more—before reality set in and you realised he’d never see you as anything more than a friend. A best friend. Which has always been enough. More than enough.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Because sure, he’s stupidly attractive. Sure, he’s so kind it borders on infuriating. And sure, there are nights when your brain takes a nosedive into fantasies you’ll never admit out loud—the kind where you’re on your knees for him, gagging and gasping until you’re wrecked. But that’s all they are—fantasies, sparked by the fact that he’s unfairly good-looking and one of the only decent men left on the planet. Which is hilarious, considering he isn’t even from this planet.

The truth is, you’re happy being his friend. You really are. You just wish he knew boundaries. That he wasn’t so close, so gentle, so thoughtful in ways that blur lines he doesn’t even notice he’s crossing. Because Clark Kent may be the sweetest man alive, but he is also painfully, dangerously oblivious.

And that is exactly why you need to find your own apartment. Immediately.

- Clark -

“Alright, what’s wrong?” Jimmy asks, leaning a hip against Clark’s desk.

Clark glances up. “Hm? Me?”

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Yes, you. You were moody all yesterday, and I figured Perry must’ve shredded your article. But considering that article is on the front page today and you’re still sulking, I’m thinking it’s something else.”

Clark frowns. “Oh—uh, nope. I’m fine. Just… don’t feel great.”

Jimmy arches a brow, his sharp green eyes seeing straight through the lie. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your super-hot best friend who’s been crashing on your couch, would it?”

Clark spins his chair to face him fully, frown deepening. “She’s not on the couch—she’s in the spare room.”

“Sure she is,” Steve quips as he strolls past, smirking.

Both Clark and Jimmy shoot him a glare before turning back to each other.

“Anyway,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “What’d she do?”

Clark exhales hard and leans back in his chair. “She got a job.”

Jimmy blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “That’s… a good thing? You said she’d been looking for ages.”

“At LuthorCorp,” Clark mutters.

“Ohhh.” Jimmy nods slowly. “She’s working for the evil Lex Luthor.”

“Jimmy!” Lois snaps, swivelling around in her chair. “You can’t say that—not here, at least. There might be whispers about Luthor, but there’s no solid proof. And as an ethical reporter, you stick to fact.”

“Come on, Lois,” Clark says. “He’s creepy. Everyone can see it.”

She folds her arms, giving him a flat stare. “He’s a billionaire with a private weapons company. That alone makes him look shady. But without real evidence, you can't call him evil.”

“Always the diplomat,” Jimmy sighs, shaking his head.

Lois rolls her eyes. “Look, Clark, not every shadow you see is a threat. LuthorCorp might have skeletons in the closet, but it’s still a powerhouse employer. For her, this isn’t danger—it’s opportunity.”

Clark wants to bite back. He wants to tell them that Luthor has it out for Superman—and that alone should be enough of a red flag. Because who hates someone who’s just trying to help people? Sure, Clark might be biased on the subject, but history shows the same pattern over and over. Wealth, obsession with control, and hatred of what gives others hope—that’s not just ambition. That’s dangerous. And Clark knows Lex Luthor is dangerous.

But he can’t exactly say that in the middle of the bullpen without raising a thousand questions. So, with a quiet exhale, he spins his chair back toward his computer screen.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I guess you’re right.”

“Look on the bright side,” Jimmy says. “Her having a job means she can find her own apartment.”

“How is that the bright side?” Cat asks, popping up beside him. “Isn’t he like... in love with her?”

Jimmy chuckles. “Well, yeah, but living with someone you’re in love with but not with would be torture.”

Clark glances back at them. “I don’t mind living with her. It’s... nice, actually.”

Jimmy raises a brow. “Really? Doing the whole domestic routine isn’t killing you?”

“We’re not doing a domestic routine,” Clark insists, swivelling his chair around again.

Jimmy scoffs. “Right. So you’re not cooking together every night? Not grocery shopping together? Not watching movies together on the couch?”

Clark winces. “Okay, yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Dude,” Jimmy says flatly, “you’re her stand-in boyfriend. That’s what this is.”

Clark’s shoulders stiffen. “No it isn’t.”

Jimmy doesn’t bother arguing—he just lifts both brows and stares.

“Okay, fine,” Clark mutters. “But it’s not exactly easy to get out of a friendzone you’ve been stuck in since high school.”

“Ooh.” Cat grimaces. “Since high school?”

Clark sighs, leaning into his chair and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I really don’t want to have this conversation at work.”

“So you’ve been flirting with her?” Jimmy presses, completely unbothered.

“Yes,” Clark sighs.

“How?”

Clark lowers his gaze, frowning. “How what?”

“How have you been flirting?”

He hesitates, frown deepening as he searches for examples—any examples. “I always tell her she looks nice,” he says, trying not to cringe at how lame it sounds. “And I make fresh coffee every morning. But... she gets up before me now, so that doesn’t really—”

“That’s just being considerate,” Jimmy cuts in, brows raised like he’s waiting for a real answer.

Clark clears his throat, straightening in his chair. “Sometimes I… uh… give her my jacket.”

“You mean... when she’s cold?” Jimmy asks, deadpan. “That’s called not being a jerk.”

“Yeah,” Cat mutters. “Groundbreaking romance there, Kent.”

Clark pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Well... whenever she’s stressed out or had a bad day, I pick up her favourite snacks.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “That’s what friends do, Clark.”

Cat giggles. “Yeah, I bought Jimmy a muffin last week after Perry yelled at him, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t trying to confess my undying love.”

Jimmy gasps, smacking a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Wow. And here I thought you were finally making your move.”

Cat just shakes her head, still laughing as she looks back at Clark. “Alright, Casanova. What other swoon-worthy moves have you got?”

Clark glances aside, mouth twisting in thought. “I—uh... I walked her home yesterday.”

“Congratulations.” Jimmy smirks. “You’re a golden retriever.”

“A very loyal one,” Cat adds, grinning.

Clark lets out a long exhale, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning back in his chair until it tilts with a soft creak. This is great. Just perfect. What better way to spend his Tuesday morning than humiliating himself in front of his coworkers, parading his pathetic excuses for flirting like they’re something worth bragging about.

Snacks. Coffee. Walking you home. That isn’t flirting. That’s just being decent. That’s being a good friend—or at least, that’s what it should mean. But in his case? He’s not sure he counts as a good friend at all. Not with all the things he hides. The things he does that cross the lines of friendship, and he doesn’t know how to stop.

Like the way he studies you when you’re not looking, as if memorising your body might keep him from losing his mind. The twitch of his hand whenever it brushes yours, fighting the urge to hold on, to pull you closer. And the nights—those are the worst—where he winds up with your name breaking from his lips, his hand moving to the thought of your mouth, your skin, your body.

That isn’t friendship, and it sure as hell isn’t flirting. It’s something else entirely—and Clark hates how badly he needs it.

“I’m terrible at this,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

“Oh, honey,” Cat sighs. “Not terrible, just—”

“Horrible?” Jimmy offers.

Cat shoots him a scowl. “No. I was going to say—”

“Awful?” Jimmy cuts in again.

“No,” Cat mutters through her teeth. “He’s just—”

“Appalling?” Jimmy says, unabashed.

Cat stomps her foot, glaring at him. “What are you, a thesaurus?!”

Clark drops his hand, giving them both a flat look. “Are you two done?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Look, all I’m saying is that you need to stop hiding behind the ‘nice guy’ stuff and actually say something.”

Clark frowns, shoulders tightening. “Like what?”

Jimmy leans in, lowering his voice like it’s a secret. “I don’t know, maybe try ‘I like you’? Or—here’s a wild thought—just ask her out.”

Cat crosses her arms with a smug grin. “See? Not rocket science.”

“Right,” Clark says, brows knitting tighter. “So you’re suggesting I risk over a decade of friendship by being totally direct?”

Jimmy tilts his head. “Either that, or keep up the world’s slowest flirting campaign hoping she’ll eventually notice. Which, let’s be honest, she won’t, because I’m not convinced you even know what flirting is.”

“Then eventually,” Cat cuts in, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, “she’ll meet some tall, confident guy who actually makes a move. Next thing you know, you’re stuck in the front row of their wedding, watching her marry someone that isn’t you while you quietly imagine being the one holding her hands.”

“Or worse,” Lois pipes up, spinning around in her chair, “you’ll be the maid of honour.”

Jimmy snorts, Cat giggles, and Clark shoots Lois a scowl.

“I appreciate the advice,” he says tightly, “but it’s really not that simple.”

“Come on, Clark,” Cat sighs. “Have a little confidence—you’re a great guy. And just because she hasn’t thought of you romantically before doesn’t mean she never will. Ask her out, and maybe she’ll realise she’s been into you this whole time too.”

Clark scoffs. “Yeah, I doubt that.”

“Just do what I do, Kent,” Steve says, stopping beside Clark’s desk with his World’s Best Grandma mug in hand. “Ask yourself: W-W-S-D.”

Every pair of eyes turns toward him, blinking. No one speaks.

Steve rolls his eyes like it’s obvious. “What would Superman do?”

Clark wants to laugh, but he can’t—so instead, he just shakes his head and swivels back to face his computer. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll keep that in mind,” he mutters.

“Please tell me that’s not actually your motto,” Jimmy says, staring at Steve in disbelief. “Because Superman is literally super and you’re—well, you’re not. There are a lot of things Superman would and could do that you absolutely should not be doing.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s metaphorical.”

Jimmy narrows his eyes. “So... metaphorically, what would Superman do?”

“Exactly,” Steve says.

Cat exhales hard. “Okay, I’m done.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy mutters. “I’m going back to work.”

Steve just shrugs again before turning back to his desk, and eventually the bullpen settles—the chatter fading into the usual clatter of keyboards and ringing phones. Clark keeps his eyes fixed on his screen, fingers moving fast even though he’s not entirely sure what he’s typing—or which article he’s supposed to be writing.

His mind is stuck on you, because of course it is. It always is. And now, thanks to Steve, he can’t stop circling back to that stupid question: what would Superman do? If he were only Superman—if he didn’t also have to be Clark Kent, the mild-mannered, bumbling journalist—would things be different? Would he be brave enough to tell you how he really feels? Would you look at him the way he’s dreamed about for years? Would you actually want him?

Surely not. Right? You already know he’s Superman, so if that was the thing that would win you over, you’d already be interested by now. Unless it’s Clark Kent that ruins it for you. Maybe the clumsy, glasses-wearing, small-town reporter is the part you can’t stomach. Maybe if he could shed that skin, if he was just Superman, you might actually see him differently.

The thought gnaws at him all day. He spends hours trying to remember the last guy you dated—any of them, really—as if lining himself up against the ghosts of your boyfriends will somehow give him answers. But the truth is, he can’t even recall their faces. Not properly, at least. It’s not that they didn’t exist—Clark knows they did, because he remembers the jealousy burning through him each time—but they were always short-lived, always forgettable. And if he’s being honest, you’d never really looked at them like you were in love. But still, it hadn’t stopped him from hating every second of it.

Then, when he’s not dredging up old jealousy, he’s tearing himself apart over the past few weeks. Every lame excuse for flirting. Every time he lingered too long. Every moment he thought maybe—just maybe—you were blushing for him, only to convince himself it was politeness, or embarrassment, anything but interest. And last night—God, last night—that reckless moment in the kitchen when he’d cornered you against the counter. Because some selfish, desperate part of him had needed to be close, had fed him the lie that it was innocent, that he was only being helpful.

But it hadn’t been innocent. Not even close. Because now, all he can think about is the way you’d felt against him—the press of your body, the heat of your skin—and every time the memory hits, it coils low in his stomach and makes his slacks feel uncomfortably tight.

And that’s when the fear kicks in. Because he knows this isn’t harmless anymore. It’s not sweet or shy or the safe kind of crush he’s been hiding behind for years. It’s sharper, darker, needier than he ever meant it to be. He catches himself imagining what it would be like to pin you there again, only this time not pulling away. To lean in until your back arched against the counter, until you had no choice but to feel everything he’s been holding back.

The thought terrifies him. Because Superman isn’t supposed to think like that. Superman isn’t supposed to want like that.

Clark squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, forcing his fingers to keep hammering at the keys, praying the noise of the bullpen will drown out the one thing he can’t escape—how badly he wants you, and how much harder it's getting to keep pretending it’s just friendship.

- You -

By your third week at LuthorCorp, everything is starting to feel a little less intimidating and a little more manageable. You’re no longer bugging Katie with questions every five minutes—even though she’s been nothing but patient—and you finally feel comfortable enough to wear your headphones throughout the day, drowning out the deafening silence of the office around you.

You’ve also got your swipe card on a retractable clip hooked to your pants now, which means no more embarrassing trips to security after forgetting it at your desk during lunch.

And the job itself? Almost too easy. You work independently, at your own pace, and you don’t go home thinking about it. There’s the occasional anomaly, but whenever something odd pops up, you just forward it to one of the senior analysts and move on. It couldn’t be a more perfect opportunity. One year in a role like this at a place like LuthorCorp, and the world is yours—metaphorically, at least.

Everything is looking up. You’ve even submitted applications for a couple of cozy studio apartments within walking distance from work. It’s almost as if moving to Metropolis wasn’t a huge mistake after all—just a little rough at first. But now that you’ve found your footing, everything is finally falling into place. Almost perfectly.

Almost.

Because then there’s Clark.

Clark, who stopped nagging you about your new job after the second day—and promptly started acting like the weirdest version of himself you’ve ever seen. And you’ve known Clark a long time. You’ve seen plenty of weirdness. But this? This is different.

At first, he was distant. He stopped hanging out with you after work, insisting he was too tired to watch a movie, or that he wasn’t in the mood to cook dinner together. He started working later, making up excuses about deadlines or Superman business that you knew were bullshit because there was nothing on the news. He still smiled though, still asked how your day was, but it was clipped—like he was rationing his words, careful not to give too much away. Careful not to let you think he cared.

But then came the chatter. It wasn’t his usual thoughtful questions or funny anecdotes from the newsroom, but a nervous stream of words that never seemed to go anywhere. He’d ramble about the weather, or about the burnt breakroom coffee, or about some article he wasn’t even sure was worth writing. His voice filled the space between you, too fast and too full, while all you could do was nod along and wonder if a person's moods could give you whiplash.

And now? Now he’s gone strange in a whole new way—he’s quiet, but not the good kind. He’s all spacey. Distracted. You caught him staring at you across the couch last night like he was a million miles away, only for him to blink and fumble an excuse about being tired. And just this morning, he forgot what he was saying mid-sentence, losing his train of thought halfway through asking you a question about your day.

It’s like there’s something pressing on him, something he isn’t telling you, and the more you notice it, the heavier it feels hanging between you—making it almost impossible for you to focus on anything else.

“And this is our newest recruit.” Dennis’ voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and you quickly shove your headphones off your ears, spinning around in your chair.

Your stomach drops the moment you see the man standing beside him.

“Dennis,” Lex Luthor says, his voice low and measured, a hint of menace hidden beneath the calm. “What have I told you about notifying me of new employees?”

His suit is perfectly pressed, his shoes so polished the overhead lights bounce off them, and there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth—like he knows something you don’t. His presence feels like a spotlight has swung onto your desk, making your gut twist with nausea.

Dennis blinks, flustered. “Uh… that HR handles orientation?”

Lex’s smile widens just a fraction. “No. I’ve told you—I insist on meeting them.” His gaze drops, then moves back up slowly, lingering just long enough to make you squirm. “I like to know the people who join my family.”

Dennis laughs nervously, clearly unsure if Lex is joking. “Right, of course. Uh, this is—”

“I know who she is,” Lex cuts in smoothly, extending a hand toward you. “I always make it my business to know.”

You rise quickly, taking his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr—”

“Call me Lex,” he says, leaning in ever so slightly. “And the pleasure... is all mine.”

A cold shiver zips down your spine. You pull your hand back and shove it into the pocket of your pants, masking your discomfort with an overly bright smile and a small, awkward laugh.

Lex studies you a moment longer—just looks at you. The discomfort grows as every second ticks by, and even Dennis looks bewildered by whatever the hell is happening. Seconds stretch until it feels like a full minute before Lex finally blinks, and if that alone isn’t a red flag, you don’t know what is.

“Well, then,” he says at last, clasping his hands together. “Unfortunately, I must keep moving.”

You nod once, forcing your mouth into a polite smile that feels far too tight on your face.

“Dennis.” Lex turns to him, brows raised. “Keep moving.”

“Oh—right, yes.” Dennis gives you a quick nod before turning toward the elevator. “This way, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s gaze lingers on you for just a beat longer before he follows. The second the doors slide shut behind them, you exhale hard, releasing a breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding. You drop back into your chair, hands gripping your knees as you try to breathe past the nausea clawing at the back of your throat.

You’ve never felt so uncomfortable by someone’s presence alone. There’s something deeply unsettling about Lex Luthor. Something you can’t trust. Something that makes you skin crawl. And for the first time, you’re starting to wonder if Clark might be right.

Which is exactly why you don’t tell him you met the billionaire CEO. Not even when he asks how your day was, or if anything exciting happened, or why you seem a little more tense than usual. You shrug it off with an excuse about being tired and take yourself off to bed early, hoping the rest of the week won’t be as unsettling as today.

But it only gets worse.

Because Lex makes a point of stopping by your desk every single day.

On Tuesday, he asks how you’re settling in—if you need anything, if your team is being supportive enough. On Wednesday, he asks if you’re comfortable where you’re sitting, if you’d prefer to be by a window, or if you’d like a bigger desk. On Thursday, he asks about your workload, how you’re managing, how you see yourself moving forward with the company.

You don’t have the guts to tell him you don’t plan on staying for long—especially not now that he seems to have made you his new pet project.

By Friday, the rest of the office has definitely noticed his interest. A few seem unfazed, others a little jealous, but only Katie bothers to ask if you’re okay. She says she’s noticed he can be a little odd sometimes. Apparently, his last girlfriend worked in the Information Technology department, and Lex would visit her every day before they officially started dating. But when they broke up, she just… disappeared.

“We didn’t really expect her to keep working here after they split,” Katie explains, perched on the edge of your desk, “but no one’s heard from her since. It’s been, like—” She cuts off, eyes darting toward the elevator. “Shit, here he comes.”

She slips off your desk, flashes you a tight smile, and hurries back to her own cubicle.

You hear him before you see him—his shoes clicking sharp against the polished concrete floor, each step making your pulse climb higher, tighter, until he stops right beside your desk.

You glance up, forcing a polite smile. “Good morning, Mr. Luthor.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but it isn't quite a smile. His gaze drags over you instead, slow and assessing, as if your posture alone might give you away.

“How many times must I ask you to call me Lex?”

Heat floods your face, betraying your unease as it coils low in your stomach.

“At least one more?” you offer, hoping he’ll take it lightly.

Relief flickers through you when the faintest smile touches his lips.

“Then please,” he says, stepping closer, lowering his voice, “call me Lex.”

You nod once, lips pressed tight, heart hammering against your ribs. You don’t even know why he unsettles you this much. He hasn’t touched you, hasn’t crossed a boundary outright, hasn’t asked anything you could point to as inappropriate. It’s just something in the way he watches you—steady, predatory, like you’re already marked. The next name on the list. The next girl to date him. The next girl to disappear.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” he asks, brows lifting.

You shift in your chair, buying a breath as you scramble for something—anything. “Just the usual,” you reply. “Chores, errands, hanging out with my roommate.”

Clark isn't technically your roommate—perhaps temporary roommate would be more accurate—but something instinctive makes you emphasise it. Something in your gut insists on letting Lex know you don’t live alone.

“Roommate?” he repeats, interest sharpening.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve known him since high school.”

His jaw ticks, and you don't miss it—satisfaction curling in your chest. You know Clark will protect you no matter what—you don’t need to drop his name like a shield. But it feels good to do it anyway. And you’d much rather attempt to deter Lex yourself than have to admit Clark was right all along.

“What about next weekend?” Lex asks.

“Much the same,” you reply quickly, wringing your hands in your lap.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “Surely your roommate won’t mind me stealing you for one night, then?”

Your stomach knots, twisting with nausea and panic and the sharp regret of not listening to Clark.

“One night?” you echo, your voice unsteady.

Lex nods. “The LuthorCorp gala.”

“Oh,” you mutter. “I—I thought lower-level employees weren’t—”

“I’m not inviting you as an employee,” he cuts in smoothly, voice dropping lower. “I’m inviting you as my date.”

You blink at him, stunned. “Date?”

“Mhm.” He nods again, smirk curling higher. “I'll take that as a yes.”

He slips his hands into his pockets and turns away, all purpose and pride, not a single shred of doubt in his stride. The elevator doors slide open as if on cue, and only once he’s inside does he glance back—smirk still etched into his face, cocky and unsettling, like he already knows he’s won.

You don’t move even once the doors slide shut. You don’t breathe. You can’t even think. You just sit there, sweaty palms pressed hard to your thighs, heart hammering, the taste of bile sharp at the back of your tongue.

You know you don’t have a choice. You should, but you don’t. And if you told anyone—if you told Katie or your mom, or God forbid, Clark—they might even insist that you do have a choice. They’d tell you to say no, to stand your ground, to quit your job and walk away. But deep down, you know better. You felt it in the way Lex spoke—there was no room for rejection. He didn’t even wait for your answer. He decided for you, and maybe that was always how this was going to go. Because Lex Luthor has chosen you. Chosen you to be the next girl. The next name. The next mystery disappearance. And you’re not sure you have much of a choice about that either.

The rest of the day is a blur of nausea and dread. You can’t shake the clammy sweat clinging to your skin, the knot twisting tighter and tighter in your gut. Every time the elevator pings, your pulse spikes, breath hitching in your throat as you brace for him to come back. You don’t put your headphones back on—you can’t, not with your nerves stretched this thin. You need to hear every sound, every step in the hall, every voice drifting over the cubicle walls.

You think about texting Clark more than once. Your phone burns like a weight in your pocket, and it would be so easy—just one message, and he’d come running. He’d drop everything. But you can’t do that. You can’t be that selfish, and besides… what would you even say? As far as Clark knows, you haven’t even met Lex Luthor. How are you supposed to explain that not only have you met him, but you’ve somehow ended up as his date to the illustrious LuthorCorp gala?

And honestly? You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want to see him worry, or worse—watch him freak out and do something reckless. And above all else, you don’t want to admit that he was right. Not just because you’re stubborn, but because the guilt is gnawing at you. You brushed him off, laughed at his warning, and now here you are—trapped in a situation that makes your skin crawl, a situation you might have avoided if you’d just fucking listened.

Lunch passes without you moving from your chair. You’re not hungry, not when your stomach is a roiling mess, and your limbs feel too shaky to trust. So you just sit. Sit and wait and watch the clock drag its way across the afternoon. Every tick feels louder than the last, every minute stretched into something unbearable.

By the time four p.m. finally rolls around, you’re so wound that up you almost jump when Katie’s voice cuts through the hum of the office. She calls a quick goodbye over her shoulder, casual and warm, while you just blink up at her, yanked sharply back into the present.

Clark is already home when you get there—in the kitchen cooking something that smells suspiciously like pancakes. You drop your bag, shed your coat, and walk slowly through the apartment with your eyes downcast, your mind still reeling from the day.

“Hey,” Clark says, followed by the gentle clatter of the spatula against the pan. “How was your day?”

When you glance up, he’s already watching you. Leaning back against the counter, arms folded across his chest, sleeves rolled to his forearms, top buttons undone like he doesn’t realise how good it looks. His glasses sit tucked into his breast pocket, glinting under the light, and his dark curls fall over his forehead in that maddeningly effortless way. There’s a half-smile tugging at his lips, dimples just barely creased—the kind of smile that feels like it’s meant only for you.

“Hi,” you murmur, heat rising to your cheeks—but this time it’s not from unease, it’s the dangerous effect Clark Kent always seems to have on you. “It was... okay.”

He lifts a brow. “Okay?”

You let out a heavy breath, shoulders sagging. “It was a bit weird.”

He takes a half-step toward you, brow furrowing. “Weird how? Are you—”

“I’m fine, Clark,” you cut in gently, leaning a hip against the island counter. “I just—” You stop yourself, guilt and nerves tangling in your chest as you weigh whether or not to tell him the truth.

“You don’t seem fine,” he says, shifting his shoulders

Maybe half the truth will work.

“I got asked out at work today,” you blurt, the words spilling out quickly.

His jaw tightens, subtle but unmistakable, and he shifts his stance—arms folding a little tighter across his chest. “That’s... interesting.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyes dropping to trace the patterns in the marble countertop. “I said yes—kind of—but I don’t really want to go.”

When you glance back up, his expression has darkened. You know that look. It’s the one he wears right before he does something wildly overprotective. The look that says he’d do anything to keep you safe.

“Why don’t you want to go?” he asks, his voice unusually light—not at all what you were expecting.

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, but it’s stiff, careful. “What’s the harm in going on a date? You said yes, so obviously part of you wanted to—”

“I didn’t technically say yes,” you cut in, frowning. “He didn’t really give me a chance to respond. He just... told me he was taking my silence as a yes.”

Clark’s nostrils flare, betraying the calm mask he’s forcing into place. “He didn’t let you respond?”

You shake your head. “No. He was very... firm.”

Clark stills, and for a moment you’re not even sure he’s breathing. His shoulders are tight, his hands fisted where they’re tucked under his arms, but his face is composed—annoyingly calm. Too calm. Almost like he’s holding back on purpose. Like he doesn’t want you to see what this conversation is actually doing to him.

Which is strange, because Clark has never hesitated to be protective before. You’re used to it—it’s part of who he is. But now? Right now, when it matters? This is the moment he chooses to smother it down. To let you dangle in uncertainty. To act like going on a date you never wanted isn’t reckless. And he doesn’t even know who the date is with.

He clears his throat, turning stiffly back to the stove and picking up the spatula. “Why don’t you just tell him you’re not interested?”

You hesitate, rolling your lips as you search for a way to answer without giving away the whole truth. “That might not end very well.”

The muscles in his back twitch beneath his shirt, but he doesn’t turn around. “Why not?”

“Well,” you murmur, “he’s kind of like... my boss.”

That gets him—and he whips back around, brows shooting up. “Your boss?”

“Kind of,” you say again—because technically, Lex isn’t your direct manager.

“So this guy is abusing his position to pressure you into a date?”

You shrug sheepishly. “I guess you could say that.”

Clark frowns, jaw working as if he's biting back the words he really wants to say. “Then go to HR.”

You roll your eyes. “And tell them what, exactly? That my boss asked me on a date and didn’t give me a chance to say no? They’ll just tell me what you told me—to tell him I’m not interested. Or they’ll make a bigger deal about it, and you think that’ll go well?”

His eyes flash. “It’s harassment.”

“It’s complicated,” you counter, brows drawn stubbornly.

Clark studies you for a moment, head tilting slightly, like he’s trying to piece together the parts you’re not tell him. His gaze lingers so long it makes your skin prickle, and you’re not sure if you want him to push harder or to back off.

“Complicated,” he repeats, voice low. “That doesn’t sound like you. Usually you tell me everything.”

Guilt twists sharp in your chest, because yeah—usually you do tell him everything. But it’s not like he’s been a shining example of honesty these past few weeks either. He’s been weird and distant and overcompensating for something he clearly isn’t telling you.

Your chin tips up before you can stop yourself. “Don’t you usually tell me everything too?”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Clark,” you sigh, frustration creeping into your tone—born of nerves and guilt and the way he’s looking at you right now, like he’s already halfway to seeing through you. “You’ve been all weird the past few weeks. Acting distant, then suddenly switching it up like you’re trying to give me emotional whiplash. It’s almost like you’re keeping something from me. So why don’t you explain that?”

His lips part, then close again. For a moment, he looks caught off guard—like you’ve hit too close to something he wasn’t prepared to defend.

You step closer without meaning to, heat rising in your chest. “You don’t get to stand there acting like I’m the one holding back when that’s all you’ve been doing for weeks now.”

His jaw tightens, and the air between you sharpens. He leans forward just slightly, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. “It’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

Your heart hammers in your throat, but you don’t back down. You stare at him, unblinking, right at those impossibly blue eyes that haunt your dreams and fill your filthiest fantasies. He’s so much taller, so much broader, and the kitchen suddenly feels far too small for all the tension building hot and heavy between you.

His gaze drops—just for a second—to your mouth. And then he shifts closer, the distance between you narrowing to a single heartbeat.

Your breath catches. Your pulse hums. You should step back, say something, shatter this moment before something happens that neither of you are ready for. But your body doesn’t listen. Instead, it leans in—like Clark is the sun and you’re helpless in his orbit.

His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, and your skin sparks with anticipation. You can almost swear he’s about to close the distance, to finally give in.

But then—

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The smoke alarm blares through the apartment, yanking you both back to reality. Clark straightens abruptly, clearing his throat as he turns to the stove where something is hissing dangerously in the pan. You stumble back a step, chest tight, dragging in a shaky breath as if you’d just been ripped from a dream too good to be true.

“I’m—um—” You swallow hard, willing your voice to steady. “I’m gonna shower.”

Then you turn sharply and hurry out of the kitchen, down the hall to the bathroom. The door slams shut behind you and you fall back against it, lungs heaving like you’ve just run a marathon. You let your head thump against the wood, and a quiet, humourless laugh slips past your lips. It’s déjà vu. Just like that night a few weeks ago—when you’d done this exact same thing. Run to the bathroom, pressed yourself against the door, and berated yourself for the thoughts you couldn’t control. Thoughts you had no business having about your best friend.

Because Clark has always been nice. Too kind, too thoughtful, too protective. And at first, back in high school, it was so easy to mistake that for something else. The way he carried your books without asking, walked you home every day, noticed when you changed your hair or wore a new perfume. The way he cheered you on like you were the only person in the world who mattered. You thought maybe it meant that he felt what you felt. But of course, he was just Clark—good, polite Clark Kent who sees the best in everyone and just wants to help. You convinced yourself he could never see you as more than a friend—you had to—and shoved it all down. You dated other people, lived your life, told yourself you were fine with just being friends. Best friends. And when he left for Metropolis, you decided it was for the best.

Except now you’re here. And now you don’t know what to think.

Because Clark is still kind, still thoughtful, still protective. But it feels different. It feels heavier. Hotter. Like there’s something behind it all that he’s not saying. And when he gets close—so close you can feel his warmth, smell the clean, addictive scent of him—it doesn’t feel like friendship at all. It feels dangerous. Like standing on the edge of something you’ve spent years convincing yourself wasn’t real.

Your stomach flips violently, and you bury your face in your hands with a groan.

You thought moving to Metropolis would be simple. Fun. You’d get a good job, live your best life, and be close to your best friend again. You didn’t expect it to be easy, but you definitely didn’t expect to be coerced into dating a billionaire CEO while simultaneously wondering if Clark Kent—your Clark Kent—wants you as more than a friend.

Surely not.

Right?

You exhale hard, fighting the urge to scream. You just need to stop overthinking. Or maybe stop thinking at all. Because Clark isn’t the problem right now.

The problem is figuring out how the hell you’re going to get out of your date with Lex Luthor.

-

The rest of the weekend is… strange. Whatever suspicions you had about Clark’s feelings die fast on Friday night, when he eats burnt pancakes alone in the kitchen before heading straight to bed—without so much as a mumbled goodnight.

By the time you drag yourself out of bed on Saturday morning, he’s already gone. Suit on, symbol bright, off to save some squirrels… or maybe the people trapped in the burning apartment building down near Bakerline, which you only know about from the morning news.

He doesn’t come home after that. You assume he went straight to his fortress to sunbake and argue with robots—because apparently their company is preferable to yours.

You don’t see him again until Saturday night—when you step out of the bathroom after a particularly steamy shower and nearly jump at the sight of him on the couch, still in his suit. It always makes you want to laugh when you see Superman in such a mundane setting—but Clark doesn’t even give you a proper look before standing, brushing past you, and slamming the bathroom door.

That pisses you off. So you spend the next half an hour pacing the kitchen, rehearsing every version of the confrontation you’re going to have. But when you finally hear his bedroom door creak open and you march into the living room, ready to let him have it, the TV steals your attention.

The nightly news. A segment about LuthorCorp’s upcoming gala.

And just like that, every carefully practiced word dies hot on your tongue.

So you sit instead, stiff and silent. The rest of the night crawls by in awkward fragments of conversation until you both give up and head to bed early.

Sunday passes in much the same way—hollow, stilted, nothing fixed.

By Monday morning, you’re more nerves than human. You can’t even decide what to obsess over first—whatever’s happening between you and Clark, or your fast-approaching date with Lex Luthor.

“You look terrible,” Katie says, leaning against the partition of your cubicle.

You give her a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Did you sleep at all over the weekend?”

“I tried,” you mutter, turning your gaze back to your screen.

Silence settles for a beat, but Katie doesn’t budge—you can feel her stare pressing harder with every passing second.

You look back at her, brows raised. “Yes, Katie?”

Her eyes brighten instantly. “You’re Mr. Luthor’s date to the gala, aren’t you?”

Your stomach drops. “How do you know that?”

“Apparently Dennis overheard Mr. Luthor telling one of his assistants, Erin, to add another seat with your name at the main table. Then Dennis told Jim, who told Cathie, who told Renee—who I overheard telling Tanner in the breakroom,” she explains in a single breath.

You drop your elbows on your desk and press your face into your hands, like you can somehow hide there. “Oh my God, what have I done?”

Katie hesitates, then leans in a little. “So... I’m guessing you’re not overly excited about it?”

“No,” you mumble through your palms. “I didn’t have a choice.”

She snorts, but there’s no humour in it. “Sounds about right. It was the same with Izzy—once he decided he wanted her, that was it. And when he was done, she just—”

“Disappeared,” you cut in, dropping your hands. “Yeah, I know. I don’t need the reminder. But if you’ve got any tips for getting me out of this mess, I’d love to hear them.”

Katie grimaces. “I wish I did... but it’s not like you can just go to HR.”

You blow out a sharp breath. “There has to be something. Some government agency, someone who can actually do something.”

“You want to sue Lex Luthor?” Katie asks, lowering her voice, brows arching. “Yeah, that’ll end well.”

You spin your chair to face her fully. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

She shrugs. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose—wishing you could go back in time, listen to Clark, and never have taken this stupid job. You should’ve just said yes to his offer at the Daily Planet. Slinging coffee for over-caffeinated journalists sounds pretty good right about now.

“Unless you happen to know Superman,” Katie says with a laugh. “He’s probably the only one who could get you out of this mess.”

Your pulse jumps, stomach flipping with nausea that crawls up your throat—but you swallow it down, forcing an awkward laugh as you swivel back to your screen.

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Superman. Right. Like he doesn’t have bigger things to worry about.”

Katie tilts her head. “You never know. He seems to like protecting the little guys.”

You frown. “And I’m the little guy?”

“In this situation?” she says, brows lifting. “Yeah. You are. Lex Luthor has you under his thumb. If I were you, I’d be out on the street looking for trouble, hoping for a glimpse of red and—” She cuts herself off, eyes flicking toward the elevator. “Shit. Speak of the devil.”

She doesn’t even bother to smile this time—she just shoots you a look twisted with pity before hurrying back to her desk, leaving you alone with the sharp click of Lex Luthor’s polished shoes drawing closer.

“Good afternoon.”

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen—twelve p.m. exactly.

You turn to him with a tight smile. “Afternoon, Lex.”

“I won’t be around much this week,” he says, matter-of-fact, as if you’re owed an explanation for his absence. “There are things I need to arrange before the weekend.”

You nod, unsure what else to do.

“I’ll text you the details Friday night. Wear something elegant—there’ll be cameras.”

It’s not a request. It’s a directive. Delivered with that slight smirk that makes your stomach twist.

You nod again, swallowing hard. “Can’t wait.”

It doesn’t sound genuine, but apparently it’s enough. His smirk tilts a little higher, he gives you a single nod, and then he’s gone—his polished shoes clicking toward the elevator. The office stirs with murmurs—the most noise you’ve heard since you started—but all you can hear is your pulse. Like a war drum, pounding in your ears. A rhythm of warning.

Your chest tightens, lungs aching, head spinning. You need air. Space. Time to figure out how you’re supposed to explain to Clark just how monumental a mess you’ve made.

You sit at your desk for a few minutes, trying to breathe through the nausea. The whispers around you grow louder, murmurs rising into full-volume conversation, but you can’t make sense of any of it. You’re too focused on keeping your breakfast down and yourself upright.

Eventually, you can’t stand it anymore. You slip on your headphones, grab your jacket, and head for the elevator. Once you step inside, you start scrolling for a song, glancing up just before the doors slide shut to catch sight of the office—half your coworkers are standing by the tall windows, their faces a mix of shock and amusement.

You frown, curious, but don’t lift a hand to stop the doors from closing. Whatever’s got their attention—a car accident, a street performer, maybe even a tourist from Gotham—it’s not enough to keep you from your walk.

By the time you reach the lobby, your music is queued and the volume is up. You nod at the security desk as you pass, then step out onto the street, glancing quickly both ways. You can’t see anything out of place—there’s no flipped car on fire or Arkham escapee running rampant. It is oddly quiet. Almost suspiciously quiet. But without any immediate danger, you remain undeterred. You need coffee and fresh air, and then maybe you’ll be able to figure out how to tell Clark everything you’ve been keeping to yourself.

He’s going to be mad, no doubt. But you can deal with angry Clark. Angry Clark is easy. It’s the disappointed, I-told-you-so kind of Clark Kent that you can’t stand. Not only because you hate being wrong, but because it always pulls him closer. Too close. Close enough that you can feel his eyes on you, hear that soft edge in his voice, close enough that it makes it impossible to forget what you’ve been trying to bury for years.

And that’s the problem. You can’t be that close to him. Not when you’re just friends. Not when every brush of his hand, every look that lingers a second too long makes your chest ache with wanting more than you’re allowed to have.

But he doesn’t make it easy. He never has. Not when he gets all stiff and stuffy about your dates, or when he insists on patching you up every time you trip over your own two feet—hovering in so close you can feel his breath while he presses an ice pack to your skin. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You know that. He’s just Clark—good, dependable Clark. But God, it feels like more. It feels dangerous.

Clark Kent is dangerous—to your health, your heart, your goddamn head.

Because what right does he have to be angry with you, anyway? What right does he have after that almost kiss—a kiss he leaned into just as much as you did—to be angry?

At least… you think he’s angry. You don’t actually know. You haven’t said more than a few clipped words to each other since Friday night. Since he got annoyed at you for holding things back. Since he got defensive when you pointed out how weird he’s been. Since he leaned in, gaze dropping to your lips, and almost—

The world lurches, and suddenly you’re not on the ground anymore. The pavement drops away beneath your feet and before you can even think to panic, you’re in the air.

You don’t need to open your eyes to know who it is—the scent, the warmth, the sheer unshakable solidity of him. It’s Clark. Superman. Both, really.

Your breath hitches and your arms curl tighter around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. His hold shifts, steady and secure, one arm strong beneath your knees and the other locked at your back, pulling you closer. It should feel terrifying—the wind rushing, the city spinning smaller and smaller below you—but all you can focus on is him. The warmth of him. The way his body feels against yours. The subtle squeeze of his arms when you cling tighter.

Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might shake you apart, but not from fear. From this. From him. From the fact that you’ve barely spoken in weeks and suddenly you’re here, wrapped around him like he belongs to you. Like you’ve been starving and only just realised what for.

And maybe that’s the scariest part—not the sky, not the impossible height—but the way your chest aches with the truth you’ve been too afraid to admit. That you don’t just miss him. You need him.

Your feet find solid ground before you’re ready, and it takes you a second too long to loosen your grip. But when you finally stumble back, breathless, he doesn’t let go completely. His hand stays warm at your waist, thumb brushing your ribs—and you know it’s only meant to steady you, but right now, it feels like so much more.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, eyes searching yours.

You blink fast, glancing around the tight alleyway you’re now standing in. There are still people moving—running, actually—out on the street, so you know you can’t risk being too familiar.

“I—I’m on my lunch break, Superman,” you say, taking another unsteady step back. “What are you doing?”

He stares at you, eyes wide. “I’m… saving people. What does it look like?”

You frown. “From what?”

“Really?” he snaps, one arm gesturing wide with exasperation.

You glance toward the street, spotting a few panicked civilians rushing past—but nothing else. Your frown deepens, head tipping curiously, until Clark crooks a finger beneath your chin and tilts it up.

The sight makes your breath catch—dozens of mechanical insect-looking-things sweeping across the sky, metal bodies glinting, eyes glowing red. Their stingers look like spears, and their open jaws spark with beams of light as they chase fleeing pedestrians below.

“Oh shit,” you mutter. “What are those?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” His eyes narrow at the swarm before cutting back to you. “Why would you even leave your building?”

You scratch the back of your neck, glancing aside. “I—uh, I didn’t see them.”

“Didn’t see them?” he echoes, tone sharp. “You didn’t notice the one flying straight at you?”

You shrug, sheepish. “I was just… walking. Listening to music.”

He exhales hard, tipping his head back and dragging a hand down his face. “How many times do I have to tell you—” he cuts himself short, eyes darting toward the street. “—tell the citizens of Metropolis to be careful.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, Superman. I’m fine.”

He gives you a flat look. “You’re not fine. You’re reckless.”

You bite back a smile. “And you’re a little overdramatic.”

A flash of green streaks overhead, and you glance up just in time to see two members of the Justice Gang cutting across the sky.

“Looks like you’ve got backup,” you say.

Clark looks up, his mouth parting to reply—but then he freezes. His expression hardens, eyes narrowing at something way above your head.

You whip around. “What is it?”

“One of the insect-things,” he says quietly. “It’s hovering.”

You feel him step in close behind you, his body pressing against your back as one arm slowly winds around your waist. The warmth of him seeps through your jacket, your pulse stuttering at the contact. You lean back without thinking, letting him hold you, giving in to the want that flares in your chest.

“Why isn’t it attacking us?” you whisper.

His arm tightens, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “But I’m getting you back to work.”

Before you can protest, he spins you around. Your hands land on his chest and for one stolen moment you catch a glimpse of that soft Clark Kent smile—before the ground disappears beneath you all over again.

- Clark -

Clark dreams about you that night, which isn’t unusual. What is unusual is the dream itself.

He dreams about flying with you—holding you close, your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging like he’s the only thing tethering you to this world as the city disappears below.

He dreams it again the next night. And the next. For three nights in a row, he dreams of you in his arms, cutting through the sky above Metropolis.

But the fourth night is a little different. On the fourth night, lying in bed, Clark can’t stop thinking about how you’d looked sitting on his couch wearing one of his old shirts, smiling faintly at a movie he wasn’t paying any attention to. He couldn’t. Because all he could see was you—perfect and impossibly close, but still untouchable.

And the image of you presses so hard into his mind he can’t sleep. He can’t think of anything but you—your scent, the shape your lips make when you say his name, the memory of your body pressed warm against his chest.

Eventually he gives in. His hand slips beneath the waistband of his sleep shorts, wrapping around himself—already hard and aching from nothing but the thought of you—and he strokes himself until he’s shuddering. Until he’s coming quietly beneath the covers, muffling his moans against his arm, shame burning through his chest because you’re just one thin wall away. Oblivious. Probably sleeping.

And that night he doesn’t just dream of flying with you. He dreams of having you. Really having you. In his bed. On the couch. Bent over the kitchen counter. And—God help him—even in the sky. The risk, the rush, the idea of giving you something no one else ever could.

The dream jerks him awake, heart pounding, skin hot, cock straining against his shorts. And he knows he can’t face you that morning, so he stays in bed, breathing through the want clawing at his chest, refusing to touch himself the way he had the night before.

He listens to you get ready for work, every sound a reminder of how close you are, how much he wants you. And all the while he curses himself—not just for being weak, not just for wanting you—but for betraying the one thing he’s supposed to be. Your friend.

Because Clark knows something has shifted. That something between you is different now, and it’s his fault. He knows it. He just doesn’t know how to fix it—or if it even can be fixed. Because lately, every word, every glance feels loaded, like he’s standing on a wire stretched too thin.

And ever since he opened his big mouth at work and let Jimmy get in his head—let all of them get in his head—he hasn’t known how to act around you. He doesn’t know if he should pull closer or step back, doesn’t know what’s safe anymore. Which is probably why you’ve been keeping things from him. Why you’ve got a date this weekend and he can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Hey.”

Clark almost startles at the sound of your voice. He hasn’t seen you since he got home—he heard the shower running and decided to busy himself in the kitchen after rummaging through the fridge for something for dinner.

Still standing at the stove, he glances over his shoulder. “Hey, are you—” The words die in his throat, breath catching.

You’re wearing the same shirt—his shirt—as last night. It drowns you, hem brushing your thighs and covering the tiny shorts he knows are hidden beneath. The only difference? Tonight you’ve got long white socks pulled up over your knees. And God, Clark is trying to be respectful—he really is. He was raised to be good, polite, proper. But the sight of you in those socks is only making him wonder what they’d look like draped over his shoulders while he—

“Am I what?” you ask, brows raised.

Clark clears his throat, dragging his eyes away from your legs. “Are—um, are you hungry?”

You lift one shoulder. “A little. What’re you making?”

He looks down at the pan on the stove. Right, dinner. Food. Chicken… maybe? He can’t remember. All he can think about is the way you look right now, standing just a few feet away from him.

“Um, chicken… something,” he mutters, keeping his head down.

You step closer—he can feel it—but he doesn’t turn around.

“Chicken something?” you echo.

He doesn’t reply—he just frowns at whatever’s sizzling in front of him, resisting the urge to turn around and do something he can’t take back. He hears you shuffle, open the fridge, pop open a can, then set it quietly on the counter. You don’t retreat to the living room. You stay. Waiting. And it shouldn’t feel this tense, the air shouldn’t be this thick. It’s just you and him—it’s always been you and him—but now there’s something else.

“So,” Clark says at last, keeping his voice level, casual. “Still going on that date this weekend?”

You hesitate—and even though he refuses to turn around, he can practically see the way you’re worrying at your bottom lip.

“Yeah,” you reply softly. “Still going.”

Clark’s stomach knots, jealousy twisting tight in his gut. “Thought you didn’t like the guy.”

“I don’t,” you blurt. “I mean, I don’t think I do, but—”

“It’s complicated?” Clark offers, finally turning around.

You give him a flat look—but it’s not quite like the usual deadpan stare you pull when you’re annoyed. This one’s different. Guarded. Layered. Like you’re trying to cover up something that’s getting harder and harder to hide.

Clark doesn’t press, though. He opens a cupboard and pulls out two plates, serving up the grilled chicken and stir-fried vegetables he’d so easily forgotten about earlier—thanks to your damn socks. Then he slides one plate toward you and grabs two forks and two knives from the top drawer beside the sink.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “Smells good.”

He nods, smiling softly, wishing he knew how to break whatever awkward curse has suddenly fallen upon you both. Maybe it’s because you’re holding something back from each other, for the first time in years. Maybe it’s because he’s crossed too many lines, let too much of what he truly feels bleed through. Or maybe it’s worse—maybe your feelings have changed entirely. Maybe you don’t want to be this close anymore. Maybe every little thing that used to feel easy between you is starting to feel too heavy. Too much. And it’s all his fault.

“Hey Clark,” you say softly, eyes fixed on your dinner. “Can I ask you something?”

Clark tilts his head, brow furrowing just slightly. “Of course.”

You roll your lips and stab a piece of broccoli, obviously buying time by pushing the food around on your plate. “On Saturday night,” you mutter, gaze still downcast, “if I call you, or—or text you, will you—”

“Yes,” he cuts in, voice firm. “I’ll be there. Whatever you need, I’m there.”

When you glance up, your gaze softens, eyes wide with a quiet ache that Clark can’t quite place. Your mouth pulls down just slightly at the corners, and his heart stutters. It’s that look. The one you wear when you can’t quite find the right words to say. The one that could make him say, do, be anything you needed him to.

“And,” you whisper, voice low and unsure, “you won’t be angry?”

He rears back a little, brows drawing tight. “Angry? Why would I be angry?”

You shift your weight, still stabbing at the food on your plate without yet eating anything. For a second, it looks like you’re about to say something—your lips part, breath hitching—but then you press your mouth shut and shake your head.

“It’s nothing,” you say instead, lifting your fork halfway to your lips. “Just… I don’t want you to be mad if—”

“I won’t be mad.” He leans forward, palm pressed flat against the counter. “I promise. Whatever it is, whatever you need me for—I won’t be angry.”

You nod, but you don’t seem convinced. Your shoulders are still tight, your eyes looking anywhere but at Clark, and you’re gripping your fork so tight your knuckles are white.

He doesn’t know what else he could say to make you believe him. All he knows is that there’s nothing you could do that would ever make him angry. Even when you’re reckless, even when you throw yourself into danger, he’s not mad—he’s scared. Worried. Protective. And maybe he doesn’t have much of a right to that last one, but he can’t help it. He’s always been protective of you, and he knows that won’t ever change.

Dinner passes in relative silence, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery or the occasional muttered word that feels heavier than it should. When you’re both finished, you offer to wash up, but Clark waves you off and tells you to go queue up a movie.

At the sink, he scrubs a little harder than necessary, accidentally cracking one of the plates with the pressure of his grip. He sighs, frustrated, but doesn’t stop. He can’t. Because his chest feels too tight, his pulse is rushing in his ears, and his throat is thick with all the questions he’s biting back. Like... who’s the guy? Why are you so worried? It’s not like you haven’t gone on dates before—dates you weren’t excited about, dates you later laughed about with Clark. But this? This is different. It’s written all over you, in every nervous glance, every deflection. And it’s killing him not to know why. Killing him that you can’t just tell him. Killing him that you can’t—or won’t—just cancel it.

You only make it through half the movie before heading to bed, claiming you need to be up early for work. Clark follows a few minutes later, but sleep doesn’t come easy. He tosses and turns almost all night, listening through the wall for the steady cadence of your breathing, the rhythm of your heart—like the creep he is.

By the time the sunlight cuts through his curtains, he’s pretty sure he’s had no more than two hours of sleep. Total. Then just like yesterday, he listens to you get ready and leave for work before finally dragging himself out of bed. He goes through the motions—shower, coffee, breakfast, the whole dull routine—barely conscious of anything until he’s stepping out of the elevator onto the top floor of the Daily Planet.

“Hello sunshine,” Jimmy beams, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on his desk. “Don’t you look chipper this fine Friday morning.”

Clark shoots him a look—half scowl, half warning.

Jimmy drops his feet and leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Yikes. What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“I think you mean who,” Lois says, spinning around with a smirk. “And my money’s on the super-hot best friend who’s still crashing on his couch.”

Clark drops into his chair and powers up his computer, keeping his back to them. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Jimmy chuckles. “Come on, man. We’re here for you. Whatever it is—”

“She’s got a date,” Clark blurts, swivelling to face them. “Tomorrow night.”

Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Oh.”

“Ouch,” Lois mutters.

Cat pops up at her desk, eyes wide. “Oh, Clark. Honey, I’m so sorry.”

Clark shrugs, trying to feign nonchalance even though his shoulders are locked tight. “It’s fine. Really. I’m not upset.”

Lois snorts. “Really? That’s your ‘I’m totally fine’ face?”

“Who’s the guy?” Jimmy asks, blunt as ever.

“Don’t know,” Clark mutters. “She didn’t say.”

Cat steps forward, hands on her hips, brows drawn. “Wait—like, you didn’t ask, or she refused to tell you?”

Clark turns back to his desk, pretending to busy himself with the stack of papers there. “Well, I didn’t exactly ask, but she said it was… complicated.”

“Complicated?” Jimmy echoes, scooting forward in his chair. “Complicated, how?”

Clark gives him a flat look. “If I knew, I probably wouldn’t be this annoyed about it.”

“So you are upset?” Lois asks, one brow arched, smirk still firmly in place.

“Not upset.” Clark frowns, turning toward her. “Just… uncomfortable.”

Lois tilts her head. “Right. So you’re uncomfortable about her going on a date—not because you’re jealous—but because you don’t know who the guy is or why she’s calling it complicated?”

Clark nods. “Exactly.”

“Why would she need to tell you who it is?” Cat cuts in. “I mean, unless it’s someone she knows you wouldn’t approve of. But even then, it’s not like she needs your approval.”

“She doesn’t,” Clark says quickly. “I just—” He shifts awkwardly in his chair. “I just want to know what’s complicated about it. Because honestly, she didn’t really seem like she even wanted to go.”

Cat frowns. “Wait, so she’s being... forced into it?”

“I don’t know,” Clark sighs, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. “Maybe. All she said was that the guy’s kind of like her boss, and she can’t go to HR because it wouldn’t end well.”

“That sounds like harassment,” Lois mutters.

Jimmy nods. “Yeah, that’s messed up.”

“I know.” Clark pushes his glasses higher on his nose. “But she doesn’t want my help, so I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t do anything,” Cat says, arms folded. “You just be her friend. Be there when she needs you. She’ll ask for help if it comes to that.”

“Exactly,” Lois adds. “And if she calls you Saturday night, you go. No matter what.”

Jimmy frowns. “But Saturday night is—”

“That doesn’t matter,” Cat cuts in, shooting him a look.

“Yeah,” Clark mutters, turning back to his computer screen. “Be her friend.”

The edge in his voice lingers even as silence settles over the bullpen, the usual sounds of the newsroom swelling to fill the space. Cat’s heels click as she returns to her desk, Lois spins back around, and Jimmy lets out a long sigh.

He rolls his chair further forward, dropping his voice low. “Hey, man—you never know. If you’re her knight in shining armour on Saturday night, she might—I don’t know—start seeing you differently.”

Clark huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“You just gotta ask yourself,” Jimmy adds, his grin audible. “What would Superman do?”

Clark throws an unamused look over his shoulder, even though the corner of his mouth betrays him with the slightest twitch. Jimmy just winks, chuckling quietly, and scoots back to his desk.

Clark knows he’s only making fun of what Steve said the other week—that dumb phrase that somehow stuck. That somehow became a running joke in the bullpen, tossed around whenever someone says they're unsure or confused.

Except when Steve says it. Steve really means it when he says it.

But little do they all know just how much those words have come to haunt Clark. Because every time he sees you—every time he thinks about all the almosts that hang unspoken between you—that question echoes through his mind, relentless. What would Superman do?

Would he have kissed you that night in the kitchen, when you looked at him like he was the only person that mattered? Would he tell you not to go on that date, stop you before you slipped further away? Would he cut through all the fear and excuses, and finally say the one truth Clark has always been too scared to confess?

He hates to admit it, but the cape gives him courage. The suit, the symbol, the very idea of Superman—it makes him feel larger than himself. And when he’s flying above the city, wind roaring in his ears and adrenaline like lightning his veins, he feels unstoppable. He is unstoppable. Almost. Until it comes to you.

Because you can undo him with a smile. With a laugh that tangles in his chest. With the way you say his name, soft and sure, like it was always meant to live on your tongue.

And the worst part—the scariest part?

Not even Superman is invulnerable to you.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur of word counts, lukewarm coffee, and Jimmy’s occasional attempts at banter. Clark keeps his head down, pretending to be focused, but he just can’t stop his thoughts from drifting. To you. What you’re doing. Who you’re with. Whether, by some miracle, you’re thinking of him too. He knows it’s doubtful—but a man can dream.

By the time four o’clock rolls around, he’s more than ready to leave. He doesn’t even care that he’s the first in the bullpen to pack up. It’s Friday, and it’s not like staying back would mean getting any real work done. He hasn’t gotten much done all day. All week, if he’s being honest.

“You clocking off already?” Jimmy asks, leaning back in his chair.

Clark nods, draping his jacket over his arm. “Yeah. I don’t have anything due, so I figured I’d get out early.”

“Lucky you,” Lois mutters dryly, not even glancing over her shoulder.

Jimmy chuckles. “Sucks being the boss’ favourite, doesn’t it, Lane?”

She snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jimmy’s grin falters, and Cat giggles from the other side of the partition.

“Do you see how mean she is to me?” Jimmy says to Clark, gesturing toward Lois’ desk.

Clark shrugs. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Jimmy frowns, indignant, but Clark just smiles and slings his bag over his shoulder.

“See you tomorrow.”

Cat’s head pops up over the partition. “You still wanted to rideshare, right?”

“Of course.” Clark tucks his chair under his desk. “Just text me when you’ve left Jimmy’s.”

Lois scoffs. “We’re going to text you well before that. You’re not making us late, Kent.”

Clark rolls his eyes. “I won’t be late. Promise.”

She doesn’t reply—she just shakes her head and lifts a hand in a lazy wave, eyes still glued to her screen. Jimmy smiles, nods once, and wheels back toward his desk, while Cat grins before dropping back down behind the partition.

Clark takes his time heading home, in no rush since he already knows you won’t be there. You’d texted earlier to say you were going shopping after work, looking for something to wear on your date tomorrow night. He’s pretty sure you’d mentioned it earlier in the week too, but he’s been working hard at repressing everything you tell him about this stupid date.

At least he won’t be stuck at home alone tomorrow night, worrying about you. Resisting the urge to fly out and find you, just to make sure you’re safe. Not that he actually wants to be working on a Saturday night, but at least it’ll be a distraction. Hopefully. If he can keep his mind on the job instead of on you—and whoever this guy is.

God, Clark can’t wait until Sunday. When this whole thing is over and maybe—just maybe—you can both go back to normal. No more secrets. No more complications. Just you and him. And maybe, if he’s brave enough, he’ll finally kiss you. Or at the very least, tell you how he feels.

It’s unlikely, but... maybe.

-

“Why does Clark get the front seat?” Jimmy mutters, squirming between Lois and Cat in the back. “I’m gonna be all wrinkled by the time we get there.”

Cat rolls her eyes. “Clark barely fits in the car, let alone between two people in the backseat.”

“Stop fidgeting,” Lois snaps. “You’re sitting on my dress.”

“I can’t breathe,” Jimmy gasps, overly dramatic.

Clark wants to laugh—he knows he should. Cat is giggling, and even Lois is fighting a smile. But he can’t quite bring himself to join in. Not when his eyes are fixed on his phone—on the last message you sent.

I know you’re at a work thing but just letting you know my location is on. Have fun tonight. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way home.

That’s how complicated this date is. Complicated enough that you’ve turned your location on, just in case Clark needs to find you. The thought makes his stomach twist with unease—knowing you’re spending the night with someone you don’t trust, someone who makes you feel like you need a safety net.

He has half a mind to ditch this event entirely and go find you. Just to be close. Just in case. But he can’t. He can’t be that reckless—or that obvious—no matter how much he wants to be. He has to trust you. And trust himself enough to believe that if something does happen, he’ll be fast enough to get to you.

“Uh, sir. We’ve arrived.”

Clark’s head snaps toward the driver—and in his periphery, he realises the backseat is already empty.

“Oh, sorry,” he mutters, fumbling with his seatbelt. “Thanks for the—uh, the ride.”

He slips out of the car, quietly cringing at how awkward he just made that moment. A few steps ahead, Cat, Jimmy, and Lois are waiting. Lois is helping Jimmy straighten his tie, and Cat is reapplying lip gloss using her phone camera.

“Here,” Lois says, pulling a bunch of lanyards from her purse. “Our press passes.”

Clark takes one and slips it over his head. Then he tucks his phone into his jacket pocket, pushes his glasses higher up his nose, and finally turns to face the enormous, lit-up building in front of them.

There’s a red carpet, velvet rope, and more burly security guards than he can count. A few feet from the main entrance there’s a metal barricade holding back the paparazzi, cameras flashing as they shout for guests to look their way.

Clark takes a steadying breath and looks up—at the massive banner draped across the entryway arch.

THE LUTHORCORP VISIONARY GALA

His stomach sinks. Heat prickles his skin. Something about tonight feels wrong. And it's not just the fact that you’re God knows where with some sketchy date—it's something else. Something bigger. Something that has the suit beneath Clark’s tux starting to itch.

“You ready?” Lois asks, her eyes sharp with curiosity

Clark swallows hard. “Yeah—yep. Let’s go.”

They make it halfway up the carpet before a guard checks their passes and ushers them through the doors, directing them down a long hallway toward the press entrance. The building itself is already grand, but the lavish decorations push it into the realm of impossible wealth.

Their footsteps echo against the marble floor as they move. Security guards stand posted every few feet, each one as stern and unyielding as the last—even though Clark still has a few inches on most of them. Finally, at the end of the hall, they’re escorted through a set of polished mahogany doors into the grand hall—an even more extravagant sight than the foyer.

The room is drenched in black and gold, soft light glowing down from draped ceilings. There are huge bouquets of flowers in the middle of each table, with tall candles flickering dangerously close beside them. Two bars stretch along each side of the room, sleek and shining, their shelves stacked high with dozens of glittering, multicoloured bottles. And at the very front, just before the dancefloor, is a glossy black stage with a glass podium gleaming at its centre.

“Holy shit,” Jimmy mutters, head tipped back as he stares up at the room. “Luthor must be rolling in it.”

Lois stops beside one of the tables, peering at the little place cards. “This is us.”

They each find their seats and settle in, while their table—and the ones around it—quickly fill with other journalists and reporters. The press area is raised slightly above the rest of the gala, offering a clear view of the entrance, the dancefloor, and the main stage.

After a few minutes, Jimmy and Cat wander off toward the bar, and Lois starts murmuring quick notes into her voice recorder. Clark takes the moment to sit back and slip his phone out of his jacket pocket. He opens the location app and taps your contact, watching as the little blue dot pulses on the screen. It flickers, skittering around Metropolis until—finally—it stops.

On the street behind this building.

Clark frowns. He hadn’t asked where you were going—and he realises now that he probably should have. It’s not that strange for your date to be somewhere nearby; this is the heart of Metropolis, after all. But right behind this building? That feels almost too convenient.

His pulse eases, the nausea in his stomach settling at the thought of you being so close. Maybe you picked the restaurant. Maybe you wanted to stay near where Clark would be, just in case.

But… Clark doesn’t remember ever telling you what his ‘work thing’ was. It’s not like the two of you have talked much these past few weeks. And you never asked.

So maybe it’s just a coincidence. Either way, Clark is relieved. Maybe he’ll be able to sneak away at some point in the night and check on you. Not in a creepy stalker way—just to make sure you’re safe. Just to be sure you don’t need saving. Even though, deep down, he’d really, really like to be the one to save you tonight.

“Where’s Luthor?” Jimmy asks as he returns to the table with a drink in each hand. “I couldn’t see him.”

Lois clicks off her recorder. “He’ll be the last to arrive. There’ll be an announcement—we’ll all stand. It’s a whole thing.”

Jimmy frowns. “An announcement?”

“Yes,” Lois says, firm and a little exasperated. “Steve Caldwell’s hosting tonight. He does most of Luthor’s events. He’s a good emcee, but he hates the press, so don’t expect any interviews.”

Cat squints at the stage. “Is that him—the guy with the bad toupee?”

Lois nods. “Yeah, that’s him. And it looks like he’s about to take the stage.”

Slowly, the chatter in the hall fades to hushed murmurs. Guests lingering at the bar or on the dancefloor start shuffling back to their tables, and the security guards shift into place—sharp, silent, eyes scanning the edges of the room.

Servers quicken their pace through the maze of tables before disappearing into the kitchen or behind the bars. Clark hears the soft, ominous click of all the doors falling shut—every one except the main entrance, which stays wide open, waiting for the grand arrival of Lex Luthor.

Clark feels it in his chest—the faint but undeniable pull of anticipation, like the whole room is holding its breath, waiting for the signal.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Steve Caldwell’s voice cuts through the hush, smooth and professional. “Welcome to the annual LuthorCorp Visionary Gala. Tonight, we celebrate innovation, leadership, and the people making a difference in our world. We have a very special evening planned, but before we get started...”

He pauses, glancing toward the side of the stage—waiting for a nod, a signal.

Clark’s phone buzzes in his jacket pocket.

“Would you please stand and join me in welcoming—” Steve continues, and everyone rises from their seats— the rustle of fabric and scrape of chairs louder than it should be.

Clark slips his phone out, glancing at it quickly to see the text—from you:

Clark, I fucked up.

His stomach drops.

“Our host,” Steve announces, orchestral music swelling through the hall, “a visionary in every sense of the word—Mr. Lex Luthor!”

Lex strides through the main doors, and the room erupts in applause.

Clark’s chest tightens as he hurriedly types a response to you:

Are you okay?

Lois nudges her elbow into his side—and he looks up, brow furrowed. Her eyes are wide as she tilts her head toward the centre of the room, silently urging Clark to pay attention.

He draws a shaky breath and glances down at where Lex is standing—in the middle of the floor, arms raised, grinning like some evil mastermind who just saw his nefarious scheme come to fruition. He turns in a slow circle, basking in the attention, cameras flashing as he pauses here and there before finally facing the entrance again.

Clark’s phone buzzes. He quickly checks it—another text from you.

This is so much worse than I thought it’d be.

His lungs seize.

“Clark,” Lois hisses. “Put your damn phone down.”

“But it’s—”

“Thirty seconds, Clark. Then you can go if you have to.”

He bites his tongue and does as he’s told, slipping the phone back into his pocket. It feels like he’s just been struck by lightning—three thousand volts surging through his veins—and yet he’s expected to stand still and clap politely.

His gaze finds Lex again—and time slows.

Lex lifts an arm, hand outstretched toward the main doors. A figure appears, a woman, blurred by camera flashes. Her dress glitters, her heels click—loud and ominous in Clark’s ears. She steps toward Lex, hand reaching for his.

Clark cranes his neck, the tang of panic sharp at the back of his tongue. He needs this moment to be over. He needs to get to you, to make sure you’re okay. But everything is moving so slowly—too slowly—as if the whole world is grinding to a halt, just for this moment right here.

Then—

“Oh fuck!” Jimmy blurts, eyes wide as his head whips toward Clark. “That’s—”

“Jimmy!” Lois snaps.

He turns to her, his face pale with shock. “But it’s—”

Cat gasps. “Oh my God. It’s her.”

It doesn’t register at first—doesn’t make sense. That’s not you. You’re on a date. The date you’ve been dreading for weeks, the one you said was too complicated to cancel. But then the spotlight widens, encompassing both you and Lex—and you smile. Soft and unsure, but it’s there. It’s familiar. It’s you.

Clark’s stomach flips. His heart stutters.

You’ve always been beautiful. Always. But here, under that spotlight, with that smile on your lips and that glittering dress hugging every curve—God, Clark’s sure he’s about to pass out. From shock, jealousy, you. All of it at once. He can’t breathe. Can’t think.

When your fingers slip into Lex’s, the breath catches hard in his lungs. His chest feels too tight. His heart too large. His limbs heavy, numb.

It’s a physical ache, a hollow-throated, rib-crushing pain. The kind that makes him want to look away—but he can’t. He can’t stop watching, because you’re there, and Lex is there, and he knows that in this moment, surrounded by people, there’s absolutely nothing he can do but watch.

- You -

“Well done,” Lex murmurs in your ear, his breath warm against your bare neck. “You did excellently.”

You’re not sure how—you’re pretty sure you blacked out—but you made it across the hall without falling over or fainting. And now you’re standing beside the stage—knees weak, sweat prickling the back of your neck, forcing a smile as Lex kisses the back of your hand and steps up toward the glass podium.

The crowd is a blur of applause and praise, white noise in the back of your mind as you focus on keeping yourself upright. The edges of your vision blur. Your chest is tight. Your stomach feels like someone’s turned it inside out, like you’re going to be sick. You can’t even catch a full breath. Every laugh, every clink of glass, every flash of a camera is wrong. Everything is wrong.

You can feel the panic rising—hot in your throat, clawing at your lungs. Your hands are shaking, but you don’t dare draw attention. You should’ve been prepared for this. You should’ve known. You should’ve said no—done something, anything.

You should have told Clark.

“Miss?”

Your head snaps toward the security guard now standing beside you. He isn’t touching you, but one arm hovers near your waist while the other gestures toward a table. It’s a little smaller than the rest in the hall, fewer place settings, but the centrepiece of flowers is—somehow—even more elaborate.

“Thank you,” you mutter, voice sticking in your throat.

You step toward the table slowly, not trusting your shaky legs. The guard—one of Lex’s personal protection, you’re guessing—pulls a chair out for you, and you all but fall into it. You manage a tight smile, and he nods before returning to his post beside the stage.

Lex is at the podium, his voice smooth and practiced as it carries through the hall—but you can’t make out a word. It’s all just noise beneath the thunder of your pulse in your ears and the thoughts in your head screaming at you to get out of here.

You open your purse and pull out your phone, swiping the brightness down low before bringing up your texts with Clark. He hasn’t replied to your last one, but you know he’s at a work event. Maybe he’s just busy. Caught up.

Maybe you shouldn’t be bugging him right now. It’s not like this is really an emergency. You’re safe—or at least, you think you are. Lex might be creepy, but what’s he going to do in front of all these people? You’re just uncomfortable, that’s all. And you don’t need to make it Clark’s problem unless there really is something wrong.

You draw a shaky breath and type out another text:

Sorry, that was dramatic. I’m just a bit overwhelmed, but I’m okay. I’m safe. Hope you’re having fun at your work thing.

You hit send and stare at the screen for a few seconds. The little bubble with the dots pops up—he’s typing—but then it disappears. You wait. But it doesn’t pop up again.

Your heart lodges in your throat. He’s... ignoring you? Surely not. Right? Why would he? No—he’s just busy. He’s working, and you just told him you were safe. There’s no reason for him to text back. If you need him, he’ll be there. You know that. But you’re fine right now. You just need to calm down and focus.

Focus on your plan to prove to Lex Luthor that you’re not his next victim—sorry, girlfriend.

It’s simple, really. All you have to do is turn him off without pissing him off. Make him realise you don’t fit into his world. That he doesn’t actually want you. But without pushing hard enough to make him angry—or end up like the women who came before you.

On stage, Lex is in his element, talking through a presentation about what’s next for LuthorCorp. He’s confident, charismatic, commanding the hall of hundreds like he was born for this—for persuasion, for power, for aggrandising himself.

You sit quietly, hands knotted in your lap, focusing on your breathing. You angle your head slightly away from the stage, keeping your gaze on the crowd, on the servers weaving between tables. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes if they look this way.

The main floor is filled with wealthy guests, sponsors, stakeholders—people who look like they’ve never worried about anything but money. A few faces you recognise, most you don’t. Toward the back, behind a red velvet rope guarded by security, sits a raised section of tables. You squint, trying to make out who’s there—some extra-special VIPs, maybe—but the dim light and camera flashes blur your vision.

You turn to the woman sitting beside you—someone Lex had introduced in the limo, his publicist maybe—but you’ve already forgotten her name.

“What’s that section back there?” you whisper, nodding toward the far side of the hall. “Is that, like... the mayor or something?”

Her eyes flick toward the roped-off area. “Press. They’re not allowed to mingle, but after dinner Lex and a few sponsors will go over for short interviews or statements.”

You frown. “Why can’t they mingle?”

She gives you a flat look. “They’re press. No one wants them sniffing around our guests or overhearing something salacious.”

“Oh.”

You sit up straighter, gaze still fixed on the press area, squinting as if you might actually make out a face from this distance. Not that you’d even know anyone there. Maybe Cindy from the seven o’clock news—Clark usually has it on while you eat dinner.

After what feels like another hour of Lex preaching about drones, robotics, and some new frequency he’s discovered that can manipulate something—you’re not really paying attention—he finally wraps up and hands back to the emcee.

While Steve thanks Lex and runs through the rest of the evening, Lex works the room. He stops at a few tables near yours, greeting guests you assume are important, schmoozing until Steve announces that dinner is being served. Then he returns, drops into the chair beside you, and grins like a man who just won the lottery. Not that Lex Luthor needs to win the lottery.

“How are you?” he asks, laying his napkin across his lap.

Servers emerge from the kitchen with trays of food, serving your table first—because of course.

“I’m good,” you lie, forcing a smile.

He smirks. “Good. And what did you think of the presentation?”

“Loved it.” You smile wider, faker. “You’re really good at that whole public speaking thing.”

He chuckles softly—patronisingly, somehow—as if you’re a child that amuses him. “Yes,” he says. “I am.”

You try not to cringe, pressing your lips together so tightly you’re almost sure you look constipated, but Lex doesn’t notice—he’s already distracted by the steak set in front of him. Your stomach twists at the sight. It doesn’t look bad—it actually smells good—but you’re not hungry. Not even a little. All you feel is a nauseating ache where your appetite should be, and it has nothing to do with the food.

You miss Clark. You’ve been missing him ever since things got weird a few weeks ago. Since your first day at LuthorCorp, since that night in the kitchen when he pressed up behind you, and everything that used to be easy between you got complicated. Strained. Confusing.

You wish you’d had the guts to confront him, to ask him what the hell had changed. You wish you’d told him about tonight, about what your date really was, before it ever happened. Maybe then you wouldn’t be sitting here, smiling while your insides twist with regret.

Because right now you don’t just want Clark nearby; you need him. You need the stupid, steady comfort of him, the way being around him makes all the noise dull. You need someone who would notice you were breathing wrong and take you home without a second thought.

Right now, Clark Kent is the only thing you need.

“So,” Lex says, voice low, eyes still on his steak. “How do you know Superman?”

You choke, breath catching, cutlery clattering against your plate. He glances at you from the corner of his eye as he lifts a forkful of food to his mouth, impassive, unbothered. Just waiting.

You swallow hard. “Superman? Like—the caped guy?”

Lex nods, his mouth twisted into that slight smirk that makes your skin crawl.

“Well, I—um, I’ve seen him on the news,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “I wouldn’t say I know him, though. I know of him.”

Lex chews slowly, thoughtfully, his gaze drifting lazily around the table. Then he swallows, and turns back to you, his expression a practiced mask of composure.

“That so?” he asks, head tilting just slightly. “Didn’t he save you the other day—when those drones attacked the city?”

Your pulse spikes and your skin flushes with heat, your mind scrambling for an excuse. “Oh—right. Yeah, he did. I guess I forgot about that.”

Your brows pinch, just slightly, and you blink down at your plate. You don’t remember seeing Lex—or anyone from work—that day on the street, when you were standing in the alley with Clark. In fact, you’re pretty sure Superman flew you a considerable distance away from the LuthorCorp building. How could Lex have seen you? Unless he caught the split second when Clark picked you up.

“You forgot?” Lex echoes, brows raised. “Forgot that you were attacked by drones, saved by Superman, and flown halfway across Metropolis and back?”

Halfway across Metropolis? So he does know about the alley.

You shrug, doing your best to seem casual. “Yeah, I mean—fear repression or something, maybe? It was pretty scary.”

Lex’s eyes narrow. His smirk is gone now, but his mouth twitches at the corner—the only sign that he’s irritated, that he doesn’t believe you.

You keep your gaze fixed on your dinner, your expression blank as you slice into the chicken breast—even though your heart is pounding hard enough to rattle your entire body.

“You see,” Lex says, leaning closer, voice dropping lower, “at first, I just thought you were… attractive. I thought you’d look good on my arm. But then—” He pauses to stab his fork into his steak. “But then I saw you with the Kryptonian that day, in the alley, pretending you didn’t know each other.”

“We don’t,” you cut in, firm.

Lex huffs a sharp breath through his nose, his frustration cracking through the practiced calm. “Please don’t think me stupid. I’m not stupid. I saw the way you spoke to each other—it was familiar. And the way he… held you.”

You drop your cutlery onto the plate and finally look at him. “How do you know all this? Did you see us?”

His brows lift. “So you admit it?”

“There’s nothing to admit.” You sit up straighter. “He saved me, and we had a brief conversation. That’s all.”

He goes still, just watching you, studying your expression, your posture, the way you meet his eyes without flinching—even while every alarm bell in your head screams at you to run. But if you weren’t sitting, your knees would’ve already buckled. You’ve never been asked outright if you know Superman. Sure, you’ve had to cover a few times when Clark vanished or slipped up by doing something no normal man could. But this? You’ve never had to lie like this before. And you can’t tell if Lex is even buying it.

“You never answered me,” you say, eyes dropping to the untouched food on your plate. “How did you know—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Steve says into the mic, his voice cutting through the buzz of conversation. “Please continue to enjoy your meal while the Metropolitan Jazz Ensemble take the stage. There’ll be a short break before dessert—meanwhile, you’re invited to mingle and network. For our friends in the press, Mr. Luthor will be available for interviews and a brief statement shortly.”

When you look back, Lex’s plate is empty. He’s smiling now—not broad, just that clipped, knowing smile people use when they’re hiding something.

“Mr. Luthor,” the woman on your other side says, “we need to get ready.”

Lex dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin and meets your eyes. “You’ll join me—won’t you?” he asks, as if you have a choice.

You don’t bother forcing a smile; you just nod and shove your chair back. Lex and the woman—Annette, you think—stand with you and begin speaking in hushed tones about what he can and can’t say to the press. You use the brief distraction to step aside and slip your phone out of your purse—but still, nothing. No text. No call. Radio silence.

Panic rises in your chest, hot and sharp behind your ribs, because for the first time in a long time you feel painfully, utterly alone. Like maybe you don’t have a guardian angel watching over you. Maybe you really are on your own. Maybe you’re just stupid. And maybe… you’re in danger.

“Ready?” Lex holds out a hand, palm up, sharp eyes narrowed at you.

You swallow hard and place your hand in his—because you know it’s not an option. “As I’ll ever be.”

Your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat. You feel sick, like your stomach is trying to claw its way up your chest, desperate to escape. You’re not even sure how you’re still moving, still standing, still breathing. All you want to do is turn and run, but you can’t. Because Lex Luthor’s grip is too tight, there are too many people, and you’re too deep in this mess to get out now.

The room is a blur until you reached the roped off section of press where Lex pauses, tilting his head politely toward a few photographers and letting them snap a quick series of shots. There are journalists lined up along the inside of the rope, recorders ready, notepads in hand. Lex nods toward one and the questions start rolling—easy, rehearsed stuff about LuthorCorp’s latest innovations. He answers smoothly, voice even, charming, dismissive. You keep your eyes down, or across the room, anywhere but at Lex or the reporter he’s talking to. You don’t want to be introduced or questioned; you’d rather be swallowed whole by the room itself and spared from every pair of watching eyes.

With each brief interview, your heart beats a little faster. You step forward, staying close to Lex—not holding his hand anymore, but still caught at his side, stuck there like a shadow. You try to focus on breathing, on staying calm, on anything but the foreboding ache pulsing behind your ribs.

But then—

“Mr. Luthor, Lois Lane, Daily Planet.”

Daily Planet.

You freeze. Time stretches thin. Every camera flash, every murmured question, every clink of glass slows down. You feel like you’re floating just behind your own eyes, your chest tightening so sharply it’s hard to breathe.

When your gaze flicks up, you see Lois Lane. You've met her before. She works with—

Clark.

You gasp, but it catches in your throat. You can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Because he’s here. Clark Kent is here. At the gala. Just a few steps behind the woman interviewing Lex. Separated from you by nothing but a flimsy rope. A rope you could step over, duck under, break through—just to get to him. To get to the only person you want right now—the only one you need.

And—he’s beautiful. He’s always beautiful. But here, in that suit, glasses sliding down his nose, curls falling over his forehead—God, you’ve never seen a more beautiful sight. Because Clark—your Clark—is here. Here when you need him, where you need him, and—fuck, now he knows. He knows everything. He’s seeing it. And he looks... hurt.

Your hands tremble at your sides, slick with sweat. You don’t know what to do. You want to run to him, beg him to get you out of here, but you can’t. There are too many people, too many cameras. And Lex is holding your wrist now—not your hand, your wrist. His grip is tight, almost painful, keeping you pinned at his side.

“Thank you, Mr. Luthor,” Lois says, stepping back.

You’re still looking at Clark. He’s still looking at you. Neither of you has moved. He’s just... standing there, chest rising and falling too fast. You can vaguely make out the man beside him, short with brown hair, trying to draw his attention—but Clark doesn’t budge.

“That’s enough press,” Lex says, his voice low and too close to your ear. “We’re leaving.”

He tugs sharply on your arm, and you stumble, barely catching yourself before you fall. He pulls you across the hall, and you glance back over your shoulder, desperate not to lose sight of your lifeline. But halfway to the table, you do. Even when you squint, he’s gone.

Back at the table, Lex nods at one of his security guards. “Watch her. Don’t let her leave.”

Your heart hammers harder—if that’s even possible—and dread sinks low and heavy in your stomach. What have you done?

Everything blurs. Chatter turns to white noise, the room around you dissolving into colours and patterns. You can’t make out anything, can’t feel your arms or legs. All you can feel is your heart pounding against your ribs and your shallow breath coming too fast, too thin.

Lex’s voice through the mic is a distant echo—something about unforeseen circumstances, something about sponsors, something about goodnight. Then applause, and he’s by your side again.

He grabs your hand and starts walking, dragging you into step. Security guards flank you, steering you toward the main doors while the clapping swells around you. You crane your neck, searching the press area—but it’s too much. The lights, the cameras, the sea of people. You can’t find Clark in the chaos. And before you can even get your bearings, you’re being shoved into the backseat of a limo.

The door slams—and the chaos stops.

Silence.

You squeeze your eyes shut and draw a shaky breath, tipping your head back against the headrest. Your ears ring. Your lungs seize. Everything—your body, your thoughts, the air in the car—feels suddenly too heavy. Like you’re going to suffocate.

Then Lex’s voice slices through the silence. “Who’s Clark?”

You open your eyes. “What?”

“Clark,” he repeats, expression flat. “You said his name when I was talking to that Daily Planet reporter.”

You blink. “I—I did?”

His eyes narrow. “Were you talking about Clark Kent? That reporter who’s always interviewing Superman. Is that how you know him?”

“Know who?”

“Superman!” he snaps, anger finally boiling over. “That piece of shit alien that thinks he runs this city!”

You flinch, body instinctively angling toward the door, away from him. He doesn't care though—he barely even notices. He just chuckles—low and amused, the sound turning a little deranged.

“I thought you’d be a good choice,” he says, almost wistfully, as if you’ve disappointed him “Quiet, compliant, a good accessory. But you just had to go and ruin it.”

Panic surges through you as your fingers close around the door handle, hands trembling. And for one sick second, you wonder how badly it would hurt to throw yourself out of the car.

“Although, I suppose I should be thanking you.” He settles back in his seat, smug. “You’re about to bring me something I want.”

You frown, leaning into the door until its hard edges dig into your side. “Something you want?”

He smiles properly for the first time since you met him—and it’s the most unnerving thing you’ve ever seen. “Yes. You’re going to deliver Superman to me. Because I have no doubt Clark Kent will tell the Kryptonian you’re in trouble. And he’ll come.”

Your grip on the handle tightens. “But I’m not in trouble.”

Lex chuckles again, low and knowing. “Not yet.”

“Well... what if it doesn’t work?” you ask. “What if he doesn’t come to save me?”

Lex’s expression darkens. “Oh, he will. I saw the way he looked at you—and the way you looked at him. That was more than just familiarity. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already on his way—before I even have time to put you in real danger.”

Your breath stutters, chest tight, panic and regret tangling until you can’t tell one from the other. You squeeze the handle until your knuckles go white, about to yank the door open when the car shudders to a sudden stop. Both you and Lex fall forward, catching yourselves on whatever you can grab.

“What’s going on?” Lex snaps, glaring through the partition at the driver.

“There’s an accident up ahead,” the driver says. “Traffic’s completely stopped.”

This is your chance.

“Then go around it,” Lex orders sharply. “Mount the damn curb for all I care.”

Before you can second-guess yourself—before Lex can even glance back—you fling the door open and jump out. You don’t hesitate. You don’t think. You just run.

With the length of your dress fisted in one hand, you weave between cars. Horns blare, voices shout, the low rumble of traffic thrums from an adjacent road—but all you can hear is your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your shoes slam against the pavement when you finally hit the sidewalk, and you thank God you didn’t wear heels tonight. Every step feels too heavy, too slow, but you push harder. There aren’t many people to dodge, but the ones you do rush past give you startled looks—some call out, some curse at you to watch where you’re going. But you don’t care. All that matters is distance. Distance between you and the car. Between you and him. Between you and Lex Luthor.

You swing around the next corner, refusing to look back. You don’t know where you are—you only know you have to keep moving. Keep running. Even as your lungs burn. Even as your knees threaten to give out beneath you.

You know you must look insane—sprinting through Metropolis in a sparkly dress, panting like you haven’t done cardio in ten years. But none of that matters. All you can think about is your next move—where to go, how to keep Lex from catching you.

Maybe a police station. Maybe a fire station. Maybe a public bathroom you can lock yourself inside and call for help. Or Clark. You could call Clark. But the look on his face when he saw you with Lex keeps replaying in your mind, and you’re not even sure he’d answer.

You lied to him. For weeks. You pushed him away, refused his help, told him it was too complicated. But it would have been so much simpler if you’d just been honest. About everything. Not just the crappy new job and the creepy boss, but all of it. The years. The wanting. The love you’ve tried so hard to choke down. Every time you looked at him and knew, deep in your bones, that no one else would ever compare.

It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t feel the same. You just want to tell him. To talk to him. To be his best friend again and stop hiding behind excuses. You want to tell him everything—even if it breaks you.

You stop at the top of a set of stairs, gasping for air—and only then do you realise you’re crying. Your vision blurs with tears, your cheeks are wet, your throat is tight. You clutch the handrail, dragging in a deep, rattling breath. You don’t have a choice. You have to keep running. You have to keep going until you’re—

The world lurches. Your stomach swoops. And suddenly you're not on the ground anymore.

You’re in his arms.

You’re safe.

Thousands of feet above Metropolis, you’re finally safe. You squeeze your eyes shut, your tears turned cold by the rush of wind. He’s holding you so tightly you don’t even need to hold him back—but you do. You wrap your arms around his neck, one hand pressed to the base of it, the other slipping into his hair at the nape.

The noise of the city fades as you fly higher, further—away from the wreckage you left behind. You press your ear to his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heart guide your own, each beat a reminder to breathe. And by the time something solid touches your feet, it feels like breaking the surface after being held under too long. Like you can finally breathe for the first time all night.

For a moment, you both just stand there. His hold loosens but doesn’t fall away. You keep your eyes shut, your cheek pressed to his chest, waiting for your pulse to settle.

After what feels like forever—and somehow still not long enough—he pulls back. His fingers curl around your wrists, gentling unwinding your arms from his neck, and then he steps away. The sudden absence of his warmth makes you shiver, and you only then do you open your eyes to see that you’re standing on the balcony of his apartment.

You look up at him, fresh tears blurring your vision, but he’s already turning away. He doesn’t even glance back as he steps inside, boots heavy against the floor.

“Clark—” you try, but your throat is too dry, too tight.

You follow him, swiping away your tears with the back of your hand, feeling like a complete mess. He’s standing at the kitchen island with his back to you, both palms braced against the counter, head bowed. He’s completely still except for the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.

You swallow hard. “Clark, please. Can we—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You bunch your dress in both fists and take a step closer, voice wavering. “You don’t have to talk. Please—just let me explain.”

He turns around, his expression tight, shoulders rigid. “You don’t have to explain anything. If you want to date Luthor, then—”

“I don’t,” you cut in, too fast, too desperate. “I don’t. I really, really don’t. But I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t go to HR. I couldn’t tell anyone.”

“You could’ve told me,” he says, his voice low and rough, his eyes wide with hurt.

Your chest tightens. “I know—and I wish I did. I just... I was too scared.”

He blinks at you, just once, confusion and something close to heartbreak flickering across his face. “Scared?”

“Not of you,” you say quickly. “Just... scared.” Your heart feels like it's in your throat, your pulse spiking again—but this time it’s not panic, it’s something else entirely. “I was scared of Luthor. Scared of what people would think. But mostly I was scared of… of needing you.”

His expression falters. His mouth opens, then closes. His brows draw together, jaw working, as if the words are trying to force their way and he won’t let them. You can’t tell if he’s angry or just hurt. Probably both. But there’s something else too—something sharp and barely restrained beneath his careful composure.

You take a shallow, shaky breath. “I—I’m scared of how much I need you,” you say, voice catching. “These past few weeks have been hell. Not talking to you—not being honest—has been killing me. I don’t want any more secrets. I need you, Clark. Despite everything, I need you.”

Your words tumble out faster than you can control, frantic and raw. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make this weird, I just… I don’t want to lie anymore. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll get off your couch—I'll find my own apartment. And I know you want me to find a new job—I’ll do it, I swear. I just—”

“You have no idea what I want,” he cuts in, sharp and low—the tension breaking through his voice.

“Then tell me,” you plead, stepping closer. “Because I am so sick of guessing and pretending. I don’t know why it’s been so hard lately, I don’t know what changed, but I want to fix it.”

“I can’t.” He folds his arms, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

His eyes flick up, impossibly blue and shimmering with something you don’t recognise. “Because then everything changes.”

“Everything has changed, Clark!” you exclaim, a little louder than you mean to. “We haven’t talked properly in weeks. I don't even know how to act around you anymore. One minute you're pressing up against me in the kitchen, and then the next you’re completely ignoring me? And then the other night—” The words catch in your throat, and you swallow hard. “The other night we nearly fucking kissed, and we just—what? Forget that it ever happened? We don’t even try to talk about it?”

“I can’t,” he says again, tightening his folded arms.

You hold his gaze, heart hammering, feeling how close he is to the edge. There’s a flicker in his expression, a crack in the armour—something that betrays him, something that says he’s close to confessing the truth—and you’re determined to hear it.

“Why not?” you press again, voice firm, pulse rising.

“Because,” he says, his jaw tight, “I can’t risk this.”

You frown. “Risk what?”

“This,” he snaps, frustration spilling over as he gestures between the two of you. “Us. Everything. I can’t risk losing you to be selfish.”

You step closer again, closing the distance until only a few feet separate you. “It’s not being selfish, Clark. I’m asking you. I want you to tell me. I—”

“You!” he explodes, voice rough and a little strained. “I want you!”

Your chest seizes. Your knees feel weak. Your stomach twists like you just fell from a cliff and landed in the middle of your own heartbeat. Every nerve is humming, every inch of you suddenly alive.

You can hardly breathe, but you don’t care. All that matters is him—and the way he's looking at you. The way his eyes are locked on you, raw and unguarded and so achingly, unmistakably Clark.

He steps in, swallowing the distance between you in a single breath. “Are you happy now?”

You shake your head slowly, softly, eyes pleading as you look up at him. His chest rises and falls too fast, his gaze restless, searching your face for any sign he’s crossed a line he can’t return from.

And then he leans in, close enough for your breath to catch, his voice dropping lower. “Are you still scared?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard, willing him to keep going. Keep crossing the line. Fuck the line. You don’t want boundaries—you want him.

“What about now?” he asks, lifting both hands to cup your face—his palms pressing softly against your cheeks, like he’s afraid to touch something so precious.

You exhale softly, tilting your head into his hand, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “No.”

When you open them again, he’s even closer, his lips barely a breath from yours. Your pulse hammers in your ears, your stomach twists, your knees tremble. You’re frozen and undone all at once, balanced on the edge of something inevitable, something that could shatter you.

His thumb strokes your cheek, warm breath ghosting across your lips. “Even now?”

“Even now,” you breathe, heart racing, the words tumbling out like a confession. “Clark... please.”

He swallows hard, jaw tight. The air between you crackles, charged and electric. His lips part, like he’s about to say something else—but nothing comes. His eyes lock on yours, searching, his tongue darting across his bottom lip as if he’s holding back the last of his restraint.

You hold your breath.

Then he kisses you.

And the entire world falls away.

It’s like stars colliding, like gravity itself has finally given in. You taste him, feel him, the heat of his mouth and the solid weight of his hands cradling your face, anchoring you even as everything else disappears. His lips fit against yours like they were always meant to, urgent and reverent all at once.

Your hands clutch at his chest, fingertips pressing into the symbol, desperate for something to hold on to as you push up onto your toes, straining closer, needing more. Every year of restraint, every stolen glance, every unspoken word—they all break free in this one breathless, unstoppable moment.

The kiss deepens fast—too fast—and not fast enough. His mouth moves against yours with a hunger that’s been caged for far too long, each pull and press sending shivers down your spine. His thumbs sweep across your cheeks, firm now, not careful, holding you like he’s terrified you might slip away.

You gasp into him, and he takes the sound, swallowing it, his lips parting as his tongue grazes yours—tentative for half a second, then greedy, desperate, claiming. The taste of him floods you, dizzying, addictive, and you chase it, pressing harder, tilting your head to meet him deeper.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit, bunching tight over the emblem as though it could anchor you. He’s solid under your touch, impossibly strong, but the way he kisses you—messy, breathless, almost frantic—makes him feel human, undone.

His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip, a sharp little spark shoots through you, straight down your spine. You shudder against him, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palms, making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.

There’s no space left, no thought, no restraint—just him. His mouth, his hands, his body pulling you closer and closer until you’re certain nothing could ever pull you apart again.

But then your lungs start to burn, your head spins, and you’re almost certain you’re about to pass out. So you break apart, not far—only because breathing becomes absolutely necessary. And even as you gasp for air, your mouths still drag against each other, unwilling to fully let go. Your lips are swollen, tingling, slick with spit, and you can still taste him as the air between you rushes in sharp and shallow.

His forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, breaths colliding in the narrow space you refuse to widen. His hands are still on your face, thumbs trembling faintly as if he can’t decide whether to pull you closer again or finally let go.

You can’t stop staring at him. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he’s fighting for words he can’t find. He looks half-crazed, undone in a way you’ve never seen—like holding himself back all these years has finally cracked something open.

Your chest heaves, your pulse a frantic drum, and still the urge claws at you, deeper than hunger, more dangerous than air. You want to drag him back down, to taste him until you forget your own name. And by the way his gaze drops to your mouth, the way his breath hitches, you know he wants the same.

“I want you too,” you gasp between ragged breaths. “I want all of you, Clark. I want everything.”

That’s all it takes. His hands find your waist, rougher now, fingers curling into the glittering fabric as his mouth claims yours again—hungry, relentless, burning with everything he’s held back too long. In one fluid motion he turns you, pressing you against the kitchen counter, the edge biting into your lower back as a shiver rips through you, every nerve sparking to life.

He presses into you, hips nudging closer until you feel the solid heat of him everywhere. His mouth never leaves yours, his hands restless, greedy—grasping, squeezing, mapping you out like he needs your shape branded into his palms. You melt against him, fingers clawing into his shoulders as your knees threaten to give.

Then his hands slide lower, gripping the curve of your ass, and he mutters against your mouth, rough and breathless, “Up.”

You barely have to move—he lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you on the counter and shoving your dress higher, his body sliding between your legs like he was always meant to be there.

“You have no idea—” he pants, his mouth still hot on yours, “—no idea what you do to me.”

His lips trail across your jaw, down your throat, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses as you tilt your head back, offering him more.

“When I saw you tonight,” he mumbles against your skin, his breath ragged, “I nearly lost it.”

You arch into him, a soft moan slipping free as he sucks a mark just above your pulse. The sound drags a groan from his chest, low and rough, and his hands leave your hips, sliding up your spine, fumbling for the zipper of your dress.

You want to help him—you want to straighten, to hold still, to give him what he’s reaching for—but you can’t. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but drown in the heat of him. Your heart is pounding, deafening, your skin lit up everywhere he touches, a knot of need twisting tighter and tighter in your belly.

His mouth finds its way back up—your neck, your jaw—before catching your lips again in a bruising kiss. Your hands slip from his shoulders into his hair, fingers threading through the curls with just enough pull to drag a sigh from his throat, hot against your mouth.

“I hate this dress,” he mutters against your lips. “I mean—I love it, but I hate it.”

Through the haze of want, you realise he means how difficult the zipper is. If you were with anyone else, you might’ve thought of it sooner, but you’re not. You’re with Clark—and he’s making you stupid.

“Rip it,” you breathe.

He pulls back just enough to search your face, his breath still ghosting over your lips. “You sure?”

You nod, pulse hammering. “Get me out of this fucking thing.”

His expression flickers, and the corner of his mouth curves. “But you look so good in it.”

You can’t help the way your lips twitch, a small smile breaking through. “Are you flirting with me, Kent?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes dark and bright all at once. “Have been for years, but thanks for noticing.”

Then he tears the dress. The sound of it ripping splits through the air, sharp and final, and the dress falls apart around you. For a split second, everything stills—his chest heaving, his eyes locked on yours—everything between you strung so tight it could snap.

The smiles slip from your faces, replaced with something heavier, hungrier, and the weight of it all crashes over you—the line you’re about to cross, the way nothing will ever be the same after this.

Clark draws an unsteady breath. “Are you sure about this?”

Your hands drift from his hair to cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the creases where his dimples hide. “Clark,” you whisper, voice shaking as your throat tightens, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The look he gives you is devastating. It slams into you like heat and tenderness colliding, the kind of gaze that leaves you breathless because you can feel it—his need, his love—written in every line of his face. Your chest aches with it, your pulse racing to match his.

“I’m in love with you,” you blurt, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

His breath stutters—loud, uneven—and for a single, panicked second you think you’ve broken something you can’t fix.

But then his eyes light up, impossibly bright, and his smile spreads—slow, wide, completely unrestrained. His dimples crease, cutting deep enough to make your chest ache, and suddenly he’s glowing. Like you’ve just handed him the one thing he’s been waiting his whole life to hear, and he can’t quite believe it’s real.

He’s looking at you like you’re everything, like the rest of the world has vanished and all that’s left is this room, this moment, you and him. The sight makes you dizzy, swooning, your pulse hammering as that unguarded joy washes over you. It’s unfair—the grin, the dimples, the way his eyes hold nothing back—and somehow it makes you love him even more.

Before he can speak, you surge forward, capturing his mouth again, swallowing his smile, his soft laughter. His hands fumble at your dress as he kisses you, pushing it down over your shoulders, tearing a little more until the fabric finally slips free and falls to the floor.

Clark stills, just for a heartbeat, then eases back a step to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising hard and fast, lips red and swollen. When he speaks, his voice cracks under the weight of it. “You—” he swallows, eyes raking over you like he can’t take you in fast enough, “—you’re so beautiful.”

Your heart stutters, breath hitching. Superman—the Superman, cape and all—is standing in front of you, lips bruised, desire blatant in the tight stretch of his trunks, telling you that you’re beautiful—half-naked, trembling, aching, and beautiful.

“Clark,” you pant, leaning back on the counter with both hands. “Please, just—”

You don’t finish. He crashes back into you—lips, tongue, teeth—devouring you like a man starved. His hands spread wide across your back, dragging you flush against him as his hips roll forward, slow, deliberate, devastating.

You gasp into his mouth, the friction sparking down your spine, straight to the heat pooling low in your belly. You’re already wet, the thin fabric of your panties clinging to you, and it’s unbearable. You shift closer on the counter, thighs spreading, desperate to feel more of him, the hard line of him straining beneath the suit.

He grinds forward again with a low, guttural groan. You swallow the sound eagerly, smiling against his lips before catching his bottom one between your teeth and tugging—just enough to make him break, to drag another raw, strangled noise from his throat. And then—

Snap.

Your bra gives way, the straps slipping loose, and his hands are on you immediately—big, warm, rough in all the right ways. He rolls your nipples between his fingers and you can’t stop the sound that leaves you, a soft, desperate whimper torn from somewhere deep.

He sighs against your lips, the sound ragged. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You rut your hips forward, grinding against him, and he almost chokes on his breath.

“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw, desperate. “Please, Clark—touch me.”

A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest, vibrating through you as his mouth claims yours again—harder, hungrier, like he’s losing the battle to hold anything back. One hand abandons your breast, sliding down the curve of your body in a slow, searing drag that leaves fire in its wake, until it settles at the top of your thigh. His fingers flex there, possessive, before urging your legs open wider.

You obey without hesitation, shifting your hips, spreading yourself for him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice like gravel, lips brushing along your jaw.

Your lungs seize. Your heart lurches, stuttering into a dangerous rhythm. You know he doesn’t mean it the way it sounds—you know he’s just acknowledging your compliance, that he isn’t even trying—but God, how can he say something like that and not expect you to fall apart on the spot?

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with curiosity and hunger. “You okay?”

You manage a swallow, a small nod. “Y—yeah, sorry. I’m just—” The words break off in a strangled gasp when he presses two fingers against your clothed cunt, firm and deliberate. “F—fuck.”

He chuckles softly, lips finding yours to swallow the sound as his fingers brush again, coaxing another. This time he presses harder, dragging the damp fabric against you, while his other hand shifts from one breast to the other—rolling each nipple until your back arches helplessly.

Then, slow—too slow—his fingers hook your panties aside, grazing over your slick heat. Your whole body jolts. “Clark,” you choke on his name, breath breaking. “Oh—God.”

He smiles against your mouth, kissing you like he can’t stop, urgent and reverent all at once as his fingers move lower. One slips between your folds, sliding easily through the wetness that’s already dripping onto the counter, and then—he finds you. He presses one finger right where you ache, right at your entrance.

You groan into his mouth, hands tangling in his hair, gripping hard as he pushes in. The intrusion is delicious. Your thighs tremble, your lungs forget how to work, and the only thing that exists is him—his hands, his mouth, his body caging you against the counter like he was made for this moment.

“You’re so…” his voice rasps against your lips, breaking on the words, “so wet.”

Those filthy words in that deep voice—the same voice that usually trips over ‘golly’ and ‘gosh’ like they’re real curse words—have your mind reeling. You can hardly believe that it’s the same the man standing in front of you, touching you like this, making your thighs slick with arousal in a way no one else ever could.

“And you’re perfect,” he murmurs—just as he slides a second finger into you.

The whine that leaves your lips is needy, raw. You tip your head back, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure surges through every nerve in your body. You’ve never felt like this before—never been this turned on, this desperate, this undone. But God, you don’t care. You don’t care about anything except Clark. Your Clark.

He takes advantage of the way you’re baring yourself, chest pressed forward, throat stretched for him. His lips trail down the curve of your neck, lighting fires in their wake, before finding your collarbone. He sucks a mark into your skin, groaning low as he soothes it with his tongue, then slips lower still—mouth closing hot and hungry around your nipple.

You gasp, clutching at his curls, tugging hard enough that any other man would flinch. But this is Clark—and he just moans against your breast, the sound vibrating straight through you, making your body shudder.

His fingers work inside you at a maddening pace—thrusting, curling, coaxing. Every deliberate press makes you whimper, each movement more precise than the last, like he’s memorising the map of your body, like he’s learning exactly how to take you apart. And then his thumb finds your clit, circling slow, achingly slow, until your hips buck up into his hand with a strangled cry.

He tortures you like this for what feels like forever—his mouth roaming, sucking at your nipples, dragging up your throat, finding your lips only to abandon them for your collarbone again. Every soft lick, every sharp nip has you keening, undone by the way he devours you and yet holds back all at once. His fingers never falter—steady, relentless, never quickening, never easing—until you’re nothing but a writhing, sweating mess, panting his name like a prayer.

“Clark,” you whine, voice ragged. “Clark—please. I need—I need you. I want you.”

Your hand slips from his hair, trembling as it slides down the strong line of his neck, over the hard plane of his chest, until it stops at the bright red trunks. Your palm presses against the thick, heavy outline of him straining beneath the suit, and the heat of him makes your head spin.

He chokes on his breath, hips stuttering into your touch like he can’t help it.

“Sweetheart,” he groans against your neck, lips dragging over the sensitive skin, “‘m not gonna fit in here.”

And then, as if to prove it, he slides a third finger into you. The stretch is sharp, toe-curling, and you gasp—loud and unrestrained—the sound catching rough in your chest.

“Please,” you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. “Please try.”

A strangled sound rips from him before his mouth presses back onto yours, teeth and tongue and heat. His fingers thrust harder now, deeper, rougher, his wrist twisting as he spreads you wide, stretching you to take him. His other hand leaves your breast, skimming down your body until it grips your thigh, pushing it open as far as it will go. He drives his fingers into you again, and you cry into his mouth, shuddering with every merciless stroke.

You try to make yourself relax, to let your body open, even as every muscle aches to hold him tighter, to cling and never let go. His mouth drags hot and messy against yours, and you force yourself to breathe through it—because you’ve never wanted anything more than this man, and you know you never will.

Your hand slides lower, pressing against the thick line of him beneath his suit, and his hips snap forward instantly, chasing your touch like instinct. He’s hard, heavy, almost impossibly big, and the sheer size of him only makes your pulse race harder. You’re not worried. Or scared. You just need him inside you. Now.

“How does this thing—” you mutter, fumbling blindly at the fabric, fingers searching for a seam, a zipper, anything you can tug open. You’ve never thought about how he gets in and out of the suit before, but right now it feels like the most urgent question in the world.

He chuckles low and ragged against your mouth, his hands moving to help, and the second he pulls away your body clenches around nothing, a needy whimper tearing out of you before you can stop it.’

You don’t watch exactly what he does—you just hear the soft pop of fastenings, the hush of a zipper, the rustle of fabric. And when you look properly, you see him—skin bare, every line and plane of him lit and real. He’s perfect and honest and utterly exposed, and the sight of him takes your breath away.

He steps back into you, heat radiating off him, the bare weight of his body pressing flush against yours. You reach for him like you’ll drown without the contact, and he answers in kind—touch for touch, breath for breath—until the world narrows to skin, to heat, to the pounding thud of two hearts finally syncing.

“Clark—” you gasp, eyes drinking him in—alabaster skin stretched over thick muscle, broad shoulders you’ve clung to a hundred times, and between his legs… God. He’s so big it makes your mouth water. “You’re so—”

He silences you with a kiss, lips crashing back to yours, cheeks flushed pink as though he’s embarrassed by the force of his own want. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wide again, fingers biting into your flesh like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s seconds away from losing control.

And then you feel it—the blunt, hot head of him sliding against your folds, catching on the slick heat there. The sensation tears a shudder out of you, your body trembling with raw need. Wetness pools beneath you, smearing over your thighs, dripping onto the counter. Every nerve ending screams for more, for all of him, even if it splits you in two.

“Please,” you breathe, the word almost a sob. “I need you.”

His groan is low and guttural, torn from deep in his chest as he begins to press in. You gasp when the tip breaches your entrance—thick, hot, stretching you already past what you thought possible.

“Oh, fuck,” you whimper, clutching at his shoulders. “You’re so—”

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, breath breaking. “We’ll go slow. Tell me if—”

You crush your mouth to his, silencing him with a kiss, fingers fisting in his curls. You cling, holding him close, letting him drink down every ragged noise spilling out of you.

He’s so big you feel dizzy, lightheaded, like your body can’t possibly take him. Some frantic part of your mind swears it has to be an alien thing, because no man—no human—could ever fill you like this.

Your chest heaves against his, hot, messy kisses pulling you through the sharp, searing stretch as he pushes you open inch by inch. You shift—thighs spreading wider, hips tilting, back arching—trying to make space for him. But after a few agonising inches, he stills.

“Lay back,” he pants against your lips, his breath mingling with yours.

One broad hand presses gently against your sternum, the other steadying your back as he lowers you. The cold marble bites into your overheated skin and you hiss, but he leans down instantly, pressing a soft kiss to your stomach. “Sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with restraint.

When you’re flat against the counter, the stone slowly warming beneath your skin, you lift your gaze. He’s standing over you, chest rising hard and fast, his cock barely halfway inside—and from the look on his face, he’s hanging on by the thinnest shred of control.

You don’t mean to, but your body clenches around him, greedy, aching. The sight of him like this—beautiful, bare, wrecked and still so careful with you—makes your heart squeeze even as your body burns with need.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice almost too soft as his hands stroke your sides. “I—I’ve—” his breath stutters, eyes locking on yours, wide and sincere. “I’ve never… never wanted anyone like this… like you. All of you. Forever.”

Your breath catches. Your chest aches, head spinning, and you want to cry—you think maybe you already are, sweat and tears gathering at your temples as you stare up at this impossible, perfect man. Then he moves again, pressing forward, urging you open, stretching you until your vision goes hazy and all you can do is arch your back and whimper.

He rocks deeper, slow—so unbearably slow—your body struggling to adjust around him. The angle helps, your hips tilting as his big hands guide your thighs higher, wider, coaxing you to take more of him. You breathe through the sharpness, every nerve pulled tight with need.

You can’t stop staring. Even through the haze and dizziness, you can’t tear your eyes from him—so big, so perfect, so fucking undone as he holds himself back for you. Your gaze drifts over the slope of his nose, the curve of his swollen lips, down the hard planes of his chest and stomach until it catches on the dark hair leading down to where you’re joined.

You drink him in shamelessly, memorising every detail like he’s the map to your salvation. He consumes you—body, mind, soul—and your chest aches with the sheer force of love clawing inside you. You try to remind yourself that it’s real, that you get to keep this, but it still feels impossible.

And then—he stills. His breath catches, eyes dragging up from where he’s watching himself sink into you until they lock on yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice ragged, “you did it.”

Your lashes flutter, lungs burning as you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Something dark flickers across his face, a tremor of restraint snapping thin. “Are you sure?”

You want to roll your eyes, but you’re too far gone, too desperate. Your back arches, hands sliding up to palm your breasts, fingers pinching your nipples as you breathe his name like a plea. “Clark. Please—fuck me.”

And that’s it. Whatever thread of control he had left snaps.

He moves—not smooth, but jagged—like he’s still trying to hold himself back, still trying not to break you even as instinct claws through him. He slides out just an inch before his hips snap forward, and the jolt rips a cry from you. The sting of the stretch fades quick, drowned out by the white-hot pleasure that tears through your body.

Your fingers twist your nipples again, your back arching, gasps falling from your lips as he fucks into you with slow, jolting thrusts—each one a battle against losing himself completely. But the way his breath stutters says he’s already right there, shaking, flushed, curls mussed and wild as his eyes devour every inch of you like he’s starving.

“Harder,” you beg, head tipping back. “Clark—please, I can take it.”

He shudders—like the air’s been ripped from his lungs—and then he pulls almost all the way out, only to drive back in with a brutal snap of his hips that makes you cry out. And he doesn’t stop. He thrusts into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and just can’t anymore.

“Sweetheart—” he chokes, leaning over you, his forehead pressing to yours as his hips piston into you, rough now, relentless. “You feel so good.”

His hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks. And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go.

He’s so big you feel each thrust all the way up into your chest, almost choking you with how full you are. It’s perfect. He’s everywhere—surrounding you, filling you, driving you into the cold stone until you know you’ll bruise, and you don’t care.

His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, teeth and tongue and need—but there’s nothing rushed in it. Even now, even like this, he tastes you like you’re precious, like you’re some kind of miracle he can’t stop worshipping.

You cling to him, fingers tangled in his curls, legs hooking around his hips so tight you might as well be part of him. “Clark,” you pant. “You’re gonna make me—”

“I know,” he whispers, breath hot against your lips. “Me too.”

He kisses you once more—hard, hot, desperate—before pulling back, standing upright again. One hand stays at your breast, kneading gently, while the other slips between your thighs. His fingers find your clit instantly, circling, pressing with just the right amount pressure to rip a choked moan from your throat.

Your eyes squeeze shut—you can’t hold them open anymore. You’re too close, too tightly wound, your body a live wire about to snap. Your hands tangle in your own hair, tugging, as your body writhes beneath him until his palm leaves your breast and presses flat to your abdomen, pinning you down to the counter to keep you still.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, voice low and wrecked.

Then his hand slips lower, just enough to press into your belly—and you feel it. Feel him. Thick and deep inside you. The pressure borders on pain, sharp and overwhelming, but it’s so perfect you scream his name.

Your back arches, legs trembling violently, hips chasing every brutal thrust. His cock hits that spot again and again, unrelenting, and his fingers on your clit don’t stop—slick and ruthless—and that’s all it takes.

You shatter around him, crying out loud enough to echo, body breaking apart as pleasure rips through you. Your legs quake, your fingers knot hard in your hair, trying to hold yourself together as wave after wave crashes down. He feels it—feels you clenching, fluttering, dragging him deeper—and it unravels him completely.

His thrusts falter, losing rhythm. His grip tightens—one hand bruising your hip, the other braced on the counter’s edge—as he tries, uselessly, to hold on.

You force your eyes open just in time to see it.

His mouth falls open, a breathless moan tearing from his chest. His bright blue eyes flare molten red for a heartbeat before he squeezes them shut, head thrown back, and a raw, guttural sound bursts from him as he comes. Hot and deep inside you, again and again, until his whole body shakes with it.

And then—

Crack.

The counter shifts beneath you, just slightly, but enough to still you both. Panting, dazed, still shuddering in the aftershocks, you meet each other’s eyes. For a moment you just stare, disbelief and dopey grins tugging at your mouths.

“Did you just—” you breathe, voice ragged, “—break the counter?”

His eyes drop to where his hand had been braced, and sure enough—a jagged crack splits the kitchen island clean in two.

You sit up, head swimming, and he wraps an arm around you to steady you. He’s still inside you, still pulsing a little, still impossibly thick and somehow still hard.

For a beat you both just stare at the ruined countertop.

“That’s gonna be expensive,” you say, because of course that’s what you’re thinking about right now—right after getting your brains fucked out by your best friend… who you’re also in love with.

Clark chuckles, low and breathless, and presses a soft kiss to the side of your head. “Yeah. It is.”

Then he scoops you up, arms sliding under you, and you squeal as your legs clamp around his waist and your arms loop tight around his neck. You feel him twitch inside you and the knot in your belly tightens again—already ridiculous and ready for round two.

“Maybe I need a roommate,” he says, flashing that grin that still makes your heart skip. “You know, help pay rent. Save money.”

You grin back—wide and cheesy—because holy shit, he’s so beautiful. So perfect. So impossibly Clark, and he’s yours. He loves you, you love him, and right now that’s everything.

“Is that you officially asking me to move in with you, farm boy?” you ask, brow raised as he strides through the apartment carrying you like you weigh nothing.

He laughs again and kicks the bedroom door open, turning toward the bed. “Was I not clear enough?”

You yelp when he drops you onto the mattress, the sudden loss of him inside you jarring. You bounce once, then he’s covering you with his warm, naked body and the world tilts. Your heart squeezes, your stomach flips, your whole body hums with giddy, ridiculous love.

“Let me be clearer,” he murmurs, voice low and a touch dark, as he trails slow, lazy kisses down your jaw and along your neck.

You arch into him, desperate for his touch, his skin. For everything and all of him.

“You know,” you gasp, breathless, the words catching as his mouth moves lower, “I’m pretty sure I’m out of a job, so I’m not sure if—”

Your breath catches as his mouth closes around your nipple, a soft nip soothed instantly by his tongue. You can feel his grin against your skin, those kiss-swollen lips curved into that boyish smile that makes your heart do somersaults.

“I said,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower, scattering goosebumps down your stomach, “let me be clear—I’m not letting you leave this apartment.” He pauses to suck a kiss just above your pelvis, the sound wet and obscene, making you clench around nothing. “Ever.”

Then he dips lower, and your lungs seize. Your thighs tremble. Your hands twist in the sheets as his mouth finally finds you, and the world shatters all over again.

And you know, in the deepest, hungriest part of yourself, that from this night on, there’s no going back—Clark Kent is yours, and every touch, every kiss, every gasp of him will leave you undone for the rest of your life.

Clark walked briskly down the crowded sidewalk, trying not to bump into the people rushing past him. He carried his briefcase on one arm, firmly held, while in the other hand he balanced two coffee cups that released a strong, sweet aroma. The heat of the liquid seeped through the cardboard, reminding him he had to arrive without spilling them. Every so often, he tilted his arm slightly so no one would hit him, murmuring “Excuse me,” “Sorry,” or “Thank you” with the kind of courtesy that seemed natural to him, always paired with a brief but genuine smile.

When he stepped through the building’s doors, the street noise faded behind him, replaced by the echo of footsteps, the murmur of elevators, and the scent of paper and ink that filled the newsroom. He greeted the receptionist with a “Good morning” and headed straight for the elevator. As soon as he reached the Daily Planet floor, the first thing he did was search for you. He found you right away: sitting at your desk, leaning over some documents, with Lois and Jimmy beside you. They were chatting animatedly about something you couldn’t quite hear, and you, with your furrowed brow, could barely concentrate.

Clark approached carefully. His eyes instantly caught the exhaustion etched across your face: the dark circles, your slouched posture, and the way you dragged your feet back to your desk. Lois and Jimmy didn’t look much better; all three of you had gone days without rest, and the lack of sleep hung heavily in the air.

Clark set a cup down in front of you.

“Cappuccino,” he said softly, almost as if offering you a cure.

Your expression relaxed immediately, and a smile lit up your face.

“Always saving my day, Kent,” you whispered, taking the cup with both hands and sipping the first mouthful with relief. Then you nodded toward Lois and Jimmy, still lost in conversation. “They’re waiting for you.”

Clark raised a brow and dropped into his chair, patiently straightening his ties—he always carried a spare one.

“And what exactly are they waiting for me for?”

You lowered your coffee and leaned a little closer, as if sharing a secret.

“Because they’ve lost their minds. Lois has had so much caffeine she’s basically a rocket, and Jimmy hasn’t eaten a thing. They’re frantic, desperate… searching for a vacation spot.”

Before Clark could answer, Lois’s voice thundered from behind you:

“Clark Kent, spin that damn chair!”

She couldn’t stand waiting, especially when her anxiety mixed with impatience. And although she never dared touch Clark, with you she did; without asking, she pushed your chair and dragged you into the little circle they had formed. Clark chuckled and followed, resting his arms on the back of his chair as he settled in with the others.

The four of you sat face-to-face, surrounded by folders, papers, and half-empty coffee cups. You looked at them with a resigned air.

“Looks like we’re about to summon someone,” you joked, noting how they had arranged themselves like in some sort of ritual.

“Not someone, a place,” Lois corrected, speaking so fast she was almost unintelligible. “Perry already approved our vacation time, and if we get to that day without a concrete plan, we won’t rest. And I need to rest.”

Her intensity pulled a laugh out of you that you quickly hid behind your coffee cup. You glanced at Clark from the corner of your eye, silently mouthing: “Crazy.”

He held your gaze for a moment and, though he tried to resist, ended up smiling too.

The four of you had met thanks to work, in that newsroom that had become a second home. You were the last to join Clark’s team, and perhaps for that reason you spent more time with him: revising notes, covering for each other in last-minute deadlines, and little by little, that trust grew naturally. With Jimmy and his charming clumsiness, genuine affection also developed; in fact, he and Clark had earned a place very few men held in your life: they were people you truly trusted. And Lois—well, Lois was your favorite person. The two of you were inseparable, as if the newsroom felt incomplete whenever one of you wasn’t there.

Jimmy flipped through a list of options Lois had scribbled in a notebook with exaggerated seriousness.

“Maybe Florida,” he suggested suddenly, leaning back and raising his hand as if he were already sunbathing on a lounge chair. “Beach, sun, fun.”

“Florida?” Lois repeated with a scoff, snatching the notebook from his hands. “That’s at the bottom of the list, Jimmy. The heat there is unbearable.” She shook her head hard, as if the idea was a personal insult.

Clark, who had only been listening until then, murmured timidly:

“Las Vegas?”

You whipped your head toward him and shook it firmly.

“Definitely not.”

Lois burst into sarcastic laughter.

“Yeah, sure. Perfect. Go to a place where nobody sleeps, spend money we don’t have, and come back even more exhausted than when we left.” She rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips.

You couldn’t help smiling too and gave Clark a playful nudge on the arm.

“Hey, leave little Smallville alone.”

Lois snapped her fingers, delighted with the thought.

“That’s it! Smallville. We should see where Clark comes from!” She spread her arms as if she had just discovered the ideal destination.

Jimmy nodded enthusiastically.

“Not bad… sounds peaceful.”

Clark looked up in surprise, his face caught between amusement and discomfort.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

You looked him straight in the eye, raising a brow.

“Is it, Clark?”

He shrugged, though a smile brightened his eyes.

“We wouldn’t spend on rent. My parents could host us without any problem.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Lois lifted the notebook as if jotting down a victory.

“Hey, he has to ask them first,” you added, folding your arms.

Clark didn’t hesitate. “They’ll say yes, I know it. The countryside is perfect: no noise, no traffic, just nature.”

His enthusiasm was so sincere that, for a moment, you could picture it: green fields stretching endlessly, a vast sky unbroken by skyscrapers, and air so clean it felt like another world compared to the city.

“And what would we do there?” Jimmy asked wryly. “Compete to see who harvests fastest?”

The remark sent you into a fit of laughter. Clark turned to Jimmy with a playful look, and you answered: “Rest, Olsen. That’s what vacations are for.”

For the first time in the entire conversation, Lois didn’t argue. She leaned against the table, smiling in satisfaction. “Then it’s settled. Smallville.”

And so it was that, the following week, they all ended up crammed into Jimmy’s car. He had insisted on driving, Lois claimed the passenger seat as if it were her birthright, and you wound up in the back next to Clark.

The part “next to Clark” sounded better than it actually was: he was pressed against the window, and you were stuck in the middle because on the other side were enormous suitcases—almost all of them Jimmy’s. The space was so tight that your knees brushed Clark’s every time the car hit a bump.

Jimmy glanced at his phone with the map open as he drove, moving his lips as if narrating the trip live. “Aha… six and a half hours if there’s no traffic. Perfect!” he announced with a cheerfulness no one else shared.

“Perfect?” Lois repeated, turning toward him. “Jimmy, six and a half hours of listening to you sing in the car doesn’t sound like a vacation.”

Clark let out a chuckle and leaned slightly toward you, as if sharing a secret. “What Lois doesn’t know is that Jimmy only knows two songs all the way through.”

“Hey!” Jimmy protested from behind the wheel.

“It’s true,” you added, laughing. “One’s by Elvis and the other’s by the Beatles.”

Jimmy opened his mouth, feigning indignation, but soon grinned. “Well, then I’ll sing those two… for six hours straight.”

“If you do, I’ll kick you out of the car myself,” Lois threatened, though she sounded more amused than annoyed.

The rattle of the car and the accumulated fatigue finally got the best of you. Your eyelids closed, and before you knew it, your head had tilted onto Clark’s shoulder. He tensed immediately, startled, but soon relaxed. The warmth of your cheek against his shirt sent a wave through his whole body, and once he accepted it, his lips curved into a shy smile. His cheeks flushed, and though he tried to stay calm, he felt like a teenager who had just been granted a wish he never dared to say out loud.

“Comfortable back there, Clark?” Lois asked from the front seat, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror with a mischievous smile. Clark cleared his throat, uneasy. “I’m not…” he mumbled, worried you might hear even in your sleep.

Jimmy didn’t miss the chance to jump in. “She’s blind to that kind of thing.”

“Completely,” Lois finished, and the two burst out laughing while Clark struggled to keep his composure.

They didn’t notice, but Clark’s eyes opened a little wider, his mind tangled. God… he hadn’t really thought about what it meant to take you to his parents’ house. He talked about you so much in every call, in every letter, that it was impossible for them not to know you already through his words. Martha had grown used to hearing your name as if it were part of her daily routine. And Jonathan, always curious, ended up asking: “And how’s the young lady?” every time Clark called. There wasn’t a day he didn’t mention you, and in that moment, he realized he had dug his own trap: taking you to Smallville meant exposing the secret he had kept to himself until now… that he was in love with you.

When Martha heard about the idea of the trip, she hadn’t hesitated for a second. She accepted immediately, with the warmth that defined her. She hadn’t even needed Clark to remind her that you would be coming along; in truth, both she and Jonathan wanted to meet you in person, to put a face to the woman their son spoke of with such devotion.

The sun was beginning to set when you opened your eyes, groggy from sleep. You straightened up, grabbed an orange soda Jimmy had bought at a gas station, and looked out the window. The scenery had completely changed: no more skyscrapers or endless traffic lights, but open fields stretching as far as the eye could see.

“Are we there yet?” you asked sleepily, stretching your arms with a long sigh.

Clark glanced at you sideways, with that gentle smile he seemed to save just for you. “Almost.”

When the car turned onto a dirt road, you saw it. Clark’s house appeared before you like something out of an old postcard: a simple wooden structure, its colors weathered by the years but still full of life. The white of the façade looked aged, but instead of lessening its charm, it gave it a welcoming air. A bench painted the same color sat by the entrance, surrounded by flowerpots that added a fresh, homely touch.

You sighed as you looked at it. It was a modest place, but it radiated peace. Home. That was the thought that came immediately to mind. So Clark, you thought tenderly.

Lois got out of the car, stretching her legs as if she’d just finished a marathon. “Finally! One more minute and I’d have killed someone.”

Jimmy lowered the volume of the music that had been playing for the last two hours and shook his hair. “Come on, admit it—the trip was good thanks to my driving.”

“You’re here, Jonathan!” came Martha’s warm voice from the wooden door as it creaked open.

You turned your head curiously at the same time as Lois and Jimmy. The golden light of dusk lit up the woman’s figure, making her seem even more inviting.

“Hi, Ma,” Clark said naturally, almost forgetting his friends were watching. He strode over and wrapped her in a hug that seemed to erase the weariness of the trip. Then he greeted his father, who welcomed him with a firm pat on the back.

The scene caught you off guard. A light smile appeared on your lips, though you couldn’t avoid a pang of nostalgia. You had never received something like that, not even as a child. That kind of family warmth seemed like a luxury others had by default, one you could only admire from the outside. Still, seeing Clark in that setting struck you as tender; he, so tall and serious in the city, transformed into a grateful son in seconds. Some people are luckier in life than others, you thought, swallowing softly.

When Clark turned to you all, ready to make introductions, Martha interrupted with a sharp, knowing look that darted from Lois to you. You blinked, confused, and almost instinctively hid behind Jimmy and Lois, as if they could shield you.

“She’s the one, isn’t she, Clark?” Martha whispered, her eyes sparkling with complicity.

You didn’t realize she meant you, so you looked around, bewildered.

Clark cleared his throat, uncomfortable but steady. “Mom, Dad… let me introduce my friends. This is Jimmy Olsen.”

“Pleasure,” Jimmy said, extending his hand. Martha greeted him with a warm smile, and Jonathan nodded approvingly.

“This is Lois Lane,” Clark continued, and Jonathan shook her hand firmly while Lois responded with her confident smile.

Finally, Clark said your name. When his parents laid eyes on you, it felt like the ground shrank beneath your feet. You blushed helplessly and nervously extended your hand. “Nice to meet you…”

Martha ignored the gesture completely. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped you in a warm embrace, holding you tightly against her chest. “Oh, how lovely you are!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm.

Your eyes widened like saucers. You glanced sideways at Lois and Jimmy for support, but they had already turned their faces away, biting their lips to keep from bursting out laughing.

Clark had mentioned more than once that you weren’t a fan of physical contact, but this… well, this was Martha. Clark’s mother, who hugged him as if he were still her little boy, and now with you, she couldn’t contain the same tenderness.

Rigid, you managed to lift a hand and give her a couple of pats on the back, more out of respect than anything else.

“Thank you…” you murmured awkwardly, forcing a smile.

Jonathan, noticing the tension, intervened in a calm voice.

“Forgive Martha. She loves hugging the people Clark cares about… and now, of course, those who care about him.” He extended his hand toward Lois and Jimmy as a gesture of inclusion.

You nodded silently, trying to regain your composure, and stepped back, your cheeks still burning.

“Let them in, Clark!” said Martha, looking at her son with that hostess energy that admitted no refusal. “Don’t leave them at the door, we already prepared the rooms so they’ll be comfortable.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Kent. I’m sorry to intrude on your home,” Jimmy stepped forward, always polite, entering with a nervous smile.

“It’s no intrusion, young man,” Martha replied, adjusting her apron. “The house is happier with guests.”

Each one began unloading their luggage from the car. Lois, practical as always, carried a medium suitcase full of clothes but neatly organized; Jimmy, on the other hand, seemed to have packed for a month-long trip and struggled to pull his huge bags from the back seat. Clark carried only a backpack on his shoulder; after all, most of his clothes were already in Smallville.

When he noticed your suitcase, small in comparison, he picked it up immediately and naturally.

“It’s not necessary, Clark,” you said quietly, glancing at him and then at his parents watching from the porch. “What will they think? That we mistreat their ‘cocoon’?” you added mockingly, raising your eyebrows.

Clark smiled, that shy and charming smile that always appeared when you were near. “Trust me, my mom would scold me if she saw me not helping.”

You couldn’t argue; you nodded silently and let him carry your suitcase.

The group entered the house. The inside was as warm as you had imagined: a living room with polished wooden furniture, lace curtains letting in soft light, and framed photographs showing family memories—Clark as a child with crooked teeth, Clark as a teenager in a football uniform, Clark with his parents in different seasons of the year. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, mixed with a faint aroma of apple and cinnamon.

Martha walked a few steps ahead, but when she noticed you lagging behind, she slowed and walked at your side. Her presence was kind, but at the same time uncomfortable; not because you disliked her, but because the warmth of people like her or Clark was hard for you to grasp. You weren’t quite sure how to react.

“Here’s yours, dear,” Martha said, stopping in front of a white wooden door.

You froze for a second, a little surprised by the gesture. “Oh… thank you,” you replied, offering a timid smile.

Martha opened the door and pointed inside: a simple room with a bed covered by a quilt of small flowers, a nightstand with a lamp, and a rug that creaked softly underfoot.

“I placed it next to the bathroom, because I know you’re afraid of walking at night,” she added without hesitation.

Your eyes widened in shock. Slowly, you turned toward Clark, who stood right beside you, visibly blushing. “Mom…” he muttered, like a child caught in mischief.

“Show her everything, Clark.” Martha patted his shoulder affectionately before turning away. “And right across from you is your room, sweetheart.” With that, she left with Jonathan to continue helping Lois and Jimmy.

You stood frozen in the doorway, hands crossed in front of you, glaring at Clark suspiciously. “Tell me you haven’t told her something bad about me,” you whispered, narrowing your eyes.

Clark avoided your gaze, pretending to inspect the ceiling as if something interesting were there. “She knows a few things about everyone,” he replied nervously.

“Bad things?” you pressed, taking a step closer.

He shook his head, and a calm smile spread across his lips. “Nothing bad. Just… things that would make her like you faster.” His sincerity caught you off guard.

Then, with the patience that defined him, he pointed to the hallway. “The bathroom is here, right next to you. You can leave the hall light on at night, it’s fine. I asked Mom to remove the mirrors since I know they make you uncomfortable, and the window doesn’t open to the fields; it’s covered with a thick curtain, plus it has bars and locks from the inside.”

You stared at him silently for a moment, processing the detail with which he had gone out of his way to remember everything. Part of you wanted to joke, another could only feel a strange warmth in your chest. “Thank you,” you finally murmured, lowering your voice.

Clark nodded, satisfied, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. And that smile—the one he only showed when he was sure he had made you feel a little calmer—stayed with you.

He left you in your room, letting you settle your things in peace. He made sure you knew how to turn on the lamp and where the drawer key was in case you wanted to store your more personal belongings. Then, with a shy smile, he said goodbye:

“If you need anything… just knock.”

“Of course, Clark,” you replied, still a little embarrassed about the earlier conversation with Martha, but grateful for how attentive he was.

You closed the door and took a deep breath, looking around the room which, though not yours, already felt a little less strange thanks to the details he had prepared.

Meanwhile, Lois and Jimmy were also settling into their rooms. Lois arranged her things with military precision, hanging a couple of blouses and placing her notebook on the nightstand; Jimmy, in contrast, had already opened a suitcase and dumped half a mountain of clothes onto the floor.

Clark went back down to the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread and hot soup greeted him like a familiar caress. Martha and Jonathan were there, standing, exchanging complicit glances while waiting for him. When Clark sat at the table, they did too, leaning toward him as if plotting a conspiracy.

“What a lovely girl, Clark,” Martha said softly, with a maternal smile.

“She clearly respects everything, even the quietness of the house,” added Jonathan, resting his arms on the table.

Clark lowered his gaze to his empty plate, nervously moving his fingers. “Don’t be so obvious,” he muttered. “You might scare her away.”

Martha stroked his hand tenderly. “We won’t be obvious, sweetheart. We’re just happy to see you like this. My boy… you look so happy with her.”

Clark pressed his lips together, unable to hide the sparkle in his eyes. “I am,” he admitted in a whisper. “But I already told you… she’s not interested in relationships. I don’t want her to… stop being my friend.”

Jonathan watched him with the seriousness of a father who knew his son well. “If you don’t try, you’ll never know if she might give you a chance.”

Silence settled in the kitchen. Clark looked toward the window, where the last light of sunset bathed the fields. He knew his father was right, but he also knew your story too well.

You didn’t know it, but Lois and Jimmy, over time, had told him fragments of your life that explained your way of being. And what he hadn’t heard from their lips, he had noticed in every gesture of yours: that way of protecting yourself, of building walls, of running when someone got too close.

Clark thought of you with a knot in his chest. You weren’t like Lois, who enjoyed the thrill of every romance, nor like Jimmy, who always fell fast. For you, love was a minefield. You knew there was always a betrayal hidden somewhere. You had learned it by watching your parents: a mother who never knew how to give you affection, who repeated how much she hated you; an absent father whose presence was barely a shadow. You grew up in a home without hugs, without sweet words, without anyone looking at you with pride.

And that’s why, whenever someone showed you interest, you pulled away. It was easier to escape than risk repeating your mother’s story: a broken marriage, love turned into pain. You had promised yourself: if you could avoid suffering, you would.

Clark understood. That’s why he hadn’t taken a single step beyond friendship. He didn’t want you to run from him, he didn’t want to lose the laughter you shared with Lois, or the trust with which you confided your fears in a low voice. He knew your way of showing affection wasn’t through hugs or caresses. You hated physical contact because you had never known it in a healthy way; no one had ever taught you.

Jonathan broke the silence with a firm voice. “Son, you can’t always protect yourself from the ‘what ifs.’ Sometimes you have to take a risk.”

Clark looked at him seriously. “What if I lose her, Dad? What if I try to tell her what I feel and she… walks away forever?”

Martha watched him tenderly, her eyes full of understanding. “Then at least you’ll have been honest. You can’t live with your heart locked away forever, Clark. She needs it more than you think, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.”

Clark sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He didn’t answer. Deep down, he knew: you were afraid of love, but he was willing to be patient. He only hoped that time would be on his side.

You woke up after a heavy sleep, the kind that only comes when the body is exhausted. Darkness filtered through the window, and the murmur of the countryside was different from that of the city: crickets, the wind creaking against the branches, and a silence so deep it seemed to embrace you. You stretched slowly and, with soft steps, left the room. You imagined everyone was still asleep after the long trip, but when you went down the stairs, the kitchen light surprised you.

There was Martha, wearing her apron, chopping vegetables on the wooden table. The aroma of spices filled the air. When she heard you, she looked up and gave you a warm smile.

"Mrs. Kent, it can’t be…" you said shyly, your cheeks burning. "You preparing dinner while we’re still sleeping."

Martha laughed softly, shaking her head. "Don’t worry, dear. It’s nothing bad. You’re Clark’s friends… and he always talks about you."

"Let me help you," you said quickly, stepping closer.

She nodded with pleasure and handed you a plate of ham. "In small strips, please."

You nodded and stood beside her, focused on cutting. The atmosphere was calm, almost intimate, until you noticed Martha watching you from the corner of her eye. That look you recognized: the same eyes shifting discreetly, the same play of lips, the same held breath Clark had whenever he wanted to ask you something important and didn’t know how to start.

"How long have you been friends with Clark?" she finally asked, her casual tone fooling no one.

You smiled, lowering your gaze to the cutting board. "He joined the Daily Planet almost at the same time I did… about a week later, if I remember correctly. I guess he was the one I relied on the most. We were the new ones." You paused for a moment and looked up. "So… about a year, more or less."

"Oh… so you know him well," Martha replied, as if connecting puzzle pieces.

"So it seems," you said with a half-smile.

There was a brief silence before Martha asked the blunt question:

"And do you know if Clark is seeing anyone?"

Her frankness caught you off guard. You blinked, unsure how to respond. "I don’t know…" you finally admitted, shrugging.

Martha smiled subtly, as if she had expected that answer. "I thought maybe you or the other young woman might have something with my Clark. He’s a good man."

You took a deep breath before answering. "We’re friends." Your voice was firm, though softened by a sincere smile. "But yes, he’s a good man. I don’t deny someone will show up."

"And you two never… felt anything more than friendship?" she insisted, with that motherly tone that left no escape. "You’re a small group, sometimes those things happen."

You shook your head gently, with a serene smile. "Clark deserves someone better than me. Maybe… like Lois," you joked, trying to take weight off the conversation.

But Martha didn’t laugh. Her face darkened slightly, with a sadness you couldn’t ignore.

"Oh, don’t worry," you said quickly, raising your hands. "I don’t put myself down. I just… have other interests than falling in love."

You bit your lip. You were expecting a lecture; after all, Clark had already tried to convince you more than once not to close your heart. You didn’t want to hear the same words again.

"Love isn’t bad, dear," Martha said softly, slicing lettuce without taking her eyes off you.

Your hands froze for a second over the knife. Those words… you had heard them before, from another voice, in another moment. Clark had repeated them when you argued about your fears, when you confessed that love was a broken chain in your life.

And now you were in front of his mother, who spoke to you with the same tone full of faith and tenderness.

"It’s destructive too, if it’s not given the right way," you replied, locking your gaze on hers.

Martha studied you carefully, as if she could see beyond your words, as if she was deciphering the wounds you carried. She was about to say something else when the kitchen door slowly opened.

The sound made both of you turn your heads.

In the doorway stood Clark. He was wearing worn jeans, brown boots with a trace of dirt, a simple white shirt, and a checkered red-and-white overshirt. His hair was a little messy, strands stuck to his forehead with sweat. His face was streaked with dust, probably from helping on the farm. Yet his eyes lit up the moment they saw you.

"We were at the farm," Jonathan explained as he came in behind him, brushing his hands as if still carrying the work. Then he looked at you with a slight bow. "Miss."

You smiled politely, inclining your head a little. Meanwhile, Martha nodded in satisfaction. "Of course, dinner’s almost ready. Clark, your friend is good in the kitchen," she said proudly.

Clark raised an eyebrow curiously. "Really?"

"I learned to cut ham," you replied with irony, holding up a strip between your fingers.

Clark chuckled softly, nodding as if it were a huge accomplishment. He was about to come closer, but Martha lifted an accusing finger at both him and his father. "No, no. Both of you go change first. I don’t want dirt on my table!"

The seriousness in her voice made you laugh. Clark rolled his eyes, obedient, while Jonathan muttered, "We’re going, we’re going," with resignation.

Suddenly, the kitchen lights flickered with an electric buzz. The bulb blinked twice before stabilizing. You instantly looked up, swallowing hard.

Martha kept calmly chopping vegetables, and Jonathan just snorted. "The power’s acting up again," he said without concern.

You tried to smile, faking calm, but your stomach tightened. Old houses and blackouts always put you on edge.

"Go on, dear, leave it. I’ll finish here. Clark, go with her to wake up your friends," Martha ordered, pointing toward the hallway.

You nodded gratefully. You walked with Clark to the stairs, when suddenly a loud bang echoed: the front door swung wide open, pushed by a sudden gust of wind. Cold air swept into the house, making the curtains whip violently.

You jumped and immediately hid behind Clark, clutching the sleeve of his shirt with both hands. He froze in place. He knew perfectly well how much you hated anything that felt like a horror movie.

And then the worst happened: the lights went out completely. The house was plunged into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the moon seeping through the window.

"Clark…" you whispered in a trembling voice, pressing yourself against his back, squeezing your eyes shut.

He didn’t move; his body was a firm wall in front of you. "It’s normal here," he whispered calmly.

"Don’t tell me that…" you replied with nervous irony, barely opening your eyes. You could only make out his silhouette.

He slowly turned toward you. The closeness made your breath catch. His voice was soft, steady: "Easy."

You nodded, but your fingers stayed tight on his arm, as if letting go were unthinkable.

A few seconds later, the light returned with an electric snap. The bulb shone brightly above you. You were so close to Clark you could see the curve of his lips, the faint flush on his cheeks, and that gaze that seemed to hold you more firmly than the light itself.

From the kitchen, Martha had seen it. She didn’t say anything, only smiled tenderly. Maybe Clark had never said it out loud, but it was obvious: you were the only person he allowed that close… and the most surprising thing was that you let him. Even if you didn’t admit it, Clark was your refuge.

You sighed, letting the air leave your lungs slowly. Discreetly, you stepped back and looked at the bulb, as if your whole attention was on it. "It’s stable now…" you murmured.

Clark didn’t reply; he only watched you patiently.

"Let’s go," you finally said, regaining some composure.

He nodded, smiling calmly.

You went up to the second floor with Clark behind you. The first door was Lois’s. You knocked softly before opening. "Lane, get up, dinner’s ready," you announced as you turned on the light.

Lois groaned half-asleep, burying her face in the pillow. "Five more minutes…"

Clark smiled with amusement, leaning against the doorframe. You crossed your arms. "Five more minutes and Martha will come get you herself. Trust me, you don’t want that."

Lois huffed, but eventually sat up, messy-haired and grumpy. "Fine, fine."

You then went to Jimmy’s room. You opened the door without warning, grabbed a pillow from the bed, and slammed it against him. "Olsen, wake up!"

Jimmy jumped, his hair disheveled. "What… what the hell?!"

You smacked him with the pillow again, and Clark burst into laughter behind you. "Done," you said, calmly putting the pillow back.

"One day I’ll get my revenge," Jimmy grumbled, but his smile gave him away.

Dinner was a true feast. Martha had prepared roasted chicken, homemade bread, fresh salads, and an apple pie that filled the whole house with its sweet aroma. Jonathan poured lemonade while Lois tried to "help" in the kitchen, though in reality she only picked at pieces of bread. Jimmy didn’t stop praising the food with every bite.

"Mrs. Kent, if you adopt me, I promise I’ll wash the dishes every day," he said with his mouth full.

Everyone laughed. Martha, amused and flattered, patted his shoulder. "I’ll think about it, Jimmy."

Clark watched you in silence while talking with his father about that year’s harvest. He did it from the corner of his eye, discreetly, as if afraid you would notice his constant attention. He saw how uneasy you felt when Martha served more food on your plate than you asked for, filling the table with homemade generosity. He also noticed your slight stiffness when Jonathan made light jokes about "Clark’s special friends," as if you weren’t sure how to react.

But at the same time, he also saw something different: that spark in your eyes when Jimmy made one of his silly remarks and everyone ended up laughing. A genuine spark, of surprise, as if you weren’t used to laughter filling a table.

Martha placed more bread in the center and leaned toward you. "Eat peacefully, dear. No one goes hungry here."

"Thank you…" you said softly, lowering your gaze to your plate. You bit your lip with a lump in your throat.

You couldn’t help it: that scene, the full table, the voices overlapping, the warmth in every gesture… it all felt almost unreal. You had never had a family dinner like this. You had never had someone serve you food with tenderness or ask how your day had gone. And being there, surrounded by that homely normality, made you emotional.

You rested your hands on your lap so no one would notice your fingers tightening. Don’t cry, not here, you told yourself.

That’s when you looked up and found him. Clark was already watching you. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make any big gesture. He just held your gaze with that calmness that always seemed to promise you safety.

Your lips curved slightly, a small, timid smile that appeared before you could control it. Clark, in response, let his eyes soften and a similar faint smile appeared on his lips, as if silently thanking you for sharing that moment.

Jonathan, busy telling a farm anecdote, didn’t notice. Lois and Jimmy were too absorbed in arguing about what they would do the next day. But Martha, from the other end of the table, caught it. And in her mother’s heart she knew something was happening, even if you two weren’t brave enough to admit it yet.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

Mr. Terrific leaned forward, fiddling with the edge of the table. “Except… there was one. One universe where you did end up together. Same you. Same Clark.” He glanced at Batman, then away. “But… it’s complicated.”

Clark’s brow furrowed, confusion and curiosity flashing across his face. “Complicated how?”

No one answered right away. Wonder Woman’s gaze softened as she looked at you, then Leia. “We didn’t want to bring it up until we were certain. Because… seeing it might not be what you expect.”

Clark tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “If there’s a universe where we found each other, I want to see it. I need to. You’re saying this exists. Show me.”

The silence that followed was thicker than before, filled with the hum of the Watchtower’s systems.

Finally, Batman spoke again, flat but firm. “That’s not a good idea.”

Clark frowned, frustration simmering in his chest. “Why not?”

“Because,” Batman’s eyes cut to you, then to Leia, “the universe where you ended up together isn’t the kind of world you want to visit.”

You felt your stomach twist. “What do you mean?”

Batman crossed his arms, his voice grim. “It’s not just about who’s with who. That universe… something went wrong. Something big. And from what we’ve seen, it may have everything to do with the two of you.”

Clark straightened in his chair, his hand gripping yours tighter, as if the very idea of losing you, even in another universe, was unacceptable. “Then I have to know.”

His voice was calm, but it carried that steel edge only Superman could summon.

The other League members exchanged uneasy glances. It was clear they weren’t hiding this out of malice, but out of fear of what seeing that world would do to you both.

And as Leia stirred in your arms, letting out a soft, sleepy coo, you couldn’t help but feel the unspoken weight behind all their hesitations.

Whatever had happened in that other universe… it was tied to your love story.

-

The Watchtower’s air felt thinner after Batman’s words.

“Destroyed?” Clark repeated, his voice sharp, clipped. He leaned forward, his free hand braced on the table. “What do you mean destroyed?”

Batman’s jaw tightened. “Exactly what I said. That universe no longer exists. Its Earth… gone. Its people, its sky, its stars. Nothing remains.” He looked at you then, his gaze heavy and deliberate. “Except for a message. A file.”

Your pulse jumped. Leia whimpered in your arms, sensing your unease. You rocked her gently, trying to calm both her and yourself. “A file?”

Batman gave a short nod. “Their Batman sent it out, a failsafe of sorts. Broadcast through the lattice of the multiverse to… us. To every Batman across every reality. A warning.”

Clark’s grip on your hand was unshakable now, his jaw set in steel. “And you’ve seen it?”

“I have.” Batman’s tone carried no hesitation, though something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “So has Diana.”

Wonder Woman folded her hands on the table, her golden bracers catching the light. “It is not an easy thing to witness. It was meant for those who could… carry the burden.” Her gaze softened at you. “For those who have everything to lose, it is dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Clark repeated, almost incredulous. “You’re telling us there’s a universe where Y/N and I ended up together, and it ended in obliteration, and you expect us to turn our backs on that knowledge?”

“Clark.” Diana’s voice was calm but firm. “You have your world. You have your daughter.” She looked at Leia, who was gnawing sleepily on her fist. “Knowing what befell another version of you may not protect this one. It may only haunt it.”

For a moment, you wanted to agree. To let this end here, with the unknown. But a gnawing fear was already seeded in your chest. What if there was something in that message that mattered? Something you needed to know?

Clark turned to you, his face etched with conflict. “If there’s even a chance it could help us…help protect you, protect Leia…we have to see it.”

You met his gaze, heart thundering. He wasn’t asking as Superman. He was asking as your husband, the father of your child. And you knew your answer before your lips parted.

“Then we’ll watch it.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t argue. He only tapped a control on the console in front of him. The lights dimmed. A screen descended silently from the ceiling.

For a long moment, the blackness of the display was all there was. Then it flickered to life, static giving way to the grim, lined face of another Batman. His cowl was cracked, his cape torn, his voice low and urgent.

“If you’re seeing this…” the alternate Batman began, “…then my world is already gone. And yours may not be far behind.”

Your breath caught, and you felt Clark’s hand tighten around yours like a vow.

-

The static buzzed, and the video shifted.

This time, the grain of the footage was sharper, as if burned into whatever recording devices were still functioning in that broken universe. The alternate Batman’s voice was quieter now, as though weighed down by what he knew was about to be shown.

“It wasn’t quick,” he said.

The screen showed a warehouse. Rusted beams, broken glass, and the Joker’s unmistakable laugh echoing through the darkness. The camera angle was jagged, but you could see your other self tied to a chair. Your hair hung in damp strands against your face, your arms bound behind you. Beside you, in a small, cracked crib, was Leia.

Your throat closed. Even though it wasn’t your Leia, it was close enough. It hurt to think of what possibly happened.

The door burst open. A blur of red and blue. The alternate Clark. His face was wild, frantic, desperate. He was too late, and somehow you knew it before the footage confirmed it.

“NO!” His roar shook the walls, but it was a second too late.

The Joker was there, standing between him and you. His hand dripped crimson, the knife gleaming in the flickering light. He gestured at you like a magician unveiling a trick. You were slumped forward, lifeless. Blood streaked down your dress.

And beside you…Leia was silent. Too silent.

The alternate Superman staggered forward, his knees nearly buckling as he dropped beside you. His hands trembled violently as he untied your restraints, as if sheer willpower could undo what had been done. He cradled your face, pressed his ear to your lips, tried to breathe life back into you with words choked in agony.

“Please. Please, don’t...don’t leave me. Y/N—” His voice cracked, raw and unrecognizable.

Then he turned to the crib. He lifted the tiny body into his arms, holding it to his chest, rocking as though rocking could fix it, could erase it. His sobs tore through the speakers, guttural and broken.

Behind him, the Joker doubled over in laughter. “Oh, Supes, you should’ve seen the look on your face. Priceless! Absolutely priceless! The girl…your girl! The little star in your sky?” He mimed an explosion with his hands, cackling. “Gone. Just like that. Because I can.”

Superman’s shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he stood, cradling Leia’s body in one arm, turning toward the Joker. His face was no longer grief, it was something else. Empty. Cold.

The Joker’s laughter faltered for the first time. “Oh… ohhh, that’s the look I like. Come on, big guy. Show me what happens when the strongest man alive breaks.”

The footage jumped, but you didn’t need to see the rest. The sound was enough—the wet, meaty crack of bone, the sudden end to laughter, the roar that followed.

Batman’s voice cut back in, gravel rasping against the silence. “That was the moment. The instant Clark Kent died with his family. What rose after was not a man. It was wrath incarnate. My world never recovered.”

The screen froze on the image of the alternate Superman, his cape torn, his hands bloody, standing in the ruins of the warehouse with your body in one arm and Leia in the other. His eyes glowed red, but there was no heat. Only unending grief.

-

The world fell away the moment Clark burst through the warehouse doors.

He had been faster than sound, faster than light…yet somehow, impossibly, too slow. The acrid stench of smoke and gasoline hit him first, the dim glow of a single flickering bulb casting shadows that clawed at the walls. Then came the sound—Joker’s laugh, high and unhinged, cutting through the dark like broken glass.

But the sight that greeted him froze his heart in his chest.

You were there, tied to a chair, your head slumped forward. Your dress was stained deep red, the cruel cut of a knife visible even from where he stood. Your skin was pale, your chest unmoving.

Beside you, in a cracked crib, was Leia. Still. Silent.

“No…” His voice cracked, raw and strangled. His knees buckled beneath him as he staggered forward. His hands shook as he reached for you, untying the bonds with clumsy, desperate fingers. He lifted your face, pressing his ear to your lips, his mouth to yours, begging for breath that wasn’t there.

“Please…please, no. Y/N, wake up, please. Don’t do this to me. Not you, not you… I can fix this…I can—”

His words blurred into sobs, the kind that tore themselves from the deepest part of him. The kind that didn’t sound like Superman, or Clark Kent, or any man at all. It was the howl of a soul being torn in half.

He turned to Leia next, scooping her into his arms, rocking her the way he always did when she fussed, whispering her name through broken gasps. But she was cold. Still. He pressed his lips to her forehead, to her tiny fingers, willing warmth back into her, begging the universe to take him instead.

“Not her. Please, not her too.” His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor, both of you held tight against him. His sobs echoed through the warehouse, primal and unrelenting. “You’re my world. You’re my whole world. You can’t… you can’t be gone.”

At the sound of the Joker’s voice, Clark froze. The sobs in his chest transformed into something deeper, darker. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. His arms tightened around you and Leia as though he could fuse your souls back into his by sheer will.

Something in Clark snapped. His grief boiled into rage so absolute it stripped away every ounce of restraint he had ever carried.

He lowered your body and Leia’s gently, reverently, onto the ground, as though tucking you into bed. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, to Leia’s tiny cheek, his tears falling onto both of you. Then he rose.

The Joker’s smile faltered when he saw his eyes.

There was no time for another word. Superman was on him in a blink, his hand punching straight through Joker’s chest with a sickening crack. The laughter stopped, cut off mid-breath. Blood stained Clark’s fist as he held the man aloft, the shock frozen on Joker’s painted face.

He squeezed, and the Joker’s body went limp.

The warehouse fell silent. The only sound left was Clark’s ragged breathing as he let the body fall with a dull thud. He turned back to you and Leia, falling to his knees once more, gathering you both into his arms. He rocked you gently, whispering broken promises into the void.

“I’ll never let go. I’ll never stop loving you. If the world won’t give me justice, then I’ll take it myself.” His eyes glowed red again, searing with grief and fury. “They’ll all pay. Every last one of them.”

And in that moment, as he cradled his wife and daughter’s lifeless bodies in the ruins of that warehouse, Clark Kent died. What rose in his place was something else entirely—something the world would never be able to contain.

-

The footage shifted.

It showed the alternate Superman hovering above a city skyline you barely recognized. It was Metropolis, but broken. Smoke rose from collapsed towers, ash drifted like snow. His cape was shredded, his hair disheveled, his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes glowed an unearthly, unblinking red.

Batman’s voice narrated over the footage. “After that night, there was no going back. He declared war—not on crime, not on corruption, but on choice. He started with the Joker.”

The footage changed to show the Joker’s body, limp and mangled, displayed in Gotham’s streets. Citizens recoiled in horror. The next footage was of Lex Luthor, bound in twisted steel girders, screaming as Superman dropped him at the steps of the United Nations. “There will be no more villains,” the alternate Clark thundered to the cameras. “I will end them all.”

Belle Reve and Arkham Asylum, engulfed in flames. Guards fled while Superman flew through its wreckage, dragging criminals out one by one. The screen flickered, and you saw Two-Face, Scarecrow, Poison Ivy, all lying unconscious, beaten into submission.

Then, more chillingly, you saw him hovering above Gotham’s rooftops, his eyes sweeping the city. “No more trials. No more games. I decide.”

Your chest tightened as the video shifted again—Wonder Woman of that universe stood at his side, her sword drawn, as they enforced “order” with unyielding violence. Heroes who resisted—Green Arrow, Hawkgirl—fell in battle, their bodies dragged off-screen.

“Not all stood with him,” Batman’s voice continued. “But enough did. They believed his grief gave him clarity. That the only way to save the world was to rule it.”

The footage cut to an international broadcast. The alternate Superman floated before a sea of microphones, his voice echoing across the globe.

“There will be no more wars. No more dictators. No more corruption. You will obey, or you will fall.”

Soldiers dropped their weapons at his feet. Leaders bowed their heads. Entire nations surrendered without a fight.

The screen shifted again: the Daily Planet, its globe in ruins. Lois Lane tried to speak out on a broadcast, calling his reign tyranny. The footage cut violently, her body dragged away by armored soldiers marked with Superman’s crest.

Your Clark, sitting beside you, had gone rigid. His face was pale, his jaw locked tight. He held Leia’s tiny hand as if she were his only tether to sanity.

Batman’s narration dropped lower, heavier. “He eliminated villains first. Then dissenters. Then anyone who dared to question his rule. Grief had hollowed him out. What was left was something my world could not survive.”

The screen filled with another haunting image: Superman, hovering in orbit, his eyes glowing like twin suns. Beneath him, the Earth smoldered with scars, oceans boiling at the edges.

“From protector to dictator,” Batman’s voice finished. “From symbol to sovereign. Clark’s love for his wife and daughter became the world’s undoing. If they fall, he falls. And when he falls… there is no one alive who can stop him.”

-

The footage changed again, this time showing a recording from Batman’s cowl.

Metropolis had changed.

The once-bustling streets were quiet now, heavy with fear. Patrol drones hovered overhead like carrion birds, their red eyes scanning every corner.

But the heart of the city was dominated by two colossal shrines. Gleaming towers of crystal and steel rose above the ruins of Centennial Park, shimmering with an alien light. They were beautiful…painfully beautiful. Each one etched with Kryptonian symbols that spelled your name and Leia’s, your likeness and hers carved with such precision that passersby often stopped to weep. At night, they glowed so brightly it looked as though two new stars had fallen onto the earth.

“Clark.”

The Kryptonian didn’t turn. His voice was low, thick, the words edged with exhaustion. “I wondered when you’d come.”

Bruce stopped several feet away. “I had to. The others… they’re scared of you. They should be. You’ve crossed a line you can’t come back from.”

Clark finally turned, his eyes bloodshot, his face gaunt. There was no trace of the farmboy, no trace of the reporter who once laughed freely in the bullpen of the Daily Planet. Only a hollow man who had seen the worst and could not let it go.

“You talk about lines, Bruce. But what would you know about this?” His voice cracked. “About holding them…holding her—” he gestured to your shrine, his hand shaking, “and realizing you’ll never hear her laugh again? About cradling your daughter and feeling her grow cold in your arms?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.

Clark stepped closer, his voice rising. “You’ve lost parents. I’ve lost a planet. But this… this was different. This was my world. My wife. My baby girl. And they died screaming for me.” His voice broke into a ragged sob, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I was too slow, Bruce. Superman was too slow.”

Bruce’s silence only deepened the ache in the air. He wanted to say something. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine it. I wish it hadn’t been you. But words felt useless in the face of grief that vast.

Clark turned back to the shrine, pressing his forehead against the cold crystal. “Every night, I come here. I talk to them. I tell Leia how big she’d be by now. I tell Y/N how much I miss her voice. I hear them in my dreams, Bruce. And when I wake up, I remember they’re gone.”

The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.

Finally, Bruce spoke. “I don’t doubt your pain, Clark. I don’t even doubt your love. But this—” he gestured to the drones above, the militarized streets, the fear etched into the city, “this isn’t them. This isn’t what they would have wanted.”

Clark’s shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned, eyes glowing faintly red. “Don’t tell me what they would have wanted.”

Bruce met his gaze, unwavering. “They would have wanted you to be the man they loved. Not this tyrant. Not this executioner. If you keep going down this path, Clark, the man Y/N married… the father Leia loved… he’s gone.”

The words hit like a hammer, but Clark didn’t flinch. His grief had hardened too much for persuasion. Still, his lips trembled as he whispered, “Maybe he already is.”

For a moment, Bruce almost thought he saw it, the farmboy, the friend, the man who used to laugh at bad puns and scribble notes in the Planet’s margins. But it flickered, and then it was gone.

Clark’s eyes returned to the shrine. In his hand, Leia’s pacifier. He lifted it, holding it in front of the crystal, as though offering it to the memory etched there. “The world let them die. I won’t forgive it. I won’t let it happen again.”

Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides. He knew then: there would be no turning him back. Not here. Not now.

And as he turned to leave, the shadows of the shrines looming behind him, Bruce realized the worst truth of all. Clark wasn’t ruling out of ambition, or hunger, or pride.

He was ruling out of grief. Out of love so broken it had curdled into despair.

And that made him more dangerous than anything Bruce had ever faced.

-

“Some of us resisted. We couldn’t allow him to rule unchecked. We formed an insurgency—heroes, civilians, even former villains who’d rather die free than live under his reign. I led them. I had to. Because no one else could stand against him.”

The screen cut to battles in ruined cities: ragtag groups of rebels clashing with armored troops bearing Superman’s crest. Familiar faces flashed by: Green Lantern, scarred and weary, leading a small squad; Black Canary screaming her sonic cry against endless waves of enforcers; Cyborg caught between sides, torn by loyalty and survival.

Then came the turning point. The insurgency struck Metropolis, hoping to take Superman by surprise. The footage showed explosions in the night sky, gunfire rattling through the broken streets, Batman’s team storming through shadows. For a moment, it looked like rebellion might actually succeed.

Until he appeared.

Superman descended like a comet, the ground splitting beneath him. His cape snapped in the wind, his eyes twin furnaces of fury. He tore through resistance fighters as if they were paper. Buildings collapsed with a flick of his wrist. The cries of the insurgency were drowned out in fire.

Batman’s narration grew quieter, almost pained. “We thought he was trying to preserve his order. But we were wrong. He wasn’t building a world anymore. He was tearing it down.”

The footage shifted. Superman stood in the heart of the burning city, bodies around him, his chest heaving. His voice boomed across the chaos, captured by half-broken comms systems.

“This world was theirs.” He gestured at the forms of you and Leia, your doubles, preserved in crystalline memorials he had erected like shrines. His voice cracked. “My world. Without them, it isn’t worth saving.”

His eyes flared red, blinding.

The screen became a blur of devastation: oceans boiling, mountains shattering, skies burning crimson. Heroes and civilians alike screamed as the planet itself fractured under his wrath. The insurgency—Batman’s last, desperate gamble—was obliterated in an instant.

The final image was haunting. From space, the Earth cracked apart like glass, fire consuming it from within. And through the rubble, Superman floated alone, his cape tattered, his body lit by the flames of the world he had destroyed. His voice, broken, carried through the static one last time:

“If I can’t have them… no one can have anything.”

The screen went black.

In the Watchtower, silence followed, suffocating and endless. No one breathed. No one dared.

Clark sat motionless, staring at the blank screen, his reflection pale in the dark glass. His grip around your hand and Leia was iron, as if you might vanish if he let go.

Batman finally spoke, his voice low but deliberate. “That is why we hesitated. That is why we fear.” His eyes flicked to you and the sleeping child in your arms. “You are his strength. But you are also his weakness. If you are lost… our Superman could become that.”

Clark’s head turned slowly, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I would never.”

But even as he said it, the shadow of that other universe lingered.

And for the first time since you had known him, you could see it too: how thin the line might be, between your Clark, your husband… and the god who destroyed his world in another life.

-

The Watchtower had never felt colder.

Even after the Justice League dispersed, the weight of the footage lingered like a phantom. Clark barely spoke as you and he made your way home, Leia sleeping peacefully against your chest, unaware of the storm that had shaken her parents. His silence was not the usual calm you loved in him. This was heavy, shadowed, as though every breath was an effort.

Later that night, in the quiet of your bedroom, you found him sitting by the window. His glasses were discarded on the table. He stared out at the stars, unmoving.

You set Leia in her crib, tucking her beneath her blanket, then crossed to him. For a moment, you only stood at his side, letting the silence stretch. His shoulders were hunched, and when you rested your hand on them, he flinched, not from your touch, but from his own thoughts.

“Clark,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to you, and for a second, you saw the fire he’d kept hidden behind that stoic face. “What if they’re right?” His voice was rough, frayed around the edges. “What if I’m one tragedy away from becoming him? From burning everything I’ve sworn to protect?”

You knelt in front of him, taking his hands in yours. His fingers were trembling, and that alone nearly broke you. “You are not him,” you said firmly, looking straight into those stormy blue eyes. “Do you hear me, Clark? You are not him.”

He shook his head, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “He thought the same. He loved her, he loved their daughter, just as much as I love you and Leia. And when they were gone, it destroyed him. It—” His breath hitched, his voice faltering. “What if I couldn’t stop myself either? What if—”

You pressed your palm to his cheek, forcing him to stop spiraling. His skin was warm, his eyes glassy. “Listen to me. You are not defined by your strength, Clark. You’re defined by your heart. That other Superman… he let his grief consume him. But you? You’ve faced loss before. You’ve lost your world, your people, and still you’ve chosen kindness every single time.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. You leaned closer, your forehead brushing his. “You are more human than you realize. You let yourself love, you let yourself hurt, but you rise above it. You don’t drown in it.”

Clark closed his eyes, his hands coming up to cradle your face as though anchoring himself. “I couldn’t live without you. Or Leia. If anything ever happened—”

“Nothing will,” you cut him off gently but firmly. “Nothing will happen to us. You’ve dedicated your life to protecting this world...you think you can’t protect your own family?” You smiled faintly, brushing away the tear that had slipped down his cheek. “You’ve already gone above and beyond for us, Clark. Every late-night bottle, every time you hold Leia until she falls asleep, every time you check the locks twice before bed, you’ve already proven you’d burn the world down to keep us safe. The difference is, you’d never let it come to that. Because you know better. Because you are better.”

His breathing steadied under your words, the iron grip of fear loosening. He pulled you into his lap suddenly, wrapping his arms around you with such intensity it was almost crushing. You held him back just as fiercely, feeling the tremor in his chest, the need in his embrace.

“You are my heart,” he whispered into your hair. “You and Leia. You’re everything. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I swear I’ll never fail you. Not the way he did. Not ever.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your thumbs brushing his cheeks. “You won’t. Because you already know the cost. And because you’re not alone, Clark. You have me. You have Leia. You have the League, even if they don’t always understand. You don’t carry this weight by yourself anymore.”

He leaned into your touch, his eyes softening, the fire in them tempered by something gentler. Faith. “You always know what to say.”

“That’s because I know you better than anyone,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not a god, Clark. You’re a man who chooses, every single day, to be good. That’s the difference. That’s what makes you stronger than any version of yourself.”

Leia stirred in her crib then, letting out a soft coo. Clark glanced over, his expression breaking into something tender, almost fragile. He rose with you still in his arms and crossed to her, gazing down at your daughter as though she was the anchor keeping him tethered to the Earth.

“She deserves a father she can be proud of,” he murmured.

“And she has one,” you replied without hesitation. “The best one.”

He kissed your temple, holding you close as you both looked down at Leia. “Then no matter what happens, I’ll keep choosing to be him. For you. For her. For us.”

In the quiet glow of your living room, with the shadow of a destroyed universe still lingering in your minds, you held onto the certainty that this Clark—your Clark—would never break the way the other had. Because love, for him, wasn’t a weakness. It was the reason he transcended everything else.

-

His fists clenched at his sides, the weight of his decision pressing down like chains. He had scorched the world in the name of justice, in the name of love, but it had never been enough. Nothing had filled the hollow where you and Leia should have been.

He closed his eyes.

And there you were.

You, alive, smiling as you leaned over the counter in your kitchen, flour on your cheek from baking with him. Leia in your arms, cooing, reaching her tiny fingers toward him. The memory was so vivid he almost reached back, almost believed he could step into it and never leave.

Then another memory: Leia’s laugh the first time he made silly faces at her. You smiling so brightly he thought he could live on that light alone.

Then the quiet nights. You curled against his chest, Leia asleep in the crib beside the bed, your hand finding his in the dark. Whispering that no matter what came, no matter who he was to the world, to you he was just Clark. Just yours.

The grief, the rage, the endless ache… for a single, fleeting moment, it all lifted. In its place was peace. A peace so deep it stole his breath.

Tears spilled from the corners of his closed eyes as the glow built in his palms, the heat of his power thrumming in his bones. He smiled through it, broken but soft, as though you were right there, watching him.

In those last seconds, as the world tore itself apart, all he felt was the touch of your lips, Leia’s small fingers curling around his thumb. All he saw was the family he lost, alive in his mind, smiling at him with love that no cruelty could ever erase.

-

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“Hello to you, too,” Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.”

“Well, aren't you smart?”

“If smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.”

Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. “Come on, Kent! You’re going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.”

Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. “Your brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.”

“Now why would you say that?”

“It’s just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.”

“That’s not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.” As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. “Never mind. But you have to trust me on this one!”

Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. “Alright. What is it?”

“So there’s this girl—”

“Here we go again.”

“—which is totally your type.”

“You said that last time.”

“But this time I mean it.”

“You said that the time before last time.”

“Well, I’m not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.”

“I don’t recall ever asking you to do this.”

Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. “Technically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, it’d be nice to have somebody. I’m all alone. I’m miserable.” He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clark’s, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.

For the record, he hadn’t exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.

Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. “Buddy, that’s mine,” he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.

Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. “God bless caffeine.”

Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Just because you heard me saying it once doesn’t mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.”

“I still wanna do it,” Jimmy argues. “I’m telling you, that girl’s out there, and it’s my duty as your best friend to find her.”

That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.

It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.

They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.

“It must be nice to be in a relationship,” he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin the mood. I’m really happy for you guys.”

Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. “You want to date?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“And here I thought you weren’t the dating type,” Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. “I mean, you never have any free time outside of work. You’re constantly in a rush. In fact, I’m surprised you’re even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?”

In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. “I’d figure it out. But of course I’d like to be with someone.”

If other people could have it, why couldn’t he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.

As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. “Babe, don’t you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?” he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.

Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. “A great deal.”

Jimmy’s gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. “Then consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.”

Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to! It’ll be fun.” Jimmy clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You leave it to me, and I’ll set you up with the love of your life.”

That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.

In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Molly’s friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he would’ve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.

The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:

Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.

Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, insisting that they looked ‘unconventional’. She said she often wondered why natural selection didn’t eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.

Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her theory.

Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than he’d thought. Jimmy often tells him he’s too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesn’t consider being meticulous a flaw.

Years ago, he’d come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.

Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.

Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each other’s apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.

Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.

The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Molly’s friends, and it’s starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?

Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Clark. Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“I can always create you a Hinge account—”

“We’re definitely not doing that.”

Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.”

Clark’s expression sours, going poker-faced. “Is it because she’s the last option you have?”

Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. “You always think so badly of me.”

Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasn’t even struck nine-thirty yet. “Can I at least see a picture of her?”

“Nope. It’s a blind date. Exciting, right?”

A crease forms between Clark’s brows. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I don’t know what she looks like?”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Does tonight work for you?”

“Well—”

“Perfect. I’m so glad you’re not busy saving the world or whatever. I’ll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about… the thing.”

Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmy’s sleeve, tugging until he’s leaning down so they’re eye-to-eye level. “We said we wouldn’t talk about the thing at the office.”

“I know. I just still can’t believe it! You’re Sup—”

“—Super committed to my job? Yup. Love it. I’m a big fan of newspapers,” Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.

Across the bullpen, Lois asks, “What are you two whispering about over there?”

“Someone’s got another date lined up!” Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.

“Poor thing,” Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you were done with those.”

“Me too,” Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.

Grinning, Jimmy adds, “I could help you next time, Lois.”

“I’d rather die alone, but thank you.” At that, she strides off, and Jimmy’s mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.

Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. “Just imagine the double dates we’ll go on, CK!”

Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.

Perhaps being single wasn’t the worst fate after all.

While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. It’s a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.

You’re ten minutes late to the date, which isn’t much, not really. After pacing the block twice, he’d arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.

Already, he’s read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnish—

“Clark?”

His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. “I’m—Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Golly.

He’s temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. It’s beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.

You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. “Jimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when he’s sitting, but you’re way taller than I expected.” Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.”

A nervous laugh escapes his throat. “It’s alright. I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.”

Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. He’s convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now you’re genuinely laughing at what he’s just said. It feels authentic, and for him, that’s unbelievable.

Then he realizes he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much he’s sweating.

“I’m so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldn’t find a place to park.” You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Did I make you wait too long?”

Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. “I, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have no problems ordering for me.”

He’s left flabbergasted. “But—How?”

“I like almost everything, that’s why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,” you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.

A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?

Soon you’re talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him you’ve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmy’s friends, you turned it down.

“—So I thought I’d try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.” You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. “Then Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and… well, here I am.”

“I’m glad you didn’t lose all your hope,” he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. “Jimmy’s a pretty… chatty guy, don’t you think?”

“He’s great! Plus, I’ve never seen Molly this happy.”

“You’re right. They look good together.”

“And he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.”

“Does that mean you know more about me than I know about you?”

“Maybe.” Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. “Besides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.”

His expression falls. There’s a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he can’t help but blink owlishly. “Wait, did… did Jimmy actually pay you?”

“I’m kidding!” you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. “That was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at jokes.”

“I’m no better. Want proof?”

“Go on.”

“Why are colds bad criminals?”

You lift your brows. “Why?”

“Because they’re easy to catch.”

Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. “That was… terrible.”

“Oh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.” Clark laughs.

“And lie to you? Never.”

“You’ve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.”

“… Which is?”

“Pursuing a career in comedy, obviously.”

You’re laughing. Again. He thinks he’s never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.

Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: “So, you work at the Daily Planet, right?”

He nods. “Mostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as well—”

At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonight’s specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.

Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. “I’ve read some of your pieces—Some of the interviews with Superman, for instance.”

“Oh.” He hums, with an air of shock.

“Sorry. You’re probably tired of people bringing him up.”

His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. “No, not at all. It’s just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.”

“Well, you’ve got an avid reader here.” Your lips curve knowingly. “So… is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?”

That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. “What makes you think that?”

You ponder, wrinkling your nose. “Well, when someone has that much power, it’d be easy to slide into arrogance.”

His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. “I believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldn’t say he’s arrogant.”

You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. “He’s not so fond of the media, though, right?”

“That’s because some have chosen to distort his image.”

“I see you’re a Superman apologist,” you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. “So tell me: if he’s not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?”

In situations like these, Clark realizes he’s been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?

“I just…. happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Don’t be so modest! Give yourself some credit. You’ve given him a voice no one else has. I think it’s admirable.”

There’s a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he can’t look at you properly while speaking, as if he’s staring straight into the Yellow Sun.

It seems almost unreal that you’re here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.

You’re beautiful. And he’s petrified of making the wrong move—of saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything like that,” he adds after a beat. “It’s strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.”

He isn’t too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurd—Gosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.

But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Aren’t those the very things that can’t be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?

Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.

Cutting off Clark’s mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.

He sets the glass down. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.”

“I teach,” you say, your tone softening. “Primary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.”

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

Your eyes brighten a little. “It is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What I’m meant to do.”

His lips quirk before he even speaks. “Should I confess then that I haven’t read a fiction book in years?”

“How are you still going on with your life?” You jest, taking a sip of your water.

“I manage just fine.”

“Lucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.” It’s like you’re half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, “Not like I’m forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. I’m only saying that if you’re interested—”

Jimmy won’t believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.

His heart sings as he answers, “That’d be nice.”

While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:

You’ve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.

He learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You’ll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.

As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.

When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.

The moment he turns back, you’re holding your phone out toward him.

“I’d really like to see you again, if you want to,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. “Think you can—Would you give me your number?”

His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. “I’d love that. Of course. I mean, you’re great, and I think—”

A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.

He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.

“It was a good first date,” he admits at last.

The silence between you deepens, and then you say, “I’m glad I accepted Jimmy’s offer.”

“He’ll be all over me at work tomorrow.”

You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I said hi.”

“I will.”

Even so, there’s a part of Clark that doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.

You both have responsibilities, and he knows he can’t ask for too much when you’ve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.

God, he’s already in so deep.

You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. “Okay, then… bye. I guess I’ll see you around.”

You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way you’re tilting your head, he’s pretty sure you’re planning on kissing him on the cheek.

He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.

Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, “A true gentleman.” You give it a firm shake. “Noted.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“Don’t worry.” You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. “I’ll go first.”

You take two steps backward. “Yup. Fine.”

Needless to say, when he’s a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.

“I need all the details!”

“Jimmy, I swear to God—”

“You’re entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!”

Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. They’re right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.

“Stop yelling, man!” Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmy’s as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. “You’re scaring people, and you have—What the hay, dude?!”

Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.

“Did you just lick me?” Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmy’s shirt. “How old are you? Three?”

“I will not be silenced.”

“You’re gross.”

“And I’ll continue to be if you don’t tell me how it went last night,” Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clark’s chest.

Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping their conversation. “I already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?”

“Did you kiss?”

“What?! No!” Now Clark’s the one yelling.

“Relax. It’s not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.”

A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clark’s neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. “Why are you more… unfiltered than usual?”

“Kissing isn’t a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,” Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.

He quickly follows after him. “But it’s too early for a kiss. We’ve only been on one date.”

Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clark’s glasses, blurring his vision for a second.

“You notice how you're trying to control the situation? It’s like you want to structure every single thing,” Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. “You need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.”

Taken aback, Clark’s brows snap together. “I don’t ‘go with the flow’. And my plan’s not stupid. I just… put a lot of thought into it,” Clark laments.

“How many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?”

“In my defense, she did it first.”

“Oh! Fantastic. Looks like I’ve found someone who matches your freakiness.”

Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.

He can’t help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. He’s been waiting all morning for this.

Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. “Oh, man. Is it her? Tell me it’s her.”

Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text that’s popped up:

I really hope you didn’t give me a fake number last night.

Clark’s thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, “Remember that sexting in public is gross!”

He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clark’s direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. “He’s joking, obviously,” he sputters, his head bent. “I’d never do that. You’re all… safe.”

Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.

Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?

The typing dots appear right after.

You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?

Clark: I can’t think of any good reason right now.

You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.

Clark: It was blue… and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.

You: Your eyes do work wonders.

Clark: It’s the glasses. They take all the credit.

You: But is your memory always this good?

Clark: Only on important occasions.

Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop café you’ve been meaning to try. Clark’s determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.

Turns out you don’t talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people don’t consider Clark’s quiet nature much of a virtue, but he’s never seen it that way.

He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldn’t speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.

He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.

It’s too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?

As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.

I don’t think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.

Actually, I’m not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.

You’re kind of boring, your relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.

All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.

The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. You’d mentioned a certain movie you’d been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasn’t wasting the chance.

You’ve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, won’t start for another ten minutes. You’re devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.

“I didn’t know you liked popcorn so much,” he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.

“I love it, but I’m starving, too.”

“Guess you’ll have to survive on popcorn for now.” He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. “By the way, what’s this movie about?”

He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.

“A love triangle,” you explain, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope it’s good. I’ve heard all kinds of opinions.”

It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascal’s character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnson’s Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.

About halfway through the film, there’s a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. It’s heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isn’t helpful at all.

The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.

Except it isn’t there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, it’s gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.

Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.

He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.

What he doesn’t know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that you’re forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.

His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.

He’s everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you you’re rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.

From then on, it all happens in slow motion.

Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.

The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until you’re breathless. But that’s not something he can do, something he should do. It doesn’t go according to the plan.

Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where you’re joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.

There’s a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he can’t help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the world’s about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.

And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.

Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.

The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Clark swallows hard. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “I’m so sorry. I think I got a cramp,” he whispers, hoping that he’ll take pity on him.

All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldn’t care less.

He hasn’t been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, he’d have to call it quits and tell Superman he’s not doing any more interviews.

In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.

Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.

He’s afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking he’s losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, it’s not like Clark can stay silent.

His stomach’s been growling for the past hour. It’s officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.

Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.

When he checks his phone, there’s a message from you. You’ve got a long break between classes, and you’re thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.

Clark: Think I’ll just skip lunch today. There’s so much I have to get done.

He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.

From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, “Eat me.”

Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.

“I’m serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just eat later,” Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You look stressed.”

“Well, I most certainly am.”

“Is it about all the hate your little friend’s been receiving lately?”

On any other occasion, were he not this tired, he’d have corrected him, insisting they’re not friends. But today, he lets it slide. “It’s draining. Collecting all this information and then—having to ask—”

His own sigh cuts him off. There’s a weight pressing on his chest he can’t shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.

Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if this is the end of Superman.”

Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. “What?”

“I mean, he’s constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think he’s great, but—”

“He’s not gonna stop helping others just because there’s some… bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. It’s what drives him. It’s—He’s not giving up.”

Startled, Steve tilts his head. “Did he tell you all that?”

Clark stammers, “He didn’t, but I—I know that’s what he’d say if I were to ask him.”

After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing what’s left of his snack. Clark assumes that’s the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.

But then—

“So… I’ve heard you’re going out with this girl.”

“You mean Jimmy told you.”

Steve shrugs. “Same thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?”

Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. “I don’t know. We’ve both been busy the last few days.”

You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.

Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you he’s exhausted and heading to bed early, it’s often a lie. Later, you’ll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friend’s not getting much sleep tonight.

“Got a picture of her?” Steve asks out of nowhere.

Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. “I’m not showing you—”

“Kent,” a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. “There’s someone waiting for you outside.”

That’s weird. “For… me? Are you sure?”

“It’s a girl. Says she’s looking for Clark Kent.” The man’s voice thickens with annoyance. “As far as I know, you’re the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless you’ve got a secret twin brother or something—”

Clark’s already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

He doesn’t expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and that’s when it hits him.

He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?

“What—I don’t—You’re here?”

“I texted you, but you weren’t answering, so I figured I’d just… drop by,” you begin, slightly breathless. “You said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, and—”

Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag you’re clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. “You didn’t have to.”

“I was getting something for myself as well.”

“But—”

You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Don’t play that card with me. You know I am.”

That makes you laugh. “Then take this, and tell me if you like it.” You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. “It’s a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so I’m counting on it being good.”

I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missed—

“I’m sorry I didn’t check my phone. I just… there’s a lot going on at the moment.” His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. “I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.”

Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he can’t describe. “I know. I didn’t think that, and I—”

You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.

“I'd better be going,” you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. “My next class starts in about half an hour, so—”

“Makes sense,” Clark answers, though his words don’t match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like he’ll lose you if he looks away. “I’ll head back inside.”

You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. “And I’ll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.”

Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, when—

“Kent, are you coming in?” Nino’s holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.

“Right. Sorry,” Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. “Yeah—Bye.”

He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, he’s immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.

You: Want me to grab you something? I’m nearby anyway.

You: Hello?

You: Well, now I’m just getting you food.

You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?

You: I’m trusting my instinct.

All the while he eats the sandwich, he can’t stop beating himself up for not telling you how much he’d been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea he’s had in weeks.

There’s a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but he’s willing to take the risk.

Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.

Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.

“Clark?” You’re smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice he’s hiding something behind his back. “What is it?”

You reach out, but he dodges. “Easy there.” He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way you’re looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. “This is my way of thanking you for today’s lunch.”

“Oh my God!” you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. “These are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thank—”

Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.

How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?

That’s it. He’s gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldn’t even try to stop you. He can’t understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.

A month ago, if he’d seen you on the street, he would’ve glanced twice and kept walking.

Today, he’s terrified of losing sight of you.

The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.

His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. You’re staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.

“I take it you liked the flowers?” he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.

Your answer doesn’t come in words, but in a kiss.

Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that he’s met with your cheek instead.

He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you free tonight?”

For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.

Tonight, you’re having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.

Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if he’s stepping into your apartment for the first time.

“It won’t happen.” He’s talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. “You’re strong. You’re… committed to the plan.” Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, “Stick to it. Think about the final outcome.”

This plan wasn’t something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romance—a life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.

Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasn’t careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.

He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.

But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Pa’s help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.

At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girl’s hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.

He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.

That’s why he couldn’t just let things happen. He didn’t trust fate. He didn’t want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.

His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.

“Hello?”

“Well if it isn’t my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?”

“Jimmy, I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.”

“Are you nervous?”

He is, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be?”

“You’re finally getting laid!”

Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. “Wait. What? Why are you even saying this?”

“Because—aren’t you going to her place?”

“Yeah. And?”

“Well, do the math, dude!”

“You’re trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.”

“Look, it’ll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.”

“Copulate?! I don’t—That’s it. Goodbye, Jimmy.”

The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what he’d hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.

His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. He’s not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.

He’s really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself it’s simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.

Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan won’t leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each other’s apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.

Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.

When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.

His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately he’s been avoiding your gaze.

“You have a really nice place,” he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.

You surprise him with takeout from a place he’d mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesn’t remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but you’ve nailed it anyway.

His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.

“What?” he asks, the word muffled, and it’s almost as if he’d momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.

You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. “Since when are wraps so messy to eat?”

“Mine’s about to explode, but it’s worth it,” he replies, and you nod.

You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. “Hey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?”

Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadn’t spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.

“Did you manage to finish that article?” you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.

“Oh, yeah. I just… had to check some minor details with… my source,” he says, hoping the conversation won’t make the food turn in his stomach.

Lifting your fork, you point it at him. “Let me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?” He doesn’t bother answering, because it isn’t necessary. “Don’t even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.”

“He told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,” Clark tries.

You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. “Do you agree with everything he does?”

Clark nearly bites his tongue. “What—what do you mean?”

“When you’re writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, don’t you ever feel like… maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?”

Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?

“I get what you’re saying,” Clark answers, straightening in his chair. “But yeah, I agree with what he does.”

You arch your brows. “With every single thing? Really?”

“I wouldn’t interview him if I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.” Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. “There’s gotta be something about him you don’t like.”

Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”

You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. “Come on!”

“What?” He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. “I’m being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. What’s not to like about that?”

You click your tongue and wave him off. “See? You’re biased. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.”

Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. “So does that mean I’ve got something you don’t like about me?”

You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. “You could say that.”

His interest sparks immediately. “What is it? Now I have to know.” He scrapes his chair across the floor until he’s sitting at your side, facing you directly. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“I’m not roasting you for free!”

“I’m literally asking you to!”

“Clark—”

“I’ll just keep going until you break,” he teases, leaning in closer. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”

With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.

Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: “You never question him, not even once.”

He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.

Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was joking. You know I’m terrible at that, right?”

You’re trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He can’t blame you for it.

“Yeah, now I remember,” he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. “Please, never give up teaching.”

He trails after you. You’re at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he can’t stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.

“Good?” he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he can’t avoid getting lost in your beauty.

It’s a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight there’s something different he can’t quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.

You’re glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.

You answer his question with a small, “You have to try it,” and then you’re holding out a piece to him, the same one you’d bitten into seconds ago.

His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.

“Come on,” you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. “I swear it’s not poisoned.”

This is the end of him. Who would’ve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that he’d die right here in your apartment?

He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.

Don’t get hard. Please, just don’t.

“It’s… delicious,” he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. “Can you make, like, a whole batch for me?”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “Sure.” You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. “By the way, how’s Atonement going? You like it so far?”

He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. “I reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are… well, you know.”

“You mean the library scene?”

“Yeah.”

“They recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.”

“I had no idea there was a movie.”

“It’s from 2007. We should watch it someday… or perhaps tonight?”

There’s no way he’s surviving you, not with the way you’re looking at him now, the way you’re leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.

Your lips part slightly, as though you’re about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.

“Darn it,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s sure you’re about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.

His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.

Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and you’re immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.

As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.

Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.

Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isn’t, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.

He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t here for this, that it was too soon. He’d promised. Yet what you two are doing couldn’t be further from just talking.

The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until you’re practically perched on top of him.

His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.

He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what he’s living right now, is real.

He’s here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.

The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He can’t stay still. He can’t think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, but—

Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, it’s not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.

His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. “I think your phone’s… ringing.”

Between kisses, you reply, “I don’t care.”

“What if it’s important?”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“But what if it is?”

Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.

Clark takes a step back. The second you’re gone, he’s leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.

In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.

You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. “Wrong number. Told you it wasn’t important.”

Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.

He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. “Please, just ignore it. It’ll go down. Eventually.”

“Clark, it’s normal.”

“That doesn’t make it any less mortifying.”

“I actually feel flattered.”

Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.

Then you speak again. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

His head jerks toward you. “What do you mean?”

“Like… the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.”

“I didn’t think you were too much. I—I liked it,” he admits, scratching the side of his nose. “I think you were able to see that clear as day.”

That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.

There’s a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“No,” you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. “… Are you?”

“No.” He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. “But would you want to? See other people?”

“Oh, no.” You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you me asking this? Do you want to?”

He snorts. “Gosh, no.”

“It’s always a possibility.”

“Trust me, it isn’t.”

“You could want to explore other connections.”

“Are we on Love Island?”

“You get what I’m trying to say.”

In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. “I like where this is going.”

What he’d meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.

The next time you kiss him, it’s different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if he’s still in control of the plan.

You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.

You: I must’ve gotten it from one of my students.

You: I feel like crap. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(

Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.

Clark: At least let me cook for you.

You: Nooooooo!!!

You: I don’t want you to get sick.

He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.

Clark: I won’t stay for too long.

Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.

That should be enough to soften you.

You: Alright…

When night comes around, he’s in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.

The soup is simple, just as it’s always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.

Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. You’re standing beside him, watching the procedure.

“I’m sure it smells great,” you mumble, congested. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but it looks like it does.”

Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, “Come here.”

You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesn’t offer any resistance as he hugs you. “You’re going to end up catching what I have.”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s how contagious illnesses work.”

“Turns out I’m the exception.”

His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.

“You’re so warm,” you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.

Later, after you’ve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you don’t.

Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.

“You never take them off?”

“Take what off?”

You say it like it’s obvious. “Your glasses.”

Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. “I can’t see much without them.”

“Have you ever tried contacts?”

“Oh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.”

“Everybody’s eyes are, in fact, sensitive.”

“I can’t handle them,” he insists, shrugging. “They feel weird.”

Another minute passes without you uttering a word.

But you won’t drop it. “Can I try them on?”

“Some other day. They’ll make your headache worse.”

Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. “You keep talking to me like I’m a child.”

He picks up the remote to pause the movie. “I’m just answering your many questions.”

“Curiosity is one of my best traits.”

“I know.”

“Which is why I keep wondering why I’ve never seen you without your glasses.”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.”

“Touché.” You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Let’s save this debate for another night.”

“Want to call it a day?”

“No, I can stay up for a little longer.”

Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.

By the time the credits roll, you’re fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you don’t fight him when he carries you to bed.

Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.

“Clark?”

“Tell me.”

“There’s a spare set of keys on my nightstand—”

He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?

“—so you can lock the door on your way out. I don’t want to get up anymore.”

Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

You try to hide from his gaze, but it’s nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Clark can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Like what?”

“Like I’m dying and you don’t have the cure,” you mutter, peeking through one eye. “I know I look bad, but don’t make it so obvious.”

His brows knit in concern. “You don’t look bad at all.”

Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”

“I mean it,” he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see it?”

The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You don’t miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, “Where have you been all my life?”

He can’t think of anything clever to say, because he’s afraid of making a false move.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, huh?” His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. “I’ll call you in the morning to check on you.”

You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. “Don’t forget to call me,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I promise I won’t.”

When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.

“What are you doing, giving me your keys?” he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.

He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once he’s outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

His first loss shouldn’t look like this.

As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.

All heroes who wear capes face a moment they don’t win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.

Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.

He’s driven into the ground once more. He can’t stop it this time, can’t even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.

The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. He’s got a rib, maybe two, fractured. He’ll have to check at the Fortress.

All around, screams erupt and people scatter. He’s 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.

Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.

“Is he dead?”

“He can’t die, you dummy.”

“My dad said he could beat him up.”

A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. “ARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?”

Blinking slowly, Clark realizes they’re all wearing the same clothes.

It’s a school uniform.

He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.

“Kids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?”

Is that your voice? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought.

“But Miss—”

“No buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.”

Oh, God. It’s definitely you.

He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.

From high above, the Hammer’s deep voice pours into Clark’s ears, saturating him.

The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of Boravia…

“Are you okay?” Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, you’re the only one moving. “Can you stand up?”

When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, “Ma’am, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.

The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.

The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. “This is your last warning,” he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.

Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But he’s too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire body’s crumbling with every effort.

“Don’t force yourself right now,” you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “You can’t… fly in these conditions.”

Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.

The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.

Another ordinary day in Metropolis.

He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.

He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.

“So… Superman in the flesh,” you say, tilting your head. “Funny thing. I know someone who knows you.”

“You’ll… have to be more specific than that,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.

“Clark Kent,” you reply, tipping your chin up. “He’s my—well, it doesn’t matter.”

That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Your… what?”

“We’re seeing—” You stop, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you care?”

If he weren’t certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” he says quietly. “Your students must be asking for you.”

You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. “I don’t know if you’ll find this disrespectful, but—maybe you shouldn’t have done that thing in Jarhanpur.”

It’s the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.

He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. “Thank you for the constructive criticism, ma’am. But I have to go now.” His eyes catch yours for just a beat. “Stay safe.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing into the sky.

When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.

You: I think now I’ve got beef with Superman. Call me?

Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Yeah, blame him. He’s definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.

“See you later!” Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friend’s for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours.

Right. The party.

Clark had forced a smile. “Sure.”

The party’s at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmy’s picked this place.

The bar’s already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy.”

Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. “Man, you came! I wasn’t sure—”

“Of course I came. Got you something, but don’t open it yet.”

Jimmy nods, taking the small ‘Happy Birthday’ bag from Clark’s hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. “Babe, can you put this with the other gifts?”

She says something Clark doesn’t quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.

For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. “What is it?” he asks.

He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.

Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. There’s sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “I know it’s not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,” he murmurs into Clark’s ear. Meanwhile, Clark can’t stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. “It just arrived.”

It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. You’re wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.

Clark’s been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countries—even galaxies. He’s had them for many years now.

But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and it’s solely your fault.

Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasn’t stopped thinking about it—dreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.

The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes you’re up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isn’t waking up to an empty bed.

When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.

And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! You’d never guess that just minutes before, he’d been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.

It’s become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.

At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since it’s the same one running through him. The first time you’re together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a surprise,” you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. “Are you surprised?”

Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. “Very much surprised, yeah.”

He hasn’t seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasn’t Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.

The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breath—

But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.

Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.

“You mind if I steal her for a bit?” Molly asks.

He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.

With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.

He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other person’s excitement spikes. Even mutters “Jeez, that’s tough” if the story calls for sympathy.

He slips away from one of Jimmy’s cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead you’re alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.

He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. “Did it hurt?”

You squint at him. “What?”

“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”

That elicits a low chuckle from you. “You’re real smooth.”

His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. “You having a good time so far?”

“Yeah,” you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. “Even better now that you’re here.”

He doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes fluttering—

Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.

Lois slides into the seat opposite. “Kent, I see you’ve decided to invade female territory.”

Under the table, his knee knocks yours. “It’s not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I didn’t leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,” she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. “So, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.”

Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he rasps. “Just choked on my saliva.”

“You should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.” Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, I can imagine.”

“He gets pretty defensive,” she presses.

He lifts a finger, calling her attention. “I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I just give my opinion,” he counters, raising his brows. “It’s literally our job.”