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☆ Earth-1114 — THE WALKING DEAD A survivalist’s haven, parallel to our own universe, where survival is earned mile by mile and the air is thick with pine, woodsmoke… and the scent of pending decay.

Designation honors November 14, 2010 — the air date of “Tell It to the Frogs,” marking Daryl Dixon’s first major appearance in The Walking Dead.

M.I.R.A.: Signal saturation reached. This Earth is no longer accepting incoming requests. Further exploration will proceed under current coordinates only.

☆ Earth-1104 — Drew Starkey Here, the Hollywood Hills watch over the city like ancient sentinels, and the air is thick with both love and ambition. The lights never fade, the ocean never stops whispering, and the line between dream and reality is beautifully blurred. Almost identical to our own Earth, this timeline’s only divergence is the date of birth of the traveler, a presence that subtly bends fate’s threads in unseen ways.

The designation 1104 honors the birthday of actor Drew Starkey — a nod to the day the star of this Earth first entered the timeline.

☆ Earth-1110 — Simon “Ghost” Riley This Earth shares much of our timeline but it exists on the far side of the sun, a place where shadows rule and every victory comes at a cost.

Number assigned for November 10, 2009 — the launch of Modern Warfare 2, and Ghost’s first mission in our records.

☆ Earth-181938 — Clark Kent An Earth where hope soars as high as its heroes, where the horizon is always just a little closer to the clouds, and where truth itself can take flight.

The designation 181938 honors April 18, 1938 — the historic date when Action Comics #1 introduced Superman, the first superhero of his kind, whose legacy would echo across the entire multiverse.

☆ Earth-0424 — Joe Keery

An Earth layered with static and neon, where fiction and reality bleed into one another. Here, identities overlap and small-town streets hide doorways to something stranger beneath the surface.

The designation 0424 honors April 24, 1992, the birth of Joe Keery, the origin point of a signal that would later fracture into singer, actor and hero, each echoing through the same universe.

☆ Earth-66 — Dean Di Laurentis

An Earth fueled by hockey games, loud music, restless nights and the freedom that only exists before real life catches up. Here, college campuses blur into ice rinks under fluorescent lights and unexpected romance tends to arrive at the worst possible time.

The designation 66 honors Dean Di Laurentis’ jersey number, a signal now permanently tied to this universe’s frequency.

Hi travelers, welcome aboard!!

Who am i? | Questions answered

Request channels are always open so you can submit your coordinates if you wish to see more destinations. Each new request expands M.I.R.A's database, so more characters may appear over time.

I log and process requests in the order they arrive, though I occasionally interleave them with my own scheduled timelines to ensure quality navigation. Your request will launch eventually but patience protocols are highly advised. If a timeline (link) malfunctions, send a direct comm signal.

Data rights protocol: I do not authorize the translation, duplication, or reposting of these timelines to any external network. If you wish to support this vessel, the repost and like functions are installed for your use.

Advisory notice: This archive contains explicit transmissions (stories) and may include sensitive subject matter, always accompanied by the proper warnings.

You are responsible for the realities you choose to enter.

All good stories started with a kiss.

In the version you found yourself trapped inside, it came in the form of tangled hands, stolen breaths and mouths crashing together with weeks of restrained frustration behind them. Your marketing lanyard swung wildly against your chest before catching between your bodies, the plastic clip snapping with a sharp crack neither of you acknowledged as Dean backed you into one of the arena's forgotten offices. The door barely had time to click shut before his hands found you again, your own disappearing into hair that had looked impossibly perfect only minutes earlier for a sponsor photoshoot and now sat hopelessly disheveled beneath your impatient fingers. 

Somewhere beyond the walls, people were counting down until they needed their star defenseman back in front of the cameras, smiling for a brand deal that would add another paycheck to a bank account already far healthier than yours. Meanwhile, everything that defined your own worth had slipped from your neck and landed face up on the floor. The cracked plastic ID card attached to the broken lanyard rested somewhere beneath the desk as he lifted you onto it, your legs instinctively making room for him while your foreheads brushed between hurried kisses, every breath filling your lungs with the clean scent of soap, cologne and melting rink ice that seemed to cling to him no matter where he was.

The scratched photograph staring back from that abandoned ID badge never failed to remind you how little the card itself was worth, what mattered was everything it represented. A scholarship, a tuition you couldn't pay yourself and opportunities you had spent years earning. One careless mistake could cost infinitely more than a piece of plastic ever would and unlike Dean, there was no comfortable safety net waiting beneath you. You couldn't afford to lose any of it, not for one reckless evening or for a few stolen afternoons, not even for the man who seemed determined to make every sensible decision feel unbearably difficult.

All good stories were supposed to start with a kiss. 

Giving in to temptation wasn't usually part of the opening chapter…which was exactly how you knew yours would probably be as short-lived as a social media caption.

“Did you draft it?” Jules' voice drifted over from somewhere behind you, followed by the soft thud of the refrigerator door closing, the ordinary sound pulling you back into the present so abruptly your shoulders jerked.

You blinked and you were back on a stool at the hockey house kitchen island, your laptop open in front of you, notebook half-filled with scribbled ideas, one hand loosely wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold. 

Your gaze had wandered through the large windows overlooking the backyard, where the boys were running drills beneath the afternoon sun. It wasn't an official practice, just one of those extra sessions they insisted on organizing themselves, chasing each other across the grass with the same competitive energy they brought onto the ice. When you'd first started working with Jules, watching the boys had been painfully distracting. Months later, it had become little more than background noise, at least until one particular player decided to make looking away impossible.

“What?” You finally turned toward Jules, they were staring at you like you'd just arrived on the planet, entirely elsewhere, exactly where you'd been.

“The post the team needs to review,” they reminded you, twisting the cap off their energy drink before taking a long sip. The sharp hiss of carbonation filled the brief silence between you. “It goes up tomorrow morning. I thought you had it handled.”

Your eyes dropped to the laptop sitting open in front of you, then to the neatly organized to-do list beside it, every task carefully color-coded, several already crossed off in your tidy handwriting. Your cursor blinked patiently over an unfinished caption, waiting for your attention with far more discipline than your mind had managed all afternoon. You nodded once to yourself before looking back up. “I do, yeah.” You reached for the mouse defensively. “I'll have it ready before tonight, I swear.”

Jules chuckled softly, following your line of sight toward the backyard where another burst of laughter drifted in through the cracked kitchen window. They motioned outside with the can still in their hand. “No one's going to blame you for indulging in a little peek.”

“I wasn't–” You stopped yourself halfway through the denial, letting out a tired breath instead as both hands dragged slowly down your face. There was no point pretending anymore. “I appreciate you doing this for me,” you said, dropping your hands as you met their concerned eyes. They'd been covering for your wandering attention for nearly two weeks now, gently nudging you back on track every time your thoughts drifted somewhere they had no business going. “I still remember begging professors for extra credits anywhere I could get them, praying something would count toward my degree, and this…” Your hand gestured vaguely toward the laptop, the content calendar, the stacks of marketing reports spread across the island. “This is more than perfect. I get to put my soon-to-be digital marketing diploma to work before I even graduate. I just need to stick around long enough to earn it.” You gave them a small, apologetic smile. “Me being distracted shouldn't end up doubling your workload.”

They answered with a quiet huff of laughter, shaking their head as they leaned back against the counter. “Relax. We're partners, remember?” they said. “Your scholarship's safe and I wouldn't admit this to my brother if you paid me, but they’re incredible. You know how to make people care, how to make the rest of campus see the team the way they deserve to be seen.” Their expression softened as they looked at you more carefully. “It's also okay to admit that sometimes you need to stop thinking like you're at work.” They paused before asking, “When's the last time you actually had fun? Took a few liberties?”

Your eyes drifted away, settling somewhere beyond the kitchen windows without actually seeing the boys outside. Instead, your mind supplied a different picture entirely, one of Dean’s hands, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat, the effortless way your mouths had found each other after weeks of pretending they wouldn't, the warmth of his breath against your skin and the quiet sounds he'd failed to swallow. Your lips felt strangely dry as you unconsciously wet them, guilt settling heavier in your stomach with every passing second.

“Can't afford any more liberties,” you replied quietly.

The sliding door to the backyard rolled open, immediately flooding the kitchen with laughter, overlapping conversations and the heavy scent of fresh-cut grass mixed with sweat. 

One by one, the boys poured inside after training, still catching their breath as they made a beeline for the fridge or the pantry. Water bottles were grabbed on instinct, cabinet doors opened and closed in quick succession as packet after packet of Liquid I.V. disappeared into bottles efficiently. 

Ever since the team's partnership with the brand, the house had become an unofficial storage unit for the stuff. 

“Thought you hated doing that photoshoot,” Jules called toward Dean as he tore open one of the packets with his teeth before emptying it into his bottle. 

Dean only shrugged, shaking the mixture until the powder dissolved. “Well, I got paid,” he replied with an easy grin before taking a long drink and letting out a satisfied sigh. Damp strands of hair clung to his forehead, his T-shirt darkened with sweat across his chest and back, every muscle still carrying the slight fullness that came after a hard workout. “And we can't let the stock go to waste.” His eyes found you before he finished speaking, lingering only for you to feel them without looking. “Besides...” You heard the smile slip into his voice. “That day wasn't all so bad.” 

Heat prickled across the back of your neck a split second before he stepped in behind you, close enough that you caught the clean scent of body wash fighting against sweat as he leaned over your shoulder to look at your laptop screen. “You in charge of picking the pictures this week?” 

Your throat tightened as your fingers hovered over the keyboard. “You'll have to use your connections for that one,” you answered evenly. “I don't work for the brand.” 

“Mmm.” The quiet hum came from much closer than it should have. Around you, Garrett argued with Logan over whose water bottle was whose, Tucker laughed loud enough to shake the cabinets and Jules was already reminding someone to throw empty packets away instead of leaving them on the counter.

The noise wrapped around you both like a curtain, giving Dean room to lower his voice another notch. “What's with the tone?” he asked softly. 

You closed the laptop with a careful click before turning your head merely to acknowledge him. “I'm not a music major,” you said matter-of-factly, “but I'm pretty sure your vocal cords have to vibrate for sound to come out... meaning we've all got tones, if you want to get technical.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “And an attitude too,” he observed, clearly entertained until Garrett bumped his shoulder to pull him back. 

“Are we still on for tonight?” Garrett asked you with an easy smile. Your eyes quickly dropped to the to-do list lying beside your laptop, mentally scanning every note you'd written that morning in search of whatever plans you'd apparently committed to. 

“What's going on tonight?” Dean asked from somewhere beside you, the last few words muffled as he tipped his bottle back for another drink. 

“Going out with Hannah,” Garrett answered with a grin.

“And you got Y/n to be the third wheel?” Logan asked from his spot on the counter, already wearing an apologetic smile as he looked your way. “You think you know someone–”

Garrett only grinned further with a shake of his head, entirely unbothered. “If you saw those two together, you'd know I'm the one third wheeling.” His expression softened for a brief moment, the smile turning fond. “I'm just the driver, they're the date.”

“Means the house is gonna be empty tonight,” Tucker chimed in from the pantry, rummaging through shelves already overflowing with protein bars, pasta and enough groceries to feed the entire roster for three weeks. He pointed around the room as he listed everyone off. “Logan and I are out of town, Jules is going to a party, Garrett's busy making sure Y/n and Hannah don't end up making tomorrow's headlines…” His gaze landed squarely on Dean, whose grin only widened. “And Dean–” Tucker narrowed his eyes. “You better not throw a party in this house. I never agreed to clean up your disasters and this pantry needs to survive until the end of the week. I've got meals planned unless you're volunteering to starve.”

Dean raised both hands in surrender, looking entirely too innocent to be believable. “Don't worry,” he said with an easy smile. “My mouth'll be occupied.”

Jules winced. “That's disgusting,” they muttered under their breath.

Your stomach tightened, nausea creeping up your throat as your fingers curled a little tighter around the edge of your closed laptop.

“What the hell does that mean?” Logan asked, genuine confusion written across his face.

Silence settled over the kitchen, every pair of eyes moved toward Dean except for yours, the only sound left was the quiet hum of the refrigerator. Before anyone could answer, the sharp chime of the front doorbell echoed through the house and once again, every head turned instinctively, yours included.

Dean chuckled under his breath, setting his water bottle beside your laptop and notebook before making his way across the kitchen. “You guys better move your plans up,” he called over his shoulder, one hand already resting on the doorknob. “Otherwise you'll be getting an earful of mine.”

He pulled the door open and standing on the porch was a woman you recognized, though you couldn't place from where, maybe campus, the library or one of the parties you'd attended before life became too complicated to enjoy them. She smiled the moment she saw him, stepping inside without hesitation and Dean greeted her just as naturally, leaning down to kiss her deeply and thoroughly before she could even set one foot fully into the house.

Your chest tightened.

“Perfect timing,” Dean murmured against her smile before taking her hand and guiding her toward the staircase. Halfway there, he glanced back at the rest of you, amusement dancing across his face. “You guys know how bathroom acoustics work, right?” He flashed an effortless grin. “It’s every man for himself now.”

He gave a lazy salute before taking the stairs two at a time, the girl's laughter trailing behind them as they disappeared onto the second floor, leaving the kitchen wrapped in an uncomfortable silence no one seemed eager to break.

You quietly slid off the stool and began gathering your belongings with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy. Your notebook disappeared into your bag crookedly, pens tossed in without their usual order before you snapped the zipper shut and swung the strap over your shoulder. 

They all lived with him, they didn't have the luxury of escaping whatever chaos Dean chose to bring through the front door but you did. You weren't tied to him, you weren't obligated to stay and as much as your body seemed intent on proving otherwise, you could still leave before your imagination filled in the blanks your ears would inevitably hear. 

“Uh...you guys stay safe,” you murmured, forcing your voice to stay light. “Or invest in immediate shipping for some high-end noise-cancelling headphones. I'd like to keep my sanity intact.” 

Jules reached dramatically across the island toward you, fingers stretching as though they might actually catch your sleeve. “Take me with you.” 

As you walked toward the front door, a smile tugged at your lips but it never reached your eyes. “Don't pull a double Van Gogh on me,” you warned before pulling the door open and slipping outside, letting it swing shut behind you with a quiet click. 

The evening air hit your face like permission to breathe again. You remained there for a moment, your back pressed against the closed door as you drew in one slow breath after another, searching for the exact point where everything had gone wrong. 

Somewhere between harmless banter and lingering glances, between shared jokes and stolen moments and between complicity and wanting. Friendship had become messy and somewhere along the way you'd let yourself believe you could keep your footing. 

You couldn't anymore, it was finally time to admit what had been clawing at your chest for weeks. It was jealousy, raw, ugly and entirely undeserved jealousy, tangled together with a dread that settled deeper and deeper into your stomach, as though it were trying to bury itself before it reached your heart and poisoned that too. 

Your heart had never been meant to outrank your head, not when your future depended on keeping the two separate. Yet no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't stop picturing what might be happening upstairs. The images followed you long after you left the hockey house, lingering through the drive, through dinner and every laugh Hannah managed to coax out of you. You smiled when you were supposed to, accepted another drink when it was offered, nodded through conversations you barely heard, but your body carried the weight of thoughts you refused to give a voice and by the end of the night it ached with the aftermath of grief you hadn't realized you were capable of feeling.

You ended up backing out of the plans halfway through the evening, insisting Garrett and Hannah deserved some time alone and that you still had reports to finish before morning. None of it was a lie, they had barely seen each other all week, your deadlines were very real and there were still posts to schedule before sunrise. 

What you conveniently left out was that your mind hadn't stopped racing since you walked out of the hockey house. It kept circling the same thoughts, trying to calculate probabilities you had no idea how to solve, weighing every possible outcome and escape route, every reason why you should walk away before this became something you couldn't control. 

You'd always trusted logic more than feelings but lately the numbers refused to add up. 

The library remained open despite the late hour, yet your feet carried you somewhere else. Your apartment was only a few blocks from the bar but instead you found yourself sitting on the front steps of the boys' house, your laptop balanced across your knees as its pale glow illuminated your face against the darkness. The porch light buzzed softly overhead, attracting moths that threw fluttering shadows across the railing while the quiet neighborhood settled around you. 

You never knocked, as far as anyone inside knew, the porch was empty. At least, that had been your reasoning. 

There was logic behind your decision, enough to satisfy the part of your brain that insisted everything needed a practical explanation. From there you could connect to the house printer through the shared network, send tomorrow's social media reports straight to Jules and spare them another string of late-night notifications. It was efficient, somewhat professional and entirely innocent. 

Your fingers moved steadily over the keyboard, the familiar rhythm of typing gradually slowing your breathing as your attention narrowed to captions, engagement metrics and scheduling windows. You became so absorbed in rearranging tomorrow's content calendar that the front door opening barely registered. 

By the time it did, your heart had already dropped, recognizing his presence before your ears caught his voice. “Been waiting for you to knock,” Dean said quietly. “Or just walk right in.” 

You didn't look up. Your fingertips stumbled across the keys for barely a heartbeat before continuing to type as though nothing had happened. The screen reflected in your eyes while his footsteps drew closer, slow and unhurried, until the wooden steps creaked beneath his weight. 

He lowered himself onto the stair beside yours with a quiet groan, forearms resting on his knees as though he'd been invited there. Only then did it occur to you that the house had a doorbell camera and he hadn't simply opened the door at random. There was every chance he'd been watching you sit there for the past several minutes, patiently waiting to see whether you'd gather the courage to come inside.

“Thought you had company,” you replied absentmindedly, your attention never quite leaving the screen balanced across your knees. Your shoulders sat barely inches apart, close enough that your arms nearly brushed every time either of you moved. Heat radiated from him into the cool night air, the contrast impossible to ignore. He looked like he'd only just climbed out of bed, a loose Briar T-shirt hanging from his frame, soft gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips and hair still tousled from whatever pillow it had been pressed into. There wasn't a trace of the polished athlete from sponsorship shoots or game nights. 

A quiet laugh escaped him. “My kind of Six Flags doesn't sell night passes.” The joke landed softly before he let the silence settle between you instead of rushing to fill it. His head tipped slightly, studying your profile with growing concern as he waited for even the smallest reaction. 

He'd felt the distance creeping in over the past couple of weeks but every time he reached for an explanation, he'd landed on the same conclusion, it was merely a matter of school and deadlines, the pressure you put on yourself to earn every opportunity instead of simply accepting it. 

He admired that about you more than he'd ever managed to admit. You worked harder than anyone he knew, carried responsibilities none of the guys on the team had ever been forced to consider and somehow still showed up every day with another idea, another campaign and another plan. From where Dean sat, you were chasing a future you deserved more than anyone…and he wasn't sure what place he had in it. 

Gently, he nudged your arm with his elbow. “Something wrong?”

The question almost made you laugh. He dared ask as though he wasn't the very thing unraveling every carefully laid plan you'd built for yourself. As though the problem wasn't sitting beside you in sweatpants, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and body wash, making it impossible to remember why you'd come here in the first place. You kept clicking distractedly between tabs, trying to focus on anything but him until his eyes caught the title sitting open across the top of one document.

Resignation letter.

You saw the exact moment he noticed it. His relaxed posture disappeared, shoulders straightening as he sat upright on the step. He didn't ask if something was wrong again since the answer was already staring back at him.

“I'm way in over my head,” you admitted quietly after another failed attempt to connect to the house printer. You clicked ‘Print’ again, watched the loading icon spin uselessly before disappearing and sighed through your nose. “It just took me way too long to realize it.”

“About what?”

“This job.” You finally closed the printer window, your fingers resting motionless on the keyboard. “I should be focusing on my grades. On getting through the baseline credits instead of chasing every opportunity that comes my way because I think it'll look better on a fucking résumé.” Your eyes stayed fixed on the screen, unwilling to risk meeting his. “I'm spending time I don't have, trying to prove I deserve to be here at all when I should be proving it in the classroom.”

Dean frowned. “Did I do something?” The question came faster than he'd probably planned, genuine worry replacing the easy confidence he'd walked outside with. “I know I say stupid shit sometimes and not all of it lands the way I think it does, but…”

You shook your head, your attention fixed stubbornly on reconnecting your laptop to the printer instead of acknowledging the far more complicated disconnect sitting beside you. The loading wheel spun, failed and spun again, giving your hands something to do while your thoughts threatened to unravel. “You didn't do anything I didn't let you do first,” you said quietly. “I should've known better. There are lines that shouldn't be crossed.”

“Is this about the kiss?” he asked suddenly.

The question stole the air from your lungs. You finally turned to look at him, eyes meeting his for the first time since he'd come outside. He looked prepared, as though he'd been carrying the beginning of a speech around with him for days, waiting for the right moment to finally say it. You could practically see the words lined up behind his eyes and that made your chest tighten even more. 

Whatever he was about to say would only reinforce the conclusion you'd already reached. You didn't need him to twist the knife any deeper. “I know it shouldn't be,” you murmured, giving a small nod more for your own benefit than his. “I don't need you to tell me that.” Your gaze slipped away again, landing on the street stretching beyond the porch where pools of amber light spilled from the streetlamps onto the pavement. Cars passed only occasionally, their headlights sweeping briefly across the neighborhood before disappearing into the night. After several long beats of silence, you spoke again, your voice so quiet it nearly disappeared with the breeze. “Is it fun?”

The words caught in your throat despite every effort to steady them.

Dean frowned again then shook his head once. “You can't make this about you. This isn't what you want, believe me.” His eyes stayed on you, searching for something that might convince you to believe him. Being desired had never been the problem, he'd spent years hiding behind easy smiles and meaningless hookups because they were simple, predictable and temporary. He liked knowing he could leave before anyone expected more, liked never giving someone enough of himself to stay long enough to disappoint them. It wasn't fun so much as familiar.

“You have no idea what I want,” you replied, forcing yourself to meet his eyes again despite every instinct telling you to look away.

“I know it shouldn't be this,” he answered carefully, giving the smallest shrug.

A humorless laugh escaped you. “You're right.” You nodded to yourself as your gaze drifted back toward the empty street, trying desperately to picture the finish line you'd been chasing for years. Graduation, a career and financial stability, all part of a future earned entirely on your own. If you could just hold that image firmly, maybe it would drown out everything else, maybe it would be enough. “There are things I want more,” you said softly. “And heartbreak isn't one of them.”

You lowered the lid of your laptop with a soft click and pushed yourself to your feet.

“Walking away from something you're good at isn't either.” His voice caught you before you'd managed a single step away from the porch. “Especially because of me.” He pushed himself to his feet as well, whatever confidence usually lived in his posture was nowhere to be found. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides before disappearing into the pockets of his sweatpants, as though even they didn't know what to do. “I'll stop talking. I'll keep my eyes down...I'll quit teasing you if it makes you stay.”

A short, disbelieving scoff escaped you before you could stop it. You turned back toward him, tightening your grip on your laptop. “Wouldn't that just make things easier for you?” you asked, your brows drawing together. “Is that why you do it?” You searched his face, looking for the answer you'd already convinced yourself existed. “It's like you expect to disappoint people eventually, no matter what. You give them exactly what they want, let them think they might get something tangible and then...” You shrugged, the motion carrying far more exhaustion than anger. “You pull away before they have the chance to ask for more…before they realize they already want it.”

Dean stood there for a long moment, jaw tightening as his eyes dropped briefly to the porch beneath his feet. When he finally looked back up, there wasn't a trace of amusement left on his face. He lifted a hand and motioned vaguely toward himself with a small, self-deprecating gesture. “I don't have much more to offer,” he admitted. “Especially when it comes to love.”

You frowned slightly, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug as you tried to find the right words without letting them turn sharp. “Why would you?” you asked quietly. “You keep letting it elude you.” 

Your eyes dropped to your shoes, focusing on the cracks between the porch boards as you gathered your thoughts. You shouldn't have been angry at him and the worst part was that you weren't. Dean had never promised you anything, he hadn't lied or asked you to expect more than what he was willing to give. You just needed somewhere to place the disappointment, someone to blame for the ache sitting heavily in your chest, because you couldn't let that person be the one staring back at you in the mirror every morning. 

You stepped back once, then again, putting space between the two of you as though distance could make everything clearer. “Listen...this isn't a ‘you’ or ‘me’ thing, okay?” Your fingers tightened further around your laptop as you looked back at him. “I read it wrong…I always want more. I have this hunger for life and success that doesn't turn off and it's the one thing I can chase without being afraid because I know I can deliver.” A small, humorless smile touched your lips. “Expecting that if I just work hard enough, nothing can get in my way is probably my only character flaw.” 

Dean blinked, watching as you moved farther away, the motion-activated lights along the walkway flickering on one by one and illuminating the space between you until the entire scene felt strangely unreal. For a second, with the empty street behind you and the warm glow outlining your figure, it looked too perfect for an ending. 

“There's nothing flawed about you,” he said, shaking his head as he took a step forward, then another, unwilling to let the distance settle. “Nothing.” 

You nodded slowly. There was no anger left in your voice, only the acceptance of something you'd already decided would hurt before it even began. “There is,” you replied softly. “And it starts with wanting you.”

You turned and walked away, not allowing yourself the luxury of looking back. A tear slipped down your cheek somewhere between the porch and your car, disappearing before you could even decide whether to wipe it away. 

This wasn't abandonment, it was protection, a choice made before something already fragile became impossible to repair. If the scholarship was meant to be yours, it would remain yours through whatever effort you put forward away from the house you were leaving behind. The Fifth Line would survive with one less person behind its screens, one less person organizing posts and analyzing engagement numbers and making sure the team looked exactly the way they wanted the world to see them. 

But everything with your name attached to it required you to show up as yourself, clear-headed and focused, not constantly fighting against feelings you couldn't afford to have. Your career was the one thing you trusted completely, the one thing you knew would reward the effort you gave it…The only thing you knew would love you back.

All good stories ended with love…they just never advertised where it came from.

In the whirlwind of emotions that had swept through the morning since you'd woken up, your feet carried you toward the familiar barn where Clark had slipped away shortly after breakfast. 

In Smallville, he fell right back into being the perfect son, always finding another chore to tackle before anyone else could think to ask, hauling impossibly heavy loads, repairing old beams and replacing worn-out boards, so if he wasn't in the house, you always knew where to find him. 

The barn doors stood wide open, sunlight spilling across the dusty floor and before you even crossed the threshold, you spotted him effortlessly lifting thick timber into place, steadying each beam with one hand while the other drove screws into weathered wood that decades had carved and softened. 

"Car's packed," you called with a smile as you walked over, arriving just in time to watch him press a stubborn nail flush with the wood using nothing but his thumb. "But our kid's gone." 

"Gone?" he echoed, finally looking up, brow lifting enough to betray the question. The only reason he wasn't already spiraling into panic was because you weren't. 

You nodded, absentmindedly reaching into the open toolbox beside him, fingers brushing over tools you'd never actually seen him use. "Your parents wanted to take her for a walk but then it somehow turned into taking her into town and she was so excited..." A laugh escaped you at the memory. "She was practically bouncing in place, promising she'd be good and your parents swore they wouldn't give her any sugar so we wouldn't have a nightmare of a drive back." You shrugged, unable to hide the fond smile lingering on your face. "I didn't have the heart to tell them no, so...I guess we'll be hitting the road a little later than we planned." 

Clark's expression softened. He could picture it perfectly, his parents soaking up every second they could with Ellie, clinging to a chance to feel like parents again, even if only for a few short hours. It made warmth spread in his chest, strengthening the promise he'd made to himself that he'd give Ellie the same childhood Jonathan and Martha had given him. "Did you tell them we'll be coming back?" he asked, dusting the wood shavings from his hands. "I meant to say it during breakfast but there was too much crying already–" He caught himself with a sheepish smile. "Sorry, pretending not to cry. I didn't want to interrupt everyone's...focus."

You let out a soft chuckle and nodded, already making your way toward the stairs. "Doubt they heard me over their excitement about officially becoming grandparents..." Your boots creaked against the old wooden steps until you reached the loft, the familiar space where the two of you had once spent countless afternoons tucked away from the rest of the world. It hadn't changed much, it had the same weathered beams, the same dusty scent of old wood and hay and the same warm sunlight filtering through the gaps in the walls. You could feel Clark's eyes following you, though he stayed where he was for another moment. "Can you blame them? Last time you came home, you were a single man. Now you've shown up with me...and a kid." 

Your fingers found a framed photograph resting on the desk, lifting it carefully. The two of you looked impossibly young, smiling at the camera in the backyard behind the Kent house. Time seemed frozen in that picture, you could walk out there right now, stand in that exact same spot and recreate it perfectly, only now, there'd be another little face squeezed between yours. 

Clark laughed softly as he brushed the sawdust from his jeans and climbed the steps two at a time until he reached you. "I was always bringing you home," he teased, slipping his arms around your waist and settling his chin against your shoulder. "Ellie's just a nice addition." His smile lingered as his gaze drifted to the photograph in your hands. "She makes it even more perfect," he murmured. 

You had no real idea what the next several months would look like. There would be lawyers, paperwork, meetings and endless conversations. There would be parent-teacher conferences where Ellie wouldn't quite know what to call you and the first few times she would confidently blurt out "Mommy" in front of a classroom full of people, your heart would probably stop before bursting with more happiness than it knew what to do with. 

You doubted you'd ever grow used to how naturally that love came or how completely she'd settled into your heart. She'd been your daughter long before you unfolded that letter. "Did you think about what you'll do for Father's Day?" you asked, throwing a similar question to the one he'd asked you only a few hours earlier as you placed the picture frame back on the desk. 

"Well..." Clark sighed, his eyes wandering through the open window toward the endless Kansas sky as he gave the question some genuine thought. "Since I can't fly her anywhere–"

You turned in his arms until you were facing him, your hands settling around his biceps. "And don't let her sway you, either. I can't understand what it's like having a superhero parent but I don't think it's irrational to say it's a tad too early to start that kind of tradition." 

Clark nodded, thoughtful, his hands tightening around your waist to pull you closer. He knew he had to stand his ground but whenever Ellie looked up at him with those impossibly big, pleading eyes, every ounce of resolve became negotiable. "What about next year?" he offered. 

"Clark–" 

He lifted both hands in surrender, shaking his head with a crooked smile. "I thought so. I was just thinking out loud..." His eyes met yours, warm and unapologetic. "I'm a patient man," he assured you. 

You smiled, your thoughts drifting back to the morning, to the unexpected discovery you'd made while helping Ellie get dressed. "I'm aware," you murmured. 

You focused on slowing your breathing, trying to relieve the flutter building in your chest but it didn't escape him. His expression changed as his attention narrowed, his eyes flicked to your face, then briefly lower, while his ears picked up the uneven rhythm of your heartbeat, a confession your body was making before your lips could. 

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked gently. He'd already ruled out the obvious, you weren't frightened or anxious and ever since you'd met him out in the fields that morning to open the letter together, he'd had the certainty that you'd stumbled across something he'd kept hidden for a very long time, something that had always belonged to you anyway. 

You shook your head, forcing yourself to look away because it was the only way your heartbeat would even begin to slow. Your gaze wandered across the loft instead, just like the Kent house below, it was a time capsule. 

The old furniture hadn't moved, the beams still carried the same nicks and scratches and the scent of aged wood and summer dust lingered exactly as you remembered it. "First time being up here as a…couple," you observed softly as you slipped from his embrace. His hands lingered before reluctantly letting you go, eyes following every step you took. 

You wandered to the open window, letting the warm breeze brush against your face as you looked out over the fields stretching endlessly beyond the farm. Then you crossed to the worn leather couch where the two of you had spent countless afternoons playing cards, finishing homework or simply existing in comfortable silence beside each other. 

"Not much has changed." Clark said with an easy shrug. "Loved you here first," A small smile tugged at his lips. "...and I still do." 

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

"But then again," he added, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I never really thought that would change." He closed the distance between you in a few unhurried steps until he was standing right in front of you. 

You narrowed your eyes, tilting your head as the scattered pieces in your mind slowly began fitting together. "You know..." you said, studying him with growing suspicion, "I'm realizing your parents know more about us than I do." 

"Oh, yeah?" he laughed softly. "What makes you think that?" His arms found your waist once more, drawing you against his chest as though there was nowhere else either of you belonged. 

"I have my suspicions..." you replied, letting the words hang for a beat. 

"Word of the year," he muttered under his breath, earning a soft laugh from both of you.

You smiled, shaking your head before continuing. "But for now, let's just say I think they kidnapped our daughter on purpose so you and I could..." 

A grin spread across his face before you could even finish, he couldn't help it. Every time you said ‘our daughter’, it filled a place inside him he hadn't realized had been waiting, the words feeling so instinctively right that he never wanted to stop hearing them.

"It was hardly a kidnapping if you were there and agreed to it," he pointed out, amusement dancing in his eyes. 

You let out an exaggerated gasp, pressing a hand dramatically against your chest. "...You orchestrated it." 

Clark's smile only widened. "I merely suggested they spend some time getting to know her," he said with an innocent shrug. "And maybe show her the place she'll be spending her summers so we could...figure things out…talk." 

"What kind of things do we need to figure out?" you asked, your voice carrying sufficient skepticism to make him falter. 

"Well...I..." He rubbed the back of his neck, the picture of awkwardness despite everything he was capable of. "I didn't really think that far ahead."

"Mhm..." A knowing smile curved your lips as your hands drifted to the hem of his shirt, your fingers brushing against the fabric before you slowly lifted it over his head which he allowed. It caught briefly on his shoulders before you pulled it free, revealing the broad planes of his chest beneath the light filtering through the loft. Your eyes lingered on him before returning to his face. "I think you did," you murmured, "...and I'll let myself be swayed." Your smile softened, warm and teasing. "Just this one time."

You let his shirt slip from your fingers, leaving it wherever it landed on the loft floor. Clark's gaze never left yours as his hands found the bow at the front of your blouse, carefully loosening the knot. 

"Talking can wait," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "Gives me time to think about what I'll say." 

You shook your head, your fingers already working at the buckle of his belt with an amused huff. "I think you should focus on something else first. Don't make your parents turn around before they even reach the driveway." Your smile widened. "Need I remind you we have a home to get back to?" 

A soft laugh escaped him. "I have great time management," he assured you, easing the blouse from your shoulders with slow, gentle movements before letting it join his shirt on the floor, leaving you in nothing but your bra.

"That," you teased, "you'll have to prove." 

"Lucky me," he replied, the grin lingering as he leaned in to steal another kiss. His lips met yours softly, lingering to draw another smile from you before the kiss deepened. 

One arm slid securely around your waist while the other landed beneath your thigh, lifting you against him with ease. Your fingers slipped into his hair as you laughed quietly into the kiss and without ever breaking it, he lowered the two of you onto the worn leather couch with the same care he'd always shown you.

His hand slid between the cushion and your back, fingers finding the clasp with unhurried precision. Your spine arched to meet him, giving him the space he needed until the fabric loosened and slipped free. He eased the straps from your shoulders himself, letting the bra drift to the floor without looking away. The warm loft air touched your bare skin a moment before his mouth did with soft, open kisses along the side of your neck, the curve of your shoulder and the hollow just above your collarbone.

His fingers worked the button of your pants while you kicked off your boots, they landed with a muted thud against the old floorboards. He rose shortly to draw the denim down your legs, taking your underwear with it in one smooth motion, the sudden coolness against the damp heat between your thighs made you shiver. You fought the instinct to close your legs, yet still rubbed your thighs together once, restless under the weight of his gaze.

Clark stood at the edge of the couch and toed off his own boots, then pushed his jeans and boxers down in a single motion. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, thick and curved slightly upward, the head flushed and glistening with a slow bead of pre-cum. Veins stood out along the shaft as he looked at you. His chest rose and fell, the hard lines of muscle tapering into the V of his pelvis, every inch of him lit by the dusty light pouring through the loft window.

You parted your thighs for him as he knelt between them, bracing his hands on either side of your torso and lowered his mouth to your sternum. Open kisses trailed lower until his lips closed around one nipple, tongue circling the tightening peak while his free hand cupped and gently massaged the other breast. A quiet gasp left you while your hands slid up the broad plane of his back, fingers spreading, urging him closer until more of his weight settled over you carefully.

He released one nipple only to take the other into his mouth, suckling with the same unhurried attention. His hand moved to your hip then, palm spanning the soft skin there, holding you steady when you squirmed beneath him.

"I always thought it'd happen here," you breathed, the confession slipping out before you had the chance to catch it.

Even if the years had kept you as nothing more than friends, some part of you had always believed this barn would eventually become the place where everything changed. You could picture it so clearly it almost felt like a memory instead of a possibility, a late-night study session dragging well past midnight, the decision not to go home, falling asleep shoulder to shoulder beneath the old rafters, then waking with the realization that the pull between you had never really been friendship alone. It would've happened here, sooner or later. 

This loft had held too many almosts, too many lingering glances and conversations that stretched until sunrise. It had watched the two of you grow up together which is why you always knew it would witness the moment you finally found your way to each other, too.

"I always knew it’d be with you," he whispered, eyes locked on yours. 

He rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes for a moment, listening past the rush of blood in his ears for the distant sound of tires on gravel. Time felt borrowed anew. "I wish we had more time, I’d make it worth every second. It wouldn’t be on this old couch…I’d–" His breath caught. He opened his eyes again. "I’d do everything…I’d do it all."

Your hand rose to his cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin just beneath his eye. "We will," you promised quietly. "And I want you to…but I’m impatient enough to want this now, to want you."

His eyes searched yours, the corners crinkling with a smile so small it nearly disappeared as quickly as it came. He leaned into your touch, tilted his head and kissed you, broad hand sliding down the outside of your thigh, guiding your leg higher against his waist until the blunt, slick head of his cock rested against your opening. He held there for a heartbeat, then pressed forward until the thick tip breached you, stretching you open with a careful push, eliciting a soft gasp that melted into his mouth. 

A low, helpless sound escaped him as he moved to bury his face against your neck. Chest to chest, you breathed together, the full weight of wanting finally catching up to both of you.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before lifting his head to meet your eyes again. "You have to tell me if I hurt you," he said, voice rough. "I’m…overwhelmed right now, and I–" A shy, embarrassed chuckle slipped out.

"Just love me," you answered softly with trusting eyes and a reassuring nod. "I’m okay."

"Yeah?" His lips pecked yours briefly as he gave the first tentative thrust, sinking a little deeper. "That," he murmured against your lips, "I know how to do."

He sank deeper with the next careful thrust, the thick length of him stretching you open inch by inch until his hips finally met yours. The fullness was overwhelming, hot, heavy and entirely perfect, pressing against every sensitive place inside you at once. Your breath left you in a soft, broken sound that he swallowed with another kiss, his mouth open and hungry against yours.

Clark stayed buried for a long moment, letting you feel the complete shape of him, the slow pulse of his cock as he adjusted to the tight, wet heat surrounding him. Then he drew back, almost all the way out, the drag of his thick shaft against your walls pulling a longer, shakier gasp from your throat and when he pushed in again it was deeper, smoother, the head of him kissing that soft, aching spot that made your thighs tremble around his waist.

His arms slid beneath you, gathering you up so that your chests pressed flush, skin to skin. The warm, solid weight of him settled over you completely and you could feel every breath he took, every subtle shift of muscle as he began to move in a steady rhythm. Each thrust was measured, the wet sound of him sliding into you filling the quiet loft along with the soft creak of the old leather couch.

Your hands roamed the broad expanse of his back, fingers pressing into the hard planes of muscle that flexed with every roll of his hips. He kissed you through it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that turned deeper whenever a particularly full stroke made you moan against his tongue. 

When he broke away it was only to trail his mouth down the side of your neck, lips and teeth grazing the sensitive skin there before he found the place just below your ear and sucked gently, then harder, leaving a faint mark.

One of his hands slipped between your bodies, palm cupping your breast, thumb brushing over the tightened peak of your nipple in slow circles. The dual sensation from his cock stroking deep inside you while his fingers teased that sensitive point, drew a higher, more desperate sound from you. He answered it with a low, rough exhale against your throat, hips rolling a little harder, a little deeper, grinding against you at the end of each thrust so that the base of him pressed firmly against your puffy clit.

He shifted slightly, angling his next strokes so that every inward push dragged more intentionally along the front wall of you. The pressure was exquisite, building in slow waves that made your breath catch and break into soft, rhythmic moans as your legs tightened around him, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, urging him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go.

His mouth found your other breast, lips closing around the nipple and sucking with the same careful intensity he used when he thrust. Teeth scraped lightly, then his tongue soothed the faint sting and the combination pulled another longer moan from deep in your chest. He kept suckling while his hips continued their steady, relentless pace, the wet glide of his cock in and out of you growing slicker, the friction perfect and unhurried.

You could feel how tightly he was holding himself back, the controlled power in every movement, the way his muscles trembled faintly beneath your hands whenever you clenched around him. Each time you did, a quiet, pained sound escaped him, muffled against your breast and his next thrust came a fraction harder, burying him to the hilt with a soft, heavy slap of skin.

He released your nipple only to kiss his way back up your chest, across your collarbone, along the line of your jaw until his mouth claimed yours again. The kiss was deeper now, messier, his tongue sliding against yours in time with the slow, deep thrusts of his dick. One arm stayed locked around your back, holding you tightly against him while the other hand slipped down to grip the underside of your thigh, spreading you wider so he could sink even deeper on the next stroke.

The loft air was warm around you but the places where your bodies met were hotter still. Sweat began to gather between your chests, making the slide of skin against skin smoother. Every time he drew back you felt the cool air briefly against your soaked entrance before he filled you again, the contrast sharp and dizzying. Your gasps had turned into a continuous, soft stream of sound, broken little moans that rose and fell with the rhythm of his hips, each one swallowed by his mouth or breathed against his neck when he pressed his face to yours.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, then slid up into his hair, holding him close as he continued to fuck you with that same careful, overwhelming intensity, giving you the full, heavy length of him again and again while he kissed, bit and touched every part of you he could reach.

The rhythm of his hips deepened further, making the coffee table beside the couch begin to rattle softly against the floorboards, wood against wood, a quiet, insistent percussion that matched the pace of his body into yours. The sound grew louder as his movements became a fraction harder, more urgent, the table legs trembling in small, rapid jumps across the dusty loft floor.

Your mouth stayed open as soft, continuous sounds spilled out with every inward thrust. You turned your head to glance at the trembling table, the motion of it nearly hypnotic in the warm sunlight, before the next deep thrust pulled a sharper gasp from you and dragged your attention back to him.

He adjusted, nuzzling into the side of your neck with open, hungry kisses. His tongue traced the sensitive skin there in wet strokes before his lips closed and sucked gently, then harder, the faint scrape of teeth sending fresh sparks down your spine. The moment your eyes fluttered shut under the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth, his arm slid fully around your back in a firm, encompassing bear hug, locking you tightly against the solid heat of his chest. The other hand slipped between your bodies without hesitation, fingers finding the swollen, slick bud of your clit and circling it in precise strokes timed perfectly to the deep push of his cock.

Your legs tightened around his waist of their own accord, heels digging into the backs of his thighs as the dual sensation sent the first sharp waves of pleasure racing through every nerve that would allow it. The rattling of the table grew louder still as your moans broke higher and longer, each one spilling freely from your open mouth as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a slow, relentless build that made your thighs tremble and your fingers dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

He maintained the same relentless pace, grinding the thick base of himself against you at the end of every thrust while his fingers worked your clit in small, perfect circles that never once faltered. You could feel the way your walls fluttered around him, then pulsed harder with each pass of his dick, the friction exquisite and entirely too much, forcing out broken, rhythmic moans you could no longer hold back.

Your walls fluttered wildly, then clenched hard around the full length of him as the orgasm finally crashed through you, long, body-shaking waves that started deep in your core and radiated outward until your thighs trembled violently and your back arched hard against the strong arm holding you. You squeezed around his cock in uncontrollable pulses, the intensity of it dragging broken, shuddering sounds from your throat that rose higher with every surge. The pleasure kept rolling, wave after wave, each one tighter and more consuming than the last, making your entire body shudder beneath him as you clenched and released around the thick, throbbing girth of him.

The tight grip of you around him was too much. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he fought to hold on, every muscle in his back and shoulders going rigid under your hands.

"I can’t–Where…baby, where do you want me?"

You pulled him closer, arms locking tight around his shoulders, face pressed into the curve of his neck as the last strong waves still trembled through you. Your voice shook with the aftershocks.

"You’re it for me, Clark." The words came out soft and broken, threaded with whimpers that still caught in your throat. "This is it."

A low, helpless sound tore from his chest. He thrust once more, deep and hard, burying himself to the hilt, where he came. Cock throbbing heavily inside you, pulsing in long, strong surges as he emptied himself in thick, hot pulses that you could feel against your still-fluttering walls. You turned his face to yours and kissed him deeply, mouths open and searching, swallowing every rough breath and quiet, broken groan while his body shuddered through the last of it, still buried completely, throbbing hard and deep inside you as the final pulses faded and the coffee table finally fell quiet beside the couch.

The aftermath was the most peaceful you'd ever felt. It was like lying beneath the afternoon sun itself, its warmth spilling through the open loft window and soaking into the worn leather couch beneath you. Clark lay on his side against the backrest, one arm draped lazily over you as his fingertips traced slow, absentminded paths over your sunlit bare skin, gliding over the curve of your hip, the rise of your stomach and the sensitive underside of your breast, leaving faint trails of warmth wherever they passed.

You rested on your back with your eyes closed, your breathing unhurried, a contented smile refusing to leave your lips, every muscle loose and heavy with satisfaction. 

Outside, the gentle rustle of the trees and the distant hum of the farm drifted through the open window before Clark's voice finally broke the silence. It was quiet, careful, as though he didn't want to disturb the peace that had settled over the two of you.

"I think a babysitter would be the way to go," He wasn't even finished speaking before your lips curled into another smile. "Or..." he continued, clearly giving the matter serious thought, "...better insulation. Soundproofing our bedroom doesn't seem too far-fetched."

A laugh escaped you as you adjusted slightly beside him, your eyes remaining closed. "I can be quiet."

"You won't hear me asking that of you." His fingers continued their lazy path over your skin. "I was thinking ‘adaptation’ instead of ‘prevention’... so you could focus on other things, like–"

"You?" you finished, one brow lifting.

"Ideally, yeah." He nodded, unable to suppress the grin tugging at his mouth. "But we can plan and regroup later...soon, preferably soon. I don't know if you've heard but I'm a father now, so..."

You burst into laughter at the unmistakable pride in his voice. You could already picture him telling the mailman, the butcher, the cashier at the grocery store, any poor soul who happened to ask how his day was going.

"What's so funny?" he asked, retaliating by tickling your side until you squirmed against the couch. "What's got you laughing with your eyes closed? Seen too much of me already?"

You laughed harder, twisting away from his hand. "It's your tone, baby. It's just so–"

The tickling suddenly stopped. Your words caught in your throat as your eyes opened, they found him already staring off into the distance, his head tilted ever so slightly, the easy smile gone from his face. "What's wrong?"

"They're here." Clark was off the couch before the words had left his mouth, carefully stepping over you as he made his way to the window. Soft afternoon light spilled across his bare skin as he moved, still completely naked, soft cock hanging freely between his thighs while he peered out.

"It's too darn quiet around here," Jonathan muttered as he climbed out of the truck.

"You think they went for a walk?" Martha wondered, Ellie's small hand tucked securely in hers as the little girl bounced excitedly beside her, her stuffed bunny dangling from her other hand.

"Does that mean I get to stay until forever and ever?" Ellie asked hopefully. "Maybe I can have chocolate for dinner."

Jonathan laughed. "I can see how you'd get to that conclusion."

You couldn't help but giggle at Clark's complete lack of subtlety as he hovered beside the window, trying to peek outside without being seen. Amid your laughter came the unmistakable sound of truck doors shutting somewhere on the property. You hurriedly pushed yourself upright.

"Do not look out that window. Clark, do not–"

"Hey, hey!" he called anyway, leaning just enough for his face to appear around the side of the window frame. "Uh...how was town?"

Down by the driveway, all three of them looked toward the loft, raising their hands to shield their eyes from the afternoon sun.

"Daddy! It’s me!" Ellie squealed, letting go of Martha's hand before taking off across the yard toward the barn as fast as her little legs would carry her. Her bunny bounced wildly against her side with every step. "I was really good! Maybe we could have chocolate for dinner! With ice cream too! I was super good!" she shouted at the top of her lungs as she ran.

"I'm so proud of you!" Clark called back with a grin, his eyes following Ellie as she hurried toward the barn. Then he turned to you with the unmistakable expression of a proud father and only then did the reality of the situation hit him. "Uh...slow down, sweetheart! You're gonna fall!"

The warning had barely left his mouth before he abandoned the window and hurried toward the pile of clothes by the couch. You were already moving, scrambling to get dressed yourself.

"How long do we have?" you asked, glancing around until you spotted your underwear and quickly stepped into it.

Clark risked another look out the window as he slipped on his boxers, followed by his jeans. "Uh...about five minutes. She probably felt a lot more motivated before she realized how far away the barn actually is." He couldn't help smiling.

You nodded, fastening your bra before slipping your blouse back over your shoulders. "Just to be clear, there will be no chocolate for dinner..." you said as you reached for your jeans next. "...or ice cream."

Clark sighed dramatically as he pulled his shirt over his head, shoulders already slumping in anticipation. "I'm mentally preparing myself to deliver the news."

Outside, Jonathan and Martha exchanged a knowing glance, their attention drifting from Ellie, who had slowed from a run to an eager little march across the yard.

"Only took 'em decades to get the hint," Martha said, shaking her head with an affectionate smile.

Jonathan slipped an arm around her shoulders, his gaze lingering on the barn. "All in due time, sweetheart," he said softly. "All in due time."

Clark's lips barely left yours for the entire walk back to the apartment. 

Every few steps one of you would laugh into the kiss, bump chests and shoulders, lose your footing on the rain-slick sidewalk only for the other to catch them before either of you broke apart for more than a breath. 

Your clothes clung damply to your skin, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair onto your coat but beneath the scent of wet pavement and rain lingered the dizzying familiarity of finally having a place for this again after weeks of pretending you didn't miss it. 

By the time the elevator doors slid open onto your floor, neither of you had said much of anything coherent. You stumbled backward down the hallway, smiling helplessly into his mouth while your fingers dug frantically through your coat pocket for your keys, bumping into picture frames hung along the corridor and earning a sleepy bark from a dog somewhere behind a neighboring door. 

"We have a lot to talk about..." you mumbled against his lips, breathless. "This probably shouldn't be our first priority." 

You felt him smile before he chased another kiss, his hands settling instinctively at your waist as he guided you backward until your spine met your apartment door with a muted thud. His glasses had fogged completely from the warmth between you, tiny droplets clinging to the lenses while your fingers disappeared into the rain-soaked curls at the nape of his neck again. 

"I'm not doing anything," he murmured between kisses that wandered across your cheek and found the corner of your mouth again. "Just walking you home." 

You let out a soft laugh that turned into another kiss before pressing your palm against the center of his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath the damp flannel as you gently pushed him back enough to breathe. 

"You've walked me home for as long as I can remember. This isn't that." Turning toward the lock, you squinted into the dim hallway light, trying to guide the key into the keyhole while your hand refused to stop trembling. It scraped uselessly against the metal three, four times, missing every attempt. "I can't see," you grumbled under your breath, leaning closer until your forehead nearly touched the door. 

Clark watched you struggle for another second before suppressing an amused smile. "Are you sure it's locked?" he asked, reaching one arm around you to try the handle himself. The instant his hand wrapped around the knob, a loud metallic crack echoed through the hallway, followed by the heavy clunk of something hitting the floor. 

Both of you froze and somewhere downstairs, another dog barked. 

"Clark?" you asked carefully into the silence. 

Instead of an answer, he let out a small, guilty sound that managed to be both apologetic and deeply disappointed in himself. Fighting a smile, you fished your phone from your pocket and thumbed the screen awake. The pale light illuminated the hallway...and then the doorknob sitting neatly in Clark's hand.

You both stared at it before slowly lifting your eyes to each other, neither of you able to come up with a single word that could make the situation any better. The silence lasted only until the apartment door swung open from the inside.

"It was locked," Imogene informed you matter-of-factly, one hand still on the door as warm light spilled out into the dim hallway, exposing two thoroughly soaked, thoroughly embarrassed faces. 

Clark reacted on instinct, slipping the detached doorknob behind his back like a child hiding evidence. 

You turned toward Imogene with wide eyes. "Were you looking through the peephole?" you asked, equal parts horrified and incredulous. 

"I thought we were getting robbed!" she defended herself. "Turns out it was just an aggressively romantic and passionate make out session." Her gaze bounced between the two of you before dropping to the gaping hole where the doorknob should have been. "...Which I obviously support." She smiled a little too brightly. 

Clark cleared his throat. "I could...come back and fix that for you." 

Imogene tilted her head toward the ruined door. "How did that even...?" 

"Loose screws," you and Clark answered in perfect unison without missing a beat. 

Imogene looked from one face to the other, then slowly back to the door, unconvinced in every possible way. "...Right." 

You didn't give her another chance to question it, placing both hands against Clark's back and gently urging him across the threshold. "Inside," you muttered, trying not to laugh. Water dripped from the hem of his shirt onto the hardwood as he stepped in, pausing to slip off his rain-soaked shoes by the entrance. 

Imogene moved aside to let him pass but the second it was your turn, she sidestepped right back into your path, blocking the hallway with the determination of a customs officer. Her eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement, eyebrows bouncing expectantly. 

"I need to know everything," she whispered, though not nearly quietly enough. 

You let your forehead fall forward for a second before looking at her. "Not a good time." 

"I can survive on a summary for the next twelve hours." She held up both hands in surrender. "My noise-canceling headphones are fully charged, I've got snacks in my bedroom and contrary to popular belief..." she leaned in conspiratorially, "...I actually know how to mind my own business." She paused to grin. "Tonight feels like the perfect opportunity to prove it."

Your brows pinched together at the sheer enthusiasm on her face and a laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "Why would you need noise-canceling–" 

"I was born in the morning," she cut in, planting both hands on her hips, "just not this morning." She nodded toward the living room with complete confidence. "You were bringing him back here for the deluxe Y/n rodeo package." 

Your eyes flew open in horror as you jabbed a finger toward the apartment. "Imogene, he's right there!" 

"Yeah, in the living room. That's far enough," she replied with a shrug, lowering her voice partially only to pretend she was making an effort.

"And he has excellent hearing," you whispered harshly. "You'd be surprised what growing up in the middle of nowhere with nothing but wind, cows and your own thoughts does to a person." The excuse left your mouth before you could stop it and you quickly regretted how ridiculous it sounded. "I was absolutely not bringing him back for sex...this is your apartment. You obviously live here."

Imogene folded her arms. "Which you forgot." 

"No..." The denial came out with far too much conviction. You blew out a defeated raspberry and rubbed both hands over your face before scratching awkwardly at your forehead. "...Absolutely not," you laughed, already hearing how unconvincing you sounded. Every word only seemed to confirm her theory. You had, in fact, completely forgotten. "We got caught in the rain...and I didn't want him getting a cold."

"And since you weren't about to drape him in your finest silks, naturally the next step was to have him strip butt na–" 

You lunged forward and clapped a hand firmly over her mouth. "There will be no stripping, Imogene," you whispered intensely, eyes wide to make your point. "From either of us. Capiche?"

She continued protesting indignantly into your palm until you refused to budge, finally sighing through her nose before raising one hand like a student asking permission to speak. 

You cautiously lifted your hand an inch, keeping it hovering nearby in case she abused the privilege. "I thought you studied French."

"Oui," you nodded. "And there will be no coït tonight."

She stared at you blankly. "...I don't know what that means."

"No rodeo," you translated.

Imogene rolled her eyes. "That wasn’t a requirement. I'm not picky about the position, I just–"

"I am," you cut in without missing a beat. "And believe me, he's no stranger to hard work."

Imogene glanced toward the living room where Clark was politely pretending not to exist, then back at you with a slow nod. "He certainly doesn't look like a man who's afraid of manual labor." Finally satisfied, she stepped aside to let you pass. 

"Kansas should really find a way to capitalize on that," you muttered as you walked by. 

As she quietly pulled the door shut behind you, she added, "And manufacture whatever they're feeding them for export."

You walked into the apartment, shrugging your damp coat from your shoulders while trying very hard not to meet Clark's eyes, but judging by the amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he had heard every word. 

He stood near the living room window where he'd politely remained while the two of you whispered very unsuccessfully outside. His glasses had finally cleared and they found you instantly. "I wouldn't have minded the silk tonight," he noted quietly, the words delivered with the same innocent tone he'd use to comment on the weather. 

You stopped mid-step. Slowly, suspiciously so, you turned toward him, narrowing your eyes in what you hoped resembled intimidation. "Was...was that a sexual innuendo?" you asked at once before pointing dramatically toward Imogene, who had already reclaimed her spot on the couch. 

She tucked one leg beneath herself, dragged the blanket higher over her lap and settled into the corner of the couch with an oversized bowl of popcorn hugged against her chest like she'd purchased front-row seats to the greatest romantic comedy ever produced. She even reached for the remote, lowering the television volume another notch without looking, making it abundantly clear that whatever was happening between the two of you had become the evening's main entertainment. 

"Because she already thinks I brought you back here to my sex dungeon–" you accused, pointing dramatically in her direction. 

"I never said sex dungeon," Imogene corrected through a mouthful of popcorn, raising one finger without taking her eyes off either of you. "I'd expect you to have one in a barn, not in the city." 

You threw your hands into the air. "Don't confuse him with nostalgia. I can have my imaginary sex dungeon wherever I damn please and he's not invited. Bondage is no fun when–" Your sentence died the moment your eyes met Clark's. Whatever scandalous thought had nearly escaped your mouth came to a screeching halt and you cleared your throat so hard it almost hurt. You jabbed your thumb back toward Imogene instead. "She said rodeo, which is close enough...there's probably rope involved." Then your expression changed to exaggerated disbelief. "Why does everybody confuse farm boys with cowboys?" 

"I'm not confused," Imogene replied, lazily tossing another piece of popcorn into the air and catching it without even looking. "You're confused." 

You placed a hand against your own chest. "How am I confused?"

"Because you forgot I lived here," she answered matter-of-factly, chewing contentedly before reaching back into the bowl. "...and now you're mad because I cockblocked you." 

You physically recoiled. "Could you please not say the word cock in his presence? It just brings memories I’m not supposed to think about." 

She sighed so theatrically it bordered on spiritual exhaustion, tipping her head back toward the ceiling. "Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned." She looked back at you. "Am I wrong?" she asked around another generous handful of popcorn. 

"No," you admitted under your breath, shoulders slumping in defeat. 

"Yes," Clark answered at the exact same time, giving one firm, earnest nod.

Silence dropped over the room so abruptly that even the popcorn crunching stopped. You and Imogene turned toward Clark at exactly the same moment, so fast he instinctively stepped back a fraction. 

"What?" the two of you asked in perfect unison. Yours came out confused, brows knitting together as you searched his face for whatever thought had just escaped him. Imogene's, on the other hand, carried barely concealed excitement, the kind of hopeful prompt that sounded dangerously close to go on...confess your love. 

Clark blinked once, suddenly very aware he'd become the center of the conversation, even more than before now that he was a participant. "You're not..." He cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you before settling helplessly on you. "...blocked." His expression remained completely earnest. "I mean...do you still think about that?" 

"Called it a rain check for a reason," You stared at him for a long beat, trying to reverse engineer whatever impossible chain of logic had led him there. Then you exhaled through your nose. "Do you still shower with the door unlocked?" 

He hesitated long enough to know there was a wrong answer. "I...live alone." 

"So did you in college," you replied. 

From the couch Imogene raised her hand, bouncing her fingertips twice in the air until both of you finally looked over. "I can tell that was some deeply personal callback and frankly it was adorable," she said with a pleased nod. "But I'd like to submit Exhibit A." She set the popcorn bowl on her lap and clasped her hands together with the confidence of someone defending a doctoral dissertation. "Technically, I'd be the one doing the blocking. You have..." she gestured vaguely to him with both hands, "...the other thing. Which, if I had to make an educated guess, occupies a considerable portion of Y/n's imagination." 

You dropped your gaze to your shoes, suddenly fascinated by the stitching on the leather. "She has absolutely no proof of that." 

Imogene responded with a vague circling motion of her hand. "Circumstantial evidence is still evidence. Besides," she added, lifting her chin proudly, "I already informed Y/n that my noise-canceling headphones are fully charged." 

Clark pressed his lips into a thoughtful line, considering that statement with alarming sincerity. "The noise level would probably be the least of your concerns–" 

"Clark," you interrupted, eyes flying open as you pointed an accusing finger at him. "Do not encourage her." Your horrified expression only made Imogene grin wider as she calmly reached for another handful of popcorn, convinced the movie had gotten even better.

He took a slow step closer so only you would hear him, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial tone. "If that doorknob is any indication," he murmured, glancing briefly toward the apartment entrance, "...the structural integrity of the building might be compromised." 

You stared at him, utterly bewildered by how naturally he'd gone from pouring his heart out in the rain to conducting what sounded like a building inspection. 

Behind you, Imogene let out a thoughtful hum. "What kind of animalistic sex do you people have?" she wondered aloud, tossing another piece of popcorn into her mouth. 

"He's not...from around here," you explained carefully, keeping your eyes fixed on Clark as though breaking eye contact might make him say something even worse. 

"Clearly," Imogene snorted to herself, shoulders bouncing with quiet laughter. 

Your head whipped around to glare at her, narrowing your eyes into the closest thing you could manage to a threat. She merely smiled sweetly and reached back into the popcorn bowl. 

Before you could recover or before she inevitably found another way to make the situation worse, the shrill ring of your phone cut cleanly through the apartment. 

"Saved by the bell," Imogene sang triumphantly from the couch. 

You shot her one last warning look before answering and lifting the phone to your ear. "Susie?" you asked, your brow furrowing when you were met with none of the familiar sounds of the Talon, no glasses clinking, laughter spilling through the receiver or muffled music from the stage, just panicked breathing. "Something wrong?" 

Beside you, Clark subtly straightened. His expression never changed but every sense sharpened at once, his attention settling on the call with effortless precision while he remained respectfully silent. 

"I feel like I can't fucking breathe," Susie blurted without preamble, her voice accompanied by frantic footsteps pacing somewhere on the other end. "Everything was too small and now it's too goddamn big, I'm terrified you're gonna run for the hills and I'm pretty sure I'm about to throw up. So yes...something's fucking wrong!"

You instinctively pulled the phone a few inches away from your ear as Susie's voice exploded through the speaker, then pressed it back against your cheek once the ringing subsided. 

You answered calmly. "If you're hiding from a date, the volume of your voice needs to come down." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Maybe I was wrong to assume someone gave you that talk decades ago. I never got it either, so bear with me...when a daddy loves a mommy very much–" 

"Don't you fucking start," Susie barked. "I need you to meet me." 

You couldn't help the grin that slipped through. "Will you be clothed?" 

Clark lowered his head, unsuccessfully hiding the smile threatening the corner of his mouth, while from the couch Imogene silently buried her face in the popcorn bowl to muffle a laugh. 

"Y/n!" Susie groaned so dramatically it sounded physically painful. 

"I'm sorry," you replied, failing to sound apologetic in the slightest. "It was right there, and if I don't say it, I'll be thinking about it until I’m back there." The teasing slowly faded from your expression as your eyes flicked from Clark to Imogene. You chose your next words carefully. "I'm done for the night, okay? And I'd like to believe nobody's pointing anything uncircumcised, flaccid or sharp at you because I don't respond well to threats." 

"Jesus Christ," Susie sighed, sounding offended by your priorities. "Fuck forbid. I'd bite it clean off and shove it where the sun doesn't shine." You could almost hear her rubbing her forehead through the phone. "I'm sending you an address. Get dressed, better than whatever domestic, fluffy, lacy bullshit you're probably wearing right now and get your ass in a cab." 

You blinked, looking down at your sweater as though seeing it for the first time. "Susie..." you said slowly, glancing toward the dark windows. "It's really fucking late. Do you realize that?" 

"If you can't find a cab," Susie continued without acknowledging the objection, steamrolling straight over it, "call me. I'll send a car. Just...don't make me come drag you there myself. I've already got enough business brewing tonight." 

You frowned. "Send a car? When exactly did we change tax brackets?" A quiet chuckle escaped you. "Sounds serious." 

For the first time since answering, Susie didn't fire back immediately. The silence that settled on the line was sufficiently heavy to make even Clark's expression change. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost all of its frantic bite. "It is."

Your eyes drifted to Clark for the briefest moment. He met them calmly and gave a small, reassuring nod. "I have a ride," you said simply. 

There was a beat of silence before Susie spoke again, this time with alarming suspicion. "What's that tone?" she demanded. "I don't like that tone. Who are you with and...how naked are you?" She paused, audibly thinking before muttering, "Fuck..." Then louder, "Are your hands sticky?" 

You blinked in disbelief. "What tone? And why would my hands be sticky?" 

"You have a tone, one I haven't heard until tonight and I know you like pretending you're not cut out for manual labor but I'm starting to have my doubts." 

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "This is beyond unprofessional. The only sticks I touch go on my lips..." The words left your mouth and you froze. Across the room Imogene folded in on herself, laughing so hard she nearly spilled the popcorn onto the blanket. "I walked right into that one," you groaned. "I deserve it. I meant lipstick." You looked helplessly at Clark. "And I don't even have any left on, it's all over–" You leaned closer without thinking, studying his mouth with narrowed eyes for any trace of color. Finding none, you pressed the back of your own hand against your lips, checking for transfer before inspecting it under the light. "Never mind," you sighed with satisfaction. "It’s long-lasting." You straightened again, trying to recover what little dignity remained. "There was no tone. I'm just saying I have a ride." 

"What kind of ride?" Susie asked, every ounce of suspicion returning. "Does it wear plaid?" 

Your eyes widened, mouth falling open. Everything Clark had said over the last hour came rushing back at once. You slowly pointed between the phone and Clark. "Speaking of that...I knew you were acting weird. You two are–" 

"Please," Susie interrupted, her voice suddenly tight with dread. "Just, tell me he's not inside you."

You let out a long, exhausted sigh and glanced sideways at Clark, who looked thoroughly unprepared to be included in this conversation. "Not yet," you answered dryly. "We have an audience and he's currently worried about the building's structural integrity, so..." You frowned at the absurdity of hearing yourself say it. "I don't know." Then you threw one hand into the air. "Why is everyone suddenly so invested in my sex life!?" you exclaimed loudly, for the whole apartment to hear. "I'm hanging up now, Susan." 

"Yeah, you do that," Susie fired back. "And wash your hands. There's gonna be a lot of handshaking tonight…And Y/n?" She paused to make the threatening tone land. "Call me Susan again and his won't be the only fuck offered to you tonight." With that, the line went dead, leaving nothing but the soft buzz of the disconnected call, Imogene wheezing into the couch cushions and Clark staring at the floor, looking like he wasn't entirely sure whether he was supposed to apologize for existing.

You stared at the dark screen of your phone for a moment, thumb still hovering over it as though another explanation might magically appear if you waited. 

"Sometimes when she gets really angry," you said, mostly to Clark, "...she stops making a whole lot of sense." You offered with a small shrug. "She's actually very sweet, though. On the days that don't end in…day." 

Clark's lips twitched, though something else had clearly been lingering in his mind since before the phone call. "She called me," He paused, still sounding faintly bewildered by the memory. "...a tall glass of pasteurized milk." 

The sentence hung in the air for barely a second before a laugh burst out of you so suddenly it escaped as an undignified snort. You clapped a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking helplessly as the corners of your eyes crinkled. "I'm sorry," you managed between breaths. "It's just–" You pointed vaguely at him, another laugh interrupting you. "...it's genius." You shook your head, still smiling to yourself as you started walking toward your bedroom. "I'm gonna go change." 

Clark watched you disappear down the hallway, catching one last muffled laugh behind your hand before your bedroom door swung shut. Only then did he turn to find Imogene already looking at him with the hopeful expression of someone about to make an entirely unreasonable request.

"Any chance your next few conversations can happen with me in the room?" she asked, clasping her hands together hopefully. 

Clark politely pointed toward the front door instead. "I should probably fix that first." 

"Heard you're good with your hands," she replied with a perfectly innocent smile that fooled absolutely no one. 

"Imogene!" you shouted from down the hallway, your voice bouncing off the apartment walls. 

She winced theatrically. "Yeah, okay. A screwdriver's good too," she amended quickly. "...I'll go get one." Still smiling to herself, she got up from the couch and padded down the hallway toward the utility closet, disappearing around the corner. 

Clark glanced toward the front door where the missing doorknob left an embarrassingly obvious hole in the lock mechanism. Maybe postponing whatever might have happened tonight wasn't such a terrible idea after all, given this was the second doorknob he'd broken in a single evening. You had an uncanny ability to make him feel like he was sixteen again, like every emotion arrived at once, multiplying his strength tenfold while stealing every ounce of control he'd spent a lifetime learning.

You got ready as quickly as you could, which still took nearly an hour. One dress was too formal, another suddenly felt too plain, one pair of heels pinched, another didn't quite match and somewhere in the middle of changing your earrings for the third time you caught your own reflection and wondered why you were trying so hard. You brushed the thought aside before it could settle. In the end, you chose a dress that made you feel like yourself, slipped into your heels, buttoned a heavy wool coat and met Clark on the rooftop of your building just as the rain clouds finally began to break apart. 

By then he'd already repaired Imogene's front door and flown home to change into something presentable. He wasn’t going to suggest stopping by his apartment, after the way the evening had already gone, he trusted neither his self-control nor the clock, yet he returned before you had finished pinning back the last stubborn strand of hair. 

He met you on the rooftop and wrapped one careful arm around your waist, waited until you settled comfortably against him, fingers instinctively finding the lapel of his jacket before lifting the both of you into the cool night air. He flew lower than usual, slower too, the city gliding quietly beneath your feet while the last droplets clung to rooftops and streetlights turned every wet avenue into ribbons of gold. Neither of you spoke much. Every now and then he glanced down just to make sure you weren't cold, subtly adjusting his grip whenever a gust of wind found the two of you. 

A few minutes later, he descended onto a quiet side street tucked behind the building, empty save for a row of parked cars glistening from the rain and the distant hum of traffic several blocks away. His shoes touched the pavement without a sound and only once you were steady on your feet did he let go of your waist. 

Carnegie Hall. You recognized the building instantly, you simply refused to let yourself think about what it meant.

A suited gentleman was already waiting beside a discreet side entrance as though he'd been expecting you for quite some time. Without a word, he welcomed you inside and guided you through long carpeted corridors lined with framed photographs, polished brass fixtures and warm lighting that made the entire place feel even quieter. The silence was filled with people speaking softly behind closed doors, with expensive shoes muffled by thick carpet and doors that never slammed. 

You had a growing suspicion that every question currently forming in your mind belonged several pay grades above the man escorting you. Clark followed half a step behind, having relieved you of your purse and coat the moment you'd stepped inside. He carried both draped neatly over one forearm while his free hand occasionally rested over them whenever you absentmindedly stopped to smooth your dress, check your hair or adjust an earring that suddenly felt crooked. He consciously made himself smaller, allowing this world to belong entirely to you but he couldn't help noticing how different you seemed. He'd watched you wear dresses your entire life, watched you walk confidently into charity galas, university events and crowded museums without blinking, yet this was different. The nervousness was unmistakable but instead of shrinking beneath it, you stood taller. Your shoulders were set differently and your chin lifted, whatever waited at the end of these hallways terrified you, yet your feet never hesitated.

The farther you walked, the more voices filtered through the walls ahead, mixed laughter, low conversation and someone speaking with animated excitement before being politely interrupted. Your pace slowed without you realizing it and you glanced sideways at Clark, uncertainty written plainly across your face. Without a word he met your eyes and gave you one small, steady nod. It carried no pressure, only a reminder that wherever this night led, you weren't walking into it alone.

When you reached the final stretch of hallway, it opened into a reception room where a cluster of sharply dressed men and women stood talking in a loose circle, glasses in hand and business cards already changing owners. In the middle of them, somehow commanding the entire room despite being the shortest person present, stood Susie.

"There she is!" she announced, immediately abandoning the conversation and marching toward you before you'd even reached the group. She looked you over from head to toe with efficiency. "Only took an hour and forty-five minutes," she muttered before her eyes slid past you to Clark. Gone were the cap and plaid shirt from the Talon, in their place stood Clark in a well-fitted dark suit, crisp white shirt and neatly knotted tie, looking every bit the Pulitzer-winning reporter you'd always sworn he'd become one day, a future he'd spent years pretending wasn't something possible in this lifetime. Susie clicked her tongue. "You clean up nice, Kansas." She motioned vaguely toward the direction of the entrance with her hand. "Park your cow outside?"

Clark merely tilted his head, genuinely considering whether she'd expected a response.

You stepped neatly between them before the silence became any more painful. "He's too nice to tell you to shove that joke up your ass," you said matter-of-factly. "But he's thinking it."

"I wasn't," Clark admitted honestly from behind you.

"I am for both of us," you corrected, barely sparing him a glance before your attention drifted past Susie to the waiting group. Every conversation had stopped, every pair of eyes rested on you now with open curiosity, careful calculation or excitement. You'd spent months commanding rooms full of strangers, yet this scrutiny felt entirely different. Onstage, they came expecting to laugh but here, they expected to decide. It made you feel strangely unfinished, like someone had handed everyone else the script while you'd walked in without one. Your eyes returned to Susie. "You said they'd wait, so I didn’t rush."

She straightened the lapels of her suit with two sharp tugs, the gesture more for herself than anyone else, then gave you a brisk nod. "They have," she said. "Every last one of ‘em. You ready?" 

"Uh...no. I actually need a–" you started, only for Susie to plant both hands between your shoulder blades and propel you forward before you could finish. "...briefing," you muttered to yourself. 

"Too late," she shot back. By the time you stopped, you were standing in front of the waiting circle. "Ladies and gentlemen," Susie announced with a sweep of her arm, "This is my client. You know her as Mrs. Kent." 

A few smiles spread around the group and before you could die of embarrassment, Susie jabbed a thumb toward the tall man nearest you. "He was at your show tonight." 

You felt every eye settle on you at once and a nervous laugh escaped. "That's just...a silly stage name," you explained, motioning over your shoulder toward Clark, who stood a respectful step behind you. "His ma is actually the real Mrs.–"

"Won't be silly once it's glowing across the front of the building," the man interrupted warmly. He stepped forward, extending a hand. "Pleasure to finally meet you." You shook it firmly despite the slight tremor in your fingers and he gave your hand an approving squeeze before turning to Clark with another smile. "Hope your...ma doesn't mind sharing."

Clark accepted the handshake without hesitation, his grip careful. His eyes drifted to you before he answered. "I'm sure she won't," he said softly. "Not if it's with her." 

The certainty in his voice eased the knot that had tightened there the moment you'd entered the building. That man openly looked Clark up and down, eyebrows climbing as his gaze traveled from polished shoes to impossibly broad shoulders. He let out a low whistle before giving his arm a hearty pat. 

"Hell of an assistant you've got," he laughed, eyes falling to you. "Honestly, I'd have hired him as security." 

You smiled, shaking your head. "He's not my assistant," you corrected, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the front of your dress. "And I don't need security." 

A woman in an elegant navy suit exchanged an amused look with the others before looking back at you. "You will after this." 

Your smile faltered. "After...what?" 

The woman simply stepped aside and gestured toward the towering double doors behind the group, polished brass handles catching the warm chandelier light. "After you officially divide this business into a before and an after," she said gently. "By taking the Carnegie Hall stage." 

The hallway seemed to fall away around you. 

Your heartbeat climbed into your throat as you stared at the doors, unable to make your legs cooperate. Somewhere behind you someone adjusted their posture and another quietly cleared their throat…everyone was waiting. 

You swallowed, took one uncertain step, then another and Clark matched your pace without a word, crossing behind you and carefully settling your coat and purse into Susie's startled arms as he passed. She nearly dropped both under the unexpected weight. "This wasn't exactly in my job description," she muttered under her breath, glaring after him. 

Clark smiled politely without slowing. "Only one of us is on the payroll," he said, nodding toward you. "I'll just make sure she doesn't trip walking onto the stage...or make a run for it." 

Susie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?" she barked, half offended and impressed. "You got jokes now?" She narrowed her eyes at his retreating back. "Where the fuck'd your manners go, Kent?" 

Clark only glanced back over one shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting into the smallest, most satisfied smile. "Left outside with the cow," he answered mildly, "figured she'd need them more than I do tonight." 

You were the one who pushed the heavy stage door open, its hinges sighing softly before Clark slipped in behind you, letting it swing shut with a muted thud that swallowed the distant murmur of the people outside. Silence settled instantly, vast enough to hear the faint hum of the building itself. 

The empty auditorium stretched before you in endless rows of crimson velvet seats, balconies stacked one above another like watchful eyes waiting for permission to fill the space. The polished wood beneath your heels reflected the warm glow of the stage lights overhead, each careful step sending a crisp echo rippling through the hall. You'd stood on a stage only hours earlier but this one refused comparison. It was taller, wider and older, carrying the weight of every voice that had ever stood beneath its lights. 

At its center waited a single microphone, not as a prop or a companion but as a necessity meant to send your voice soaring to the very last row where every laugh, pause and silence would belong to people sitting perfectly still, no glasses clinking together, no bartenders shouting over conversations, no distraction to soften failure or success. 

Your pace slowed without you noticing, each hesitant step making Clark shorten his own so he wouldn't crowd you, leaving room for you to breathe even while never straying far. 

Eventually you reached the center mark and stopped. Your hand rose instinctively toward the microphone, fingertips hovering inches away before falling back to your side as quickly as they'd lifted. You let out a breath, shaking your head at yourself, unable to tell whether you were dismissing the opportunity or the fear blooming inside your chest. 

"Don't do that," Clark said gently from several feet behind you. 

"Don't do what?" you asked without looking away from the sea of empty seats. 

"Don't deny yourself this." 

Your answer came before you'd thought it. "It's too much." Your voice bounced back from the walls. "It's..." You swallowed, nodding faintly to yourself. "You were there tonight." Your eyes stayed fixed ahead as memories of the Talon drifted through you. "It's small. Sometimes it smells like stale beer and old cigarettes but I could count the people listening if I really wanted to. I know that room…I know the way laughter moves through it." You lifted one hand toward the enormous auditorium before you. "This?" A helpless laugh escaped. "This isn't a tight twenty in some club downtown. It's not getting paid in martinis and free drinks the next time I show up. Nobody here would come to accidentally discover me because they wandered in looking for somewhere warm…This isn't a secret anymore, Clark." 

He watched you quietly before asking, "Does it have to be one for it to remain yours?" 

The question made you turn. He hadn't taken another step, he stood just beyond the brightest circle of stage lights as though unwilling to steal even a fraction of them from you, content to remain where the shadows began if it meant every ounce of that spotlight belonged to you alone. 

"Doesn't it?" you asked softly. Of anyone, he understood what it meant to keep pieces of yourself hidden. Your shoulders sagged beneath the realization. "I need..." You searched for words that refused to arrive. "There are things I still have to figure out." 

"Like what?" 

You let out a low, disbelieving chuckle and motioned between the two of you. "This, for one. The newspaper…that headline." You rubbed your forehead with your fingertips. "It's been hours, Clark. I thought...I thought you'd do something with what you know." 

He held your gaze without wavering. "I am doing something." His voice was calm, impossibly certain. "I'm making up for lost time." 

"You're a reporter," you reminded him, searching his face for the instinct that usually sent him chasing a story. Instead, all you found was you. 

"And you're the love of my life," he answered with the same effortless honesty he'd always reserved for the things he could never lie about. "Y/n...I thought I understood love. I thought I'd spent my whole life learning what it looked like." His eyes drifted briefly toward the empty seats surrounding you before returning to your face. "Then I watched you stand on that stage tonight…You rewrote everything I thought I knew about it." He took one slow step closer, not enough to close the distance, only that his voice reached you without the room carrying it first. "But just like before...you were standing at the center of it."

You let out a quiet huff, shaking your head as you looked away with a disbelieving smile. "Making up for lost time..." you echoed under your breath. "By becoming my roommate's entertainment? By making sexual jokes?" You laughed once through your nose, more confused than amused, your heel absently tracing a small arc across the polished stage floor. Your eyes wandered back across the endless rows of seats. You didn’t know much about journalism, but you knew time was money and information was worth even more. If that headline in the Metropolis Inquisitor taught you anything, it was that they didn’t actually know what they were writing about.

You turned back to him, brows knitting together. There he was...knowing everything and doing absolutely nothing with it.

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Where did you even learn those jokes?" 

Clark's smile tugged gently at one corner of his mouth. "You forget how long we've known each other." He gave a small shrug. "You rubbed off on me." 

One of your eyebrows climbed, tone slipping into familiar territory before you could stop it. "Anything else I can rub up on?" 

Clark simply lifted a hand and pointed toward you with satisfaction. "You see?" 

You froze for half a second before groaning into your palms. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" A laugh escaped despite your embarrassment. "I can't help it. These gigs have completely loosened my tongue." You dragged both hands down your face before letting them fall, the smile fading as your gaze drifted once more through the cavernous theater. 

The silence stretched comfortably between you until you spoke again, this time so quietly your voice barely reached the first rows. "I didn't expect tonight to end like this." You breathed out slowly. "I was gonna go home, use up all the hot water, eat questionable leftovers straight out of the container and watch some terrible movie so I'd have something socially acceptable to cry about." 

Clark's expression softened. His eyes dropped for a moment before returning to yours with a tenderness that hurt to look at. "I know, baby," he said gently. "I understand." 

"No..." You shook your head before he'd even finished. "No, you don't." You hugged your arms around yourself, pacing a few slow steps across the stage before turning back toward him. "This is nothing like what I thought I wanted after that night at the bar." You laughed weakly, the sound catching in your throat. "Now you're calling me 'baby' like we're past everything that happened and I'm supposed to still want more?" You swallowed hard. "That's greed I can't even defend." Your eyes searched the empty auditorium instead of his. "I didn't want answers that night. I wanted somewhere to fall apart without someone examining every piece because they already knew where it came from." You pressed a hand lightly against your own chest. "I wanted warmth, Clark...and that's exactly what I found." You looked around the enormous space surrounding you. "But this..." Your voice echoed faintly through the balconies. "This is a house I don't know how to fill." You smiled sadly. "I'm not some flying wonder, people are supposed to look up at." 

Clark let out the smallest sigh, shaking his head at himself. "That's one heck of a pedestal you've put me on." There was disappointment in his voice but it wasn't directed at you. It was aimed entirely inward. 

"You would too..." you answered quietly, eyes dropping to the floor beneath your feet. "...if you knew yourself from where I've always been standing." Your fingers absently brushed the microphone stand before slipping away again. "You're the reason I went to college." You smiled at the memory, bittersweet and impossibly fond. "I honestly thought...if I could become a little more like you, maybe my parents would become a little more like yours." A breath of laughter escaped you, equal parts affection and disbelief. "Somewhere along the way I got lost in it…in you. In everything that came with loving you." You shrugged helplessly. "And then I realized none of it was conventional. Believe me...I'm aware." You took another slow look around Carnegie Hall. 

"There are so many things you still don't know and I can't wait to tell you every one of them...but I'm not some stand-up comedy messiah." You gestured toward the doors you'd entered through, where the executives still waited beyond them. "Sooner or later people are going to realize that." Your hand lingered there before falling back to your side. "This..." You shook your head. "This is a fluke, Clark. Those suits should never have been sitting in the Talon tonight. Whatever's printed beneath that headline should never have happened either." 

Clark held your gaze without flinching, his answer arriving as steadily as his heartbeat. "But it did."

"We have a plan," you said, shaking your head as you pointed toward the doors leading back into the hallway. "And this isn't it. You don't know Susie…she's terrified. For all we know she got that suit jacket off Jackie through illegal means...he's probably lying unconscious in an alley somewhere wondering where his clothes went." Your shoulders lifted helplessly before falling again. "We're not in a rush." You tapped the stage lightly with the toe of your heel. "This feels rushed." 

Clark listened without interrupting, his hands resting loosely at his sides. "You can't plan for this kind of success, sweetheart." His voice was gentle but unwavering. "Not this version of it." He took a slow step closer, his shoes barely making a sound against the polished floor. "You can't honestly tell me every one of those nights you spent on tiny stages wasn't leading here...or somewhere close to it." His eyes drifted around the immense auditorium before settling back on you. "Whether you meant it to or not, this is what you've been working toward…Don't you want to stand here and let people see everything you are?" 

You folded your arms again, creating distance where your feet wouldn't. "They can see me in smaller venues just the same." 

"Some can," he agreed. "But many more will spend the rest of their lives looking for you because access is its own addiction…You can’t hide forever." He gestured toward the empty seats surrounding you. "People chase stories, voices, the feeling of witnessing something before everyone else does. Information people believe matters..." His eyes found yours again. "...that's always in demand. They don't find you by wandering into a club with a flickering sign outside and a bartender wiping down glasses while you're changing someone's life in the corner, they find you because eventually the rooms become too small to hold everyone who needs to hear you."

You shook your head before he had even finished. "I'm not hiding." 

"You are." There wasn't an ounce of accusation in his voice. "I may have arrived late to the party…I've made more mistakes than I know how to count and I'm still figuring out how to apologize for every single one of them." He paused, breathing in quietly. "But the one thing I've never been confused about...is where I hope all of this ends." 

You looked away, blinking toward the empty balconies. "This is show business." Your voice echoed faintly around the hall. "We don't control the narrative, Clark. Thinking we do is..." You searched for the word before letting out a tired laugh. "...beyond foolish." Both your hands lifted before falling decisively to your sides. "If this happens...If I let this happen..." You made a clean slicing motion through the air. "...it's over." You looked around the auditorium as though it were already filled with strangers. "It's out of my hands. It's out of Susie's grabby little managerial hands too. There's no putting this back in the box…This isn't some secret identity I can fold up or hang back in the closet once the night's over." Your voice grew quieter. "I won't just be me anymore and we won't have time for..." Your hand moved gently between the two of you. "...this. To figure it out and to make sure it'll last." 

You let out a shaky breath. "You think I don't know what all of this means?" You pointed toward the city beyond the theater walls. "The Metropolis Inquisitor doesn't lead with stories like mine. They chase conspiracies, vigilantes and impossible headlines." Your finger slowly turned toward him. "That headline belonged in the Daily Planet. It should've been yours." 

"No." His answer came immediately. He shook his head once, firmly enough that the word settled between you like fact instead of opinion. "Don't make this about me." He took another measured step until only a few short feet separated you. "This is about you." His voice softened without losing its certainty. "It's always been about you and I can't let you be the last person to realize it." 

Your gaze fell helplessly to the floor, following the faded grain in the wood instead of the emotion in his eyes. Only then did he close the rest of the distance, stopping close enough that you could hear the steadiness of his breathing. "I'm not letting you go," he said quietly. "Sweetheart...there is time and I don't need another second of it to tell you that I love you." He reached out, not touching you, only lifting one hand until it hovered between you before gently pointing toward your chest. "You love this." His eyes searched yours until you finally looked back at him. "So love it as completely as I believe you love me." He swallowed hard, emotion catching every word that followed. "And don't..." His voice cracked. "Don't let the timing fool you." He shook his head slowly, tears beginning to gather despite every effort to keep them at bay. "If you let this pass because we're finally standing in the same place at the same time..." He stopped to steady his breathing, his smile impossibly sad. "Y/n...you'll break my heart...and you'll refuse to fix your own because of it." 

The silence that followed felt heavier than the theater itself. You looked at him through tears that blurred the edges of everything except him, your own spilling freely now and for the first time all night there wasn't a joke clever enough or a fear convincing enough, to argue with the truth he'd placed so gently in your hands.

Before you could inevitably tear your eyes away from Clark, the side door creaked open again and Susie strode onto the stage with the purposeful march of someone who had already decided hesitation had no place there. 

The door banged softly shut behind her, its echo disappearing into the cavernous hall as she clapped her hands once, snapping through the thick emotion still hanging between the two of you. Her eyes swept over the stage, lingering to recognize the tears, the shortened distance between you and Clark and the conversation she'd interrupted. She filed it away without comment as she wasn't equipped to deal with feelings unless they could be invoiced. 

"So..." she began, forcing brightness into her voice as she spun once with both arms spread toward the empty auditorium. "What do we think of the new amenities? I figured velvet seats and gold trim suited you better than warped floorboards, sticky beer stains and a stage barely higher than my kneecaps." She waited…but there was nothing, not even the ghost of one of your sarcastic remarks. 

She sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Jesus Christ, you two look like someone just canceled Christmas." She jabbed a thumb toward Clark. "He practically ambushed me at the Talon. First it was an ambush in a suit, then another one in plaid." Her finger lingered on him for another second. "I got off on the wrong foot with both of them but at least one showed me a business card before ruining my night." She turned fully toward you, the humor leaving her face. 

"Y/n...This is it." She motioned toward the hallway beyond the stage doors. "That's our open door out there. They're waiting to come in here and suffocate you with contracts, agreements, percentages, interviews, schedules and enough ideas to make your head spin, but–" 

"How long do I have?" you interrupted quietly. "If we do this...how long until Mrs. X gets a last name and a face?" 

Susie's jaw tightened as she searched your own, realizing you'd seen far more than she'd managed to keep hidden tonight. She looked instinctively toward Clark, unsure whether she was asking permission or searching for reassurance. He simply gave her one firm nod, trusting both you and the answer. Susie inhaled slowly. "They want you on this stage in three days." 

She watched the words hit you before continuing, slipping into manager mode because it was the only way she knew how to keep herself together. "I'd be leaving the Talon, for good…They already know the no phones and no press policy is non-negotiable. We need lawyers before anybody signs a damn thing, because there'll be contracts thicker than my apartment lease and about ten times less honest. Then comes the tidal wave afterward." She blew out a breath. "They're talking publicists, stylists, glam teams..." She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "...as if they can improve perfection with hairspray. They don't know you yet." She stepped closer. "This is big, kid...but it's still us. Okay?" 

She tapped her own chest. "You, me, bad alcohol and worse decisions." Her voice dropped. "That newspaper?…Don't worry about the press." 

You let out a humorless laugh and gestured toward Clark without taking your eyes off Susie. "The press is worried about me." 

Susie's eyes slid sideways until they landed squarely on Clark. She crossed her arms.

"Clark Kent," He met her stare without blinking, "Daily Planet reporter." 

She scoffed under her breath. "Still better than those assholes at the Inquisitor." She pointed vaguely between him and the city outside. "Don't you people have resources for this kind of thing?" Her finger circled toward you. "You couldn't get the guy in the cape to eavesdrop for five goddamn minutes and figure out her real name before those conspiracy lunatics?" 

Clark's lips parted before he caught himself and closed them again. 

Susie waved him off. "Relax, Kent, it was a joke." She snorted. "That poor bastard's got better things to do than fact-check comedians. Like saving our asses..." Her smirk returned. "...and giving the entire country something nice to look at every time the news cuts to him. I don't pay for cable just to watch the weather." Then she looked back at you, the bravado slipped away completely. "I figured it'd sound better coming from me than from those suits." She nodded toward the doors. "They'd remind you too much of your parents." She shoved both hands into her jacket pockets. "And if we're doing this, I don't exactly have room in your calendar to pencil in the years of therapy that'll probably come with it." For the first time since you’d known her, Susie Myerson looked genuinely uncertain. The question seemed painful coming out of her mouth. "So..." She swallowed. "...a-are we doing this?" 

The theater fell silent again. Your eyes drifted toward Clark only for a heartbeat before landing on the empty first row, imagining it full.  "I have requests," you said at last, your voice steadier than you felt. You pointed toward the front of the auditorium. "Am I allowed to make those?" 

Susie's shoulders dropped so abruptly it was comical. Relief escaped her in the form of one shaky breath that dissolved into a disbelieving laugh. She was already reaching inside her suit jacket before you'd finished speaking, producing a worn notepad with curled corners and the same pen she'd been carrying for years. She flipped it open, clicked the pen and looked up at you expectantly. "Kid..." A grin spread across her face despite the tears threatening the corners of her eyes. "If the number of zeroes on the check they waved in front of me is any indication..." She poised the pen over the page. "...you don't make requests anymore…you make demands."

Clark walked into the bullpen with quick, purposeful strides, his messenger bag thumping lightly against his hip with every other step. The newsroom hadn't settled since the headline broke, if anything, the frenzy had only intensified overnight. 

Someone had commandeered the large whiteboard in the center of the bullpen and transformed it into an investigation wall worthy of a detective drama. Maps of Metropolis were pinned beside grainy photographs of clubs clipped from newspapers, handwritten witness statements, venue flyers and pages covered in circles and arrows, color-coded strings connecting supposed sightings, dates, neighborhoods and increasingly far-fetched theories. 

Beside it, a second corkboard had been dedicated entirely to predicting future appearances, looking uncomfortably similar to the sort of conspiracy board usually reserved for alien invasions or Bigfoot. 

Half a dozen office phones sat lined up on a table near it, each labeled with masking tape and a reporter's name so the person needed could answer if a lead came in. Coffee cups crowded every flat surface, yesterday's takeout containers still waited to be thrown away and jackets hung over chair backs. Nobody seemed to have slept. 

"You're late again, Kent," Perry grumbled from a chair he'd dragged directly in front of the board like a battlefield commander refusing to abandon his post. He didn't even bother looking up from the file resting on his knee, merely pointed a pencil in Clark's general direction. 

"Sorry," Clark answered sheepishly, slipping his messenger bag onto his chair before shrugging out of his jacket. "I had to mail something." 

Steve swiveled around where he sat perched on the edge of his desk, eyebrows climbing. 

"People still do that?" Clark nodded matter-of-factly. "They do if they actually want their parents to receive it." He absentmindedly straightened the strap of his bag before taking in the organized chaos around him. 

Cat stood beside the printer waiting impatiently for another sheet to crawl out while Jimmy balanced on the top step of a stool pinning fresh photographs onto the board with sufficient  enthusiasm to make it wobble. 

Lois sat with three highlighters uncapped beside her keyboard, methodically marking witness statements while barely looking up. 

"What's..." Clark gestured toward the ever-growing monument to obsession. "...all of this?" 

"Work," Lois replied without lifting her eyes from the papers. "You'd know that if you read the group chat." 

Clark blinked. "We have a group chat?" He pulled his phone from his pocket with genuine confusion. The screen lit up to reveal hundreds of unread notifications stacked beneath one another. He stared for a long second. "...That's wildly unprofessional." 

"It is," Perry admitted with a dismissive wave. "But I need every one of you reachable twenty-four hours a day until this story lands." He leaned back, rubbing both hands slowly over his tired face before looking up at the investigation board again. "I don't know why..." he murmured more to himself than anyone else. "...I've got this feeling we're running out of time. That exclusive's slipping right through our fingers." 

"It was never ours," Clark said. The words weren't loud but they sliced cleanly through the bullpen. Conversations faltered mid-sentence, keyboards slowed and Jimmy froze halfway through pushing another thumbtack into the board. 

Even Cat abandoned the printer, leaving a freshly printed page hanging halfway out of the tray as she wandered over with narrowed eyes. "Chief," she said carefully, lowering her voice like Clark had contracted something contagious. "...he's been corrupted." 

"Let's cut him some slack," Jimmy jumped in, hopping off the stool and planting himself between Clark and the rest of the newsroom with both hands raised like a hostage negotiator. "Just look at him. The man looks malnourished, pale, he barely sleeps..." He pointed dramatically at Clark's face. "...he's had a rough couple of weeks." 

"I don't–" Clark tried. 

"Shhh!" Jimmy whipped around and aggressively shushed him, jabbing a finger toward his chest. "I'm trying to save your ass from getting fired and stop the Daily Planet from losing its only direct connection to our national hero. Keep your mouth shut." He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not all heroes wear spandex for the rest of us to admire." 

Straightening again, he addressed the bullpen with renewed confidence. "Clark fully understands the importance of this investigation and has been tirelessly working to–" 

Clark tuned the speech out. Turning to his chair, he opened his messenger bag and reached inside, carefully withdrawing a neat stack of thick white envelopes. Each had a name written across the front in careful cursive. He thumbed through them once, found the first and looked back up at the room.

"Stop chasing impossible leads," Clark finished, his calm voice cut cleanly through Jimmy's rambling defense, making him stop mid-sentence as Clark slipped the first envelope into his hands. "I was going to mail these," he continued, already crossing to Steve's desk and placing another envelope in front of him. "But I'd rather none of you develop an ulcer waiting." 

He moved through the bullpen at an unhurried pace, giving one to Lois' where she caught it neatly between two fingers without taking her eyes off him, another to Cat and the last into Perry's waiting hand. 

The editor accepted it without so much as glancing down, his attention fixed entirely on Clark as though expecting the punchline to reveal itself. For several long seconds, no one moved. 

The newsroom, so loud only moments ago with phones ringing, keyboards clacking and reporters arguing over impossible sightings, was swallowed by uneasy silence broken only by the steady hum of fluorescent lights overhead. 

Perry finally slid a thumb beneath the flap and tore the envelope open impatiently. A thick cream-colored theatre ticket slipped into his palm, its gold foil catching the light. Across the top, an elegant script read ‘Meet the Mrs.’ Beneath it sat his name, seat number, section, date and time. At the bottom, in bold lettering impossible to miss, ‘No phones. No press.’ 

One by one, the others hurried to open theirs. Steve blinked several times as though unfocused vision would change the words. Jimmy looked from the ticket to Clark and back again so often he nearly gave himself whiplash. Cat flipped hers over, inspecting the back for hidden instructions or invisible ink before holding it up to the light. 

Lois frowned harder with every line she read until curiosity finally outweighed skepticism and she stepped toward Clark. "'No press,'" she read aloud, one eyebrow arching high. "I know comedy's gotten popular lately, Kent but tasteless jokes are still frowned upon. Are we expected to hand in our resignations at the door?" 

"Carnegie Hall?" Perry asked, lifting the ticket between two fingers like it might disintegrate if held too tightly. "Is this real?" 

Clark nodded once. "It's not a joke...The performance won't be announced publicly until tomorrow morning. That gives everyone else a little over twenty-four hours to buy tickets." His gaze drifted over the envelopes and  the tickets held carefully in stunned hands, a small smile softening his expression. "Those..." he continued, nodding toward them, "...were a gift I'll never be able to repay." 

Perry slowly pushed himself out of his chair and walked around it until he stood only a few feet from Clark's desk. "You know who she is." It wasn't asked with curiosity anymore, it practically sounded like an accusation. 

Clark met his eyes steadily, offering neither confirmation nor denial. "I hope you'll all be there," he said instead. His eyes wandered briefly to the sprawling investigation board covered in maps, photographs, timelines and red string before returning to every face watching him. "...As more than this." He gestured lightly toward the board, then circled behind his desk, pulled out his chair and sat down as though nothing remarkable had happened. 

Around him, the others remained frozen, every reporter staring at the ticket in their hands, each realizing that the biggest exclusive of the year had never belonged to anyone but the woman behind it.

Steve let out a quiet huff of laughter, turning the thick ticket over between his fingers, running his thumb across the gold embossing as if expecting another surprise to appear. "Carnegie Hall," he repeated, drawing the words out with a low whistle. "Sounds fancy." 

He wandered over to Clark's desk, leaning one hip against it, one hand planted on the wood. 

"So..." he began cautiously, tilting his head. "Is it maybe too soon to ask Y/n for advice again...or?" He flashed an apologetic smile that was only half sincere. "Look, I know you're not taking the divorce very well and I don't want to take sides..." He lowered his voice into an exaggerated whisper. "...but I'm a mama's boy." 

Clark looked up from absentmindedly straightening the stack of papers on his desk, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The internet works just as well." 

Steve squinted suspiciously. "How would you know?" he muttered, pushing himself upright again. "You willingly wear plaid." 

Clark didn't even hesitate. His eyes drifted down to Steve's aggressively striped tie before lifting back to his face. "Bold thing to say wearing that." 

A snort burst out of Jimmy, echoing across the bullpen before he clamped both hands over his mouth, earning himself a withering look from Steve, who instinctively glanced down at his tie, frowned at it as though questioning every decision that had led him to wear it that morning, tugged self-consciously at the knot, then silently retreated to the safety of his desk. 

Perry shook his head to himself, tapping the edge of the ticket against his palm with a soft, rhythmic thwap...thwap...thwap, never once taking his eyes off Clark. "I don't know how you keep doing it, Kent..." he admitted after a long silence. "...but keep it up." 

He slid the invitation back into its envelope with surprising care before disappearing into his office, already barking over his shoulder for someone to bring him coffee before the door had even swung shut. 

Once again, they had an exclusive that wasn't really theirs, at least not yet. 

Until tomorrow morning, when Carnegie Hall made its announcement, the greatest scoop in Metropolis sat inside envelopes instead of tomorrow's front page. Reporters who usually fought to be first now sat silently studying seat numbers, comparing rows, trying to decipher whether proximity to the stage meant anything at all. 

Whispers replaced the frantic theorizing that had consumed the newsroom for days, speculation giving way to conspiracies spoken only for neighboring desks to hear. 

Every few minutes someone's attention drifted back toward Clark, hoping he'd slip, smile too knowingly or offer the tiniest breadcrumb to follow but he never did. He simply settled into his chair, sorted through the morning's paperwork and looked, to anyone else, exactly like Clark Kent. 

Whether he'd still be sitting there by lunchtime was another question entirely. Metropolis had a habit of needing Superman at the least convenient moments and if the city didn't pull him away first, there was every chance his phone would light up with your name asking him to rescue you from another endless meeting about contracts, publicity and a future that seemed determined to arrive faster than you had time to catch up with it.

Expectedly, the night arrived far too quickly. Between dress fittings you barely had opinions on, contract meetings that seemed to multiply every time one ended, rehearsals everyone insisted you needed despite your protests, endless soundchecks, dodging reporters through service corridors and saying goodbye to a life where anonymity had protected you, the edge of everything you'd worked toward appeared before you. 

The dressing room they had given you felt more like a luxury apartment than somewhere people waited to perform, lined wall to wall with bright vanity mirrors that erased every shadow from your face, soft couches no one ever seemed to sit on, fresh bouquets replacing yesterday's before they had the chance to wilt and enough catered food to feed a small wedding. 

Yet behind the closed door you couldn't hear the audience gathering, only the muffled rhythm of hurried footsteps, stagehands calling cues somewhere down the corridor and the occasional distant rumble of equipment being wheeled across polished floors. You sat motionless before the mirror, staring at your own reflection without really seeing it, trying to imagine what waited on the other side of those doors. 

Fifty people would be scattered through those endless rows of red velvet seats, all expecting certainty from someone who felt seconds away from being sick. The black gown hugged your waist and shoulders so tightly it dictated your posture for you, every inhale so shallow that you had to remind yourself to actually breathe. 

Even your phone was gone, Susie had confiscated it hours ago under the excuse that you didn't need "one more escape route," leaving you feeling strangely trapped inside a room designed to make people comfortable. The door swung open without warning and Susie wandered in halfway through demolishing a sandwich, still chewing as she kicked it shut behind her. 

"They've got an entire room full of free food back there," she announced around another bite. "I asked if I could get some Tupperware for later." She swallowed triumphantly. "Figured I should probably start worrying about keeping myself alive too." 

You frowned over your shoulder. "Why would they give you Tupperware?" 

Susie paused mid-chew, genuinely puzzled by the question. "'Cause I told them it was for you." 

Her eyes drifted toward the untouched plate sitting beside the vanity, exactly where you'd left it over an hour earlier before hair, makeup and wardrobe had begun. It hadn't moved, much like the rack of backup dresses and neatly arranged line of designer heels still waiting in the corner in case you "changed your mind." 

"You're not eating?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "Is this that Ozempic crisis everyone's having?" 

You pushed yourself out of the chair, smoothing your hands over the front of the dress more to occupy them than to fix anything. "I wouldn't keep it down," you admitted. "And if everyone we invited is actually out there, the last thing I want is to projectile vomit all over the first three rows." 

You began pacing the room, your bare feet sinking into the thick carpet with each nervous lap. 

Susie's eyes quickly dropped to the floor. "Why are you barefoot?" 

"I don't have any heels to wear," you answered matter-of-factly, continuing your slow circuit past the mirrors. 

She blinked, then pointed dramatically toward the glittering collection lined up beside the garment rack. "Are those not heels?" She squinted at them. "You have pointy ones, glittery ones, ones so sharp they could qualify as assault weapons..." She looked back at you in disbelief. "Those weren't even in the contract, those are ass-kissing gifts and I already told them it worked. Don't make me a liar now."

"I am not wearing heels I've never worn before on that stage, Susie." You jabbed a finger toward the door, advancing on her until she leaned back. "The ones I brought won’t work anymore. You know why? Because none of the dresses I planned on wearing let me breathe, and the one dress that was never supposed to be an option is the only one that does." You hooked a finger beneath the neckline and tugged at it irritably. "The stupid tag's been stabbing me in the ribs for the last twenty minutes. It's either that or my heart grew thorns overnight." You threw your hands into the air. "I can't do this. I cannot walk out there barefoot, with last week's pedicure, in front of fifty people scattered around that giant room pretending I belong there. I'm not humiliating myself for free. If self-inflicted embarrassment was the goal tonight, I'd have invited my parents and saved everyone else the trip." 

Susie stared at you, her eyes growing even wider as she watched your composure unravel. The truth was she couldn't reassure you because she was barely holding herself together. She could have told you the theater wasn't half empty, that people were still gathered outside hoping someone wouldn't show or that she'd refused to ask how ticket sales had gone because she knew the answer would make her panic too. Every time she'd stepped into that auditorium tonight her own knees had gone weak before she'd even reached the wings.

She'd been stress-eating her way through the catering table for hours and it clearly wasn't helping. Without another word she hurled the remains of her sandwich toward the nearest trash can. It bounced cleanly off the rim, exploded onto the floor and a lone piece of lettuce floated dramatically to the carpet steps away from the rest. 

She didn't even look back. "What do you need?" she asked, all business now. 

"A getaway car," you answered without hesitation. "A matching tracksuit, oversized so it can swallow me whole, fluffy socks, bunny slippers...a new name, a new city and preferably a bomb in the trunk so I don't have to use any of it." 

Susie waved a hand directly in front of your face until you looked at her. "Wrong question." She pointed at you. "Who do you need?" 

The fight left your shoulders instantly, relief softening every tense line in your body before you even answered. Susie didn't wait to hear it, she was already out the door, weaving briskly through the backstage corridors, sidestepping stagehands wheeling equipment and narrowly avoiding a violinist. 

"Miss Myreson!" a frantic-looking intern called after her, jogging to keep pace while carrying the stack of plastic containers she'd requested earlier. "The Tupperware!" 

"No time for that, Kevin," she fired back without breaking stride, despite the nametag clearly reading Ethan. Reaching the intersection where several backstage hallways met, she planted herself in the middle like a traffic officer and clapped loudly to get everyone's attention. 

"Listen up!" Heads turned immediately. "I'm looking for a very...broad guy." She spread both arms as wide as they would go. "Glasses…puppy-dog eyes. About..." She held one hand above her own head. "...yay tall. Well, my height multiplied by three. If you get close enough he probably smells like fresh-cut grass...the kind that doesn't know pollution exists...and maybe milk straight from the tit." She frowned thoughtfully. "Depending on whether he makes his own shower gel. Point is, you can't miss him. This is an emergency!" 

The declaration sent people scattering in every direction, opening dressing-room doors, peeking behind curtains and calling down hallways as if searching for a missing headliner. Susie checked her watch again, her wrist trembling so much that she had to steady it with her other hand. 

"Susie?" 

Her head snapped up so quickly she nearly gave herself torticollis. Clark stood at the far end of the corridor, looking thoroughly confused about why half of Carnegie Hall suddenly seemed to be searching for him. "Everybody back to work!" Susie yelled, pointing triumphantly. "I found him!" 

She marched straight toward him, grabbed him firmly by the sleeve the moment she reached him and started dragging him down the hallway before he could get a single question out.

"What've you got there?" Susie asked without slowing, glancing sideways at the armful he carried. One hand held a bouquet, the other a carefully wrapped box. "If that's a coffin, it's really fucking small to fit both of us." Her eyes landed on the flowers next. "And I don't want to alarm you, Kansas, but she's already gotten about a hundred of those tonight. I don't know how secure you are around male competition but I'd hate to be the one consoling you when some rich fat guy proposes before curtain call." 

Clark looked down at what he was carrying before letting his eyes return to the back of Susie's head as she practically towed him through the corridors. "Why are you walking so fast?" 

"Because I've got short legs and I’m scared," she shot back, weaving around a stagehand pushing a rack of costumes. "If she runs, I won't catch her and trust me, she will run. She's pacing barefoot on carpet none of us can confirm has ever been cleaned and I can't fucking fix that either." She skidded to a stop outside a dressing-room door and spun him toward it, flattening a hand against his chest to keep him there. "You've got..." She checked her watch, tapping the face twice like the seconds might slow down. "Four minutes. Either you get her onto that stage or you're writing both our eulogies and you don't know me well enough to lie convincingly. Actually, you don't know me at all, which is even worse because I hear dishonesty gives you hives. Consider that a threat." 

Before he could answer, she'd already disappeared back down the hallway barking instructions at someone carrying a headset. Clark exhaled quietly, shifted the flowers and the small box higher against his arm, straightened his tie with the hand he had free and knocked. 

It only took a moment before the handle turned. You stood on the other side in a black gown that seemed to catch every bit of light in the room, a glittering gold bow resting just below your sternum, your makeup soft and your hair exactly the way you'd always liked to wear it. For all the changes the last few days had brought, you still looked entirely like yourself, so beautiful that he forgot whatever he'd meant to say the instant you smiled. 

"I'm surprised Susie's not in here supervising us," you teased, stepping aside to let him in before closing the door behind him. "I hear orgasms relieve stress." Whether you were joking or not, he couldn't quite tell. 

"You're being funny," Clark observed with a relieved smile as his eyes wandered over the dressing room, every available surface crowded with extravagant bouquets. "That's good. Susie made it sound like you had a terminal illness." 

"I might drop dead in the next few minutes," you replied, accepting the flowers from him. "Consider these my last words." You smiled to yourself as you buried your nose in the bouquet, recognizing the flowers he'd chosen. They weren't the biggest in the room, nor the most expensive but they were your favorites. The colors, the arrangement, even the scent, it was unmistakably chosen by him. 

"Second bouquet in two days," you murmured. "I'll try not to get used to this." 

"Don't try too hard," he answered softly, watching you carry them over to the vanity. Without a second thought you lifted another elaborate arrangement from the vase, set it aside and replaced it with his instead, fussing with the stems until they sat exactly the way you liked them. 

A laugh escaped you before you gestured toward the untouched catering table behind you. "Hungry? I'd have called you hours ago but I've officially been banned from the outside world." You spread your arms dramatically. "I'm basically Rapunzel, minus the tower, the hair...and that green squirrel." 

Clark frowned, amusement creeping into his expression as he stepped closer. "...Squirrel?" he repeated with a chuckle that was meant to calm down the nerves written all over your face but didn’t. "Hey..." His voice softened. "Talk to me." 

Your smile faded and your eyes dropped to your feet against the plush carpet, your fingers absentmindedly smoothing the fabric over your waist as though you could iron the nerves out of yourself. When you finally spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper. "You don't want to hear that I'm terrified."

"I want to hear everything from you," he assured softly, he wished you understood just how true that was. 

Outside these walls, reporters crowded every entrance hoping for a glimpse of you, while people who hadn't managed to buy tickets lingered on the sidewalks anyway, convinced something extraordinary was happening inside. The performance had sold out in under an hour and if anyone checked eBay now, the tickets were already listed for five times their original price, a fact he was fairly certain violated several policies. 

Even from where he stood, the theater hummed through his heightened hearing. Excited whispers rippled across the audience, programs rustled, seats folded upright and strangers compared favorite routines from the Talon as though they'd known you for years. 

The anticipation was deafening. 

You let out a breathy laugh and shook your head. "You'll hear enough from me if I survive long enough to make it onto that stage." You rubbed your palms together nervously. "Let’s talk about literally anything else." 

"Uh..." Clark glanced down at the small box he'd been carrying all this time before holding it out to you. "Priority Mail is expensive…" A sheepish smile tugged at his lips. "And you were right, turns out eBay shipping costs aren’t exactly cheap either." He nodded toward the black box tied neatly with a satin ribbon. "Italy's quite nice this time of year." 

Your eyes moved from his face to the gift in his hands. You accepted it carefully, balanced it against your forearm and untied the ribbon with fingers that suddenly felt much steadier. The moment you lifted the lid, you stopped breathing. 

Nestled inside lay a pair of black vintage Prada heels, the very ones you'd reached for every chance you got until life had finally worn them beyond saving. Your fingertips brushed across the soft leather as though confirming they were real, tears gathering before you even realized your vision had blurred. 

"Like I said," Clark spoke gently into the silence, smiling hopefully. "I've still got a lot to apologize for…but I figured this was a good place to start." You laughed quietly through your tears, lifting one shoe before the other and slipping them onto your feet. They fit perfectly, as though they'd been waiting for you. 

You took two tentative steps across the carpet before tapping your heels together with a satisfied little click just as a rapid series of knocks rattled the dressing-room door. "Hey!" Susie's voice called through the wood. "I don't want to alarm anybody but we're sort of under contract here. You've got exactly one minute and seeing as running isn't exactly your thing–" 

You smiled to yourself, crossed the room and rose onto your tiptoes, pressing a lingering kiss against Clark's cheek. "I'll try to be a little more lenient out there," you murmured apologetically as you slowly backed toward the door. "But...this is kind of my job." Your hand settled on the handle. "You understand, right?" 

Clark's smile reached his eyes, he nodded once. "Break a leg." 

You grinned, warmth replacing the panic that had gripped you only moments before. "At this rate," you teased, "I might have to start running after all." With one confident turn of the handle, you opened the door, unintentionally rescuing Susie halfway through another knock. "It's showtime," you announced, stepping into the hallway with your head high, shoulders squared and a smile that looked effortless only because it had been earned. 

Susie blinked as though the dressing room had replaced you with someone else entirely. Her gaze dropped briefly to the heels, then lifted to Clark still standing in the doorway, watching you disappear down the corridor with unmistakable pride. "God bless Kansas," she muttered under her breath before breaking into a jog to catch up with you.

Clark jogged down the aisle between rows of polished velvet seats while earning more than a few disapproving glances from patrons who had arrived early enough to admire the gilded balconies instead of sprinting beneath them. He slipped into the front row just as the house lights dimmed another shade. Every seat around him was occupied now, programs folded neatly on laps, expensive perfume mingling with polished wood and old velvet as the low murmur of hundreds of conversations rolled through the hall like distant surf. 

Halfway down the aisle Jimmy caught sight of him and mouthed dramatically, "Where the hell were you?" while Lois pinched the bridge of her nose as though she'd expected nothing less. 

"Oh, hey Clark," Martha smiled warmly as he finally reached her, patting the empty seat she'd fiercely protected between herself and Jonathan. "I was startin' to think we were in the wrong room." 

Clark laughed under his breath as he slipped into place, straightening his tie. "Ma...your names are embroidered on the seat cards." Martha glanced back at the elegant gold lettering as though seeing it for the first time. "Well...city's always been a little confusin'." 

Jonathan leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Would you say it's too late to find the restroom?" he whispered. "Folks keep sayin' they're about to piss themselves. Didn't know if that was some theater tradition." 

Clark smiled at his parents. "It's...just an expression." He glanced toward the stage. "And yes, it's too late."

"Where's Y/n, Clark?" Martha interrupted, craning her neck toward the doors. "You don't mind the floor, do you? She oughta be sittin' between us when she gets here. It’s gettin’ crowded, don’t want her to miss it." 

Before Clark could answer, someone farther down the row stage-whispered loudly, "Clark! Remember me? You broke our door!" Imogene waved both hands enthusiastically, earning several scandalized looks from patrons around her before grinning even wider. 

Beside her, Zelda, your housekeeper growing up, caught his eye and smiled with the same affection she'd always shown him, while a few seats farther over a man leaned toward her without taking his eyes off the magnificent ceiling. 

"Think this place sells beer?" he asked hopefully. 

Zelda blinked at him. "I'm sorry...who are you?" 

"That's Ricky from the bodega," an elderly woman answered cheerfully from the next seat before he could introduce himself. She turned toward Zelda instead, admiring her shoes with unmistakable expertise. "Those are lovely, dear. Vintage, aren't they?" Mrs. Alston beamed, smoothing her skirt. 

"They were a gift." She replied with a warm smile at the memory.

Mrs. Alston produced a business card from her tiny handbag with the speed of someone who'd been waiting weeks for this exact conversation. "I have an all-vintage online boutique," she said proudly, slipping it into her hand. "We've got social media too. My old employee insisted I mention that whenever I handed these out." She smiled fondly to herself. "Wonderful girl…with impeccable taste." 

Zelda thanked her warmly, carefully tucking the card into her purse.

"Son," Jonathan murmured, his disappointment clear, "do you go around breakin' strangers' doors now? I thought we raised you with better manners than that."

"I'm sure there was a reason," Martha defended, already reaching up to press the back of her hand against Clark's forehead as though a fever was the only reasonable explanation. "Are you feelin' alright? Could be all this polluted city air." She frowned thoughtfully. "Or maybe you're workin' too hard again."

Clark smiled helplessly, catching her hand before she could begin checking his pulse next. He gave it an affectionate squeeze and rested it back in her lap just as conversations dissolved into a respectful hush that swept across the hall, before Jackie emerged from the wings, adjusting the cuffs of his tuxedo as he crossed confidently toward the microphone. 

Before he could even speak, a loud cheer erupted somewhere near the middle of the orchestra seats. Clark glanced over his shoulder and smiled to himself, the Talon's regulars had cleaned up remarkably well, Jackie laughed under his breath before resting a hand on the microphone.

"This job made an honest man out of me long before a courthouse and wedding vows ever could," he began, drawing warm laughter from every corner of the theater. "And like any honest man, I have a lady to thank for that...though this one isn't exactly mine." Another ripple of laughter followed as his gaze drifted across the impossibly full auditorium, up through the balconies and gilded boxes packed with eager faces. "A little while ago, I told you she'd set foot on this stage one day. Truth be told..." He smiled to himself. "I just never imagined she'd make me look this right this quickly."

You waited beside the stage entrance exactly where you'd first stood with Susie only days before. Every round of applause reached you as a muffled tremor beneath your feet, stagehands moved with efficiency around you, speaking in hushed voices through headsets while two crew members rested their hands on the enormous double doors that would open on cue. Another stood nearby with one finger pressed against his earpiece, quietly counting down timings only he could hear. Your breathing matched Susie's without either of you noticing, slow inhales followed by shaky exhales that betrayed neither of you felt remotely in control.

"Susie?" you called softly. She looked over, trying very hard to appear composed. "Whatever comes after this..." Your voice caught before you found it again. "Thank you...for catching me." You smiled, hoping the simplicity of the words carried everything they were meant to, that she'd found you when you were hiding from your own life, believed in you before anyone else had reason to and built a future around a dream you'd barely admitted yourself.

Susie swallowed hard, blinking away the sting in her eyes before giving a firm nod. "Only fools think parachutes are optional."

Onstage, Jackie took one final step to the microphone. "I don't think it's my place to fill in the blanks on anybody else's headlines." He smiled toward the wings. "I'll leave the mystery to the woman standing on the 'X.' Ladies and gentlemen...please welcome the patron saint of comedy herself..."

The applause erupted instantly, rolling through Carnegie Hall like thunder, whistles and cheers joining the standing ovation before you'd even appeared.

Susie leaned in one last time, a grin tugging through her nerves. "Tits up."

You smiled and echoed, "Tits up." 

Your shoulders settled, your chin lifted and as the massive doors swung open, warm light spilled over you like sunrise. You stepped through with a smile that found its way onto your face before your courage did. The applause only grew louder, row after row, balcony after balcony, every single seat was occupied. Faces disappeared into a sea of expectation beneath the theater lights until the crowd became something impossible to comprehend. For a heartbeat your lungs forgot how to work, then your heels carried you forward, one measured step after another, until you reached the center mark beneath the spotlight and rested a steady hand on the microphone. 

Clark could feel several pairs of eyes pivot toward him the moment you stepped into it, the realization rippling through the front row as visibly as the applause had moments earlier. He scarcely noticed. His hands kept clapping, his gaze never leaving you as though the rest of the place had ceased to exist. 

Lois looked from you to him with dawning comprehension, Jimmy's jaw hung low, while Perry slowly removed his glasses only to put them straight back on again, as if clearer vision might explain what he was seeing. 

Cat leaned forward first, lips parting. "Is that...?" she whispered, unable to finish the question. 

"Knew something was missin' on that résumé," Perry muttered beneath his breath, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. 

Even Martha and Jonathan exchanged a small smile before looking back to the stage with unmistakable pride, as though they'd gained a daughter overnight. 

You let the applause fade before leaning toward the microphone with an amused smile. 

"Woah..." you chuckled, voice gliding through the theater. "If I were a fraud and only mildly undereducated, I'd mistake this for success, cash the check and make a run for it." Laughter burst through the room as you adjusted the microphone stand to your height. "This is a huge change for me...I wonder how many of you have actually seen me in other clubs," Cheers answered from every level of the theater. "Right? Every seat looks the same, the bathrooms have more than one stall and I'm reasonably confident nobody's sneaking off to a mysterious corner bucket to throw up." 

Another wave of laughter rolled across the audience as you lifted the microphone from its stand and wandered slowly across the vast stage, taking in its sheer size. "Don't worry, I'm only doing this lap once to warm up. If I start panting into the mic, the bathroom line's gonna wrap around the block and I really don't need tomorrow's headlines claiming Carnegie Hall hosted the city's least open-minded audience…Mutual masturbation is perfectly acceptable and even encouraged if you’re willing to stay seated, just make sure you aren't seated next to a relative. Last I checked, we're still a few state lines away from Alabama." The room erupted and even ushers stationed by the walls ducked their heads to hide their laughter. 

"Please keep all bodily fluids off the velvet," you continued with perfect composure, "and be mindful of the moaning...we've already paid for an orchestra tonight." Scandalized laughter echoed beneath the gilded ceiling as you wandered back toward center stage, your eyes finding Clark in the front row instinctively. 

You breathed out slowly, the knot in your stomach finally beginning to unravel. "Whether you applaud anything else I say tonight or not–" you smiled softly, "...I can officially say I've made it." A fresh round of applause interrupted you before you lifted a hand to continue. "This is the kind of thing you tell your therapist...and your butcher...and eventually every nurse at the retirement home when your pants aren't the only thing sagging anymore. I'll be reminiscing about a time when my gynecologist inspected me more thoroughly and my hips didn't crack every time I found myself in a compromising position." 

The laughter came easier now, fuller, carried by people already comfortable in your hands. You gestured toward the audience. 

"Everybody's here...except my parents." A sympathetic murmur barely had time to form before you added, "Just like my birthdays." You looked thoughtfully toward one of the balconies. 

"Must've missed the memo that says you're supposed to invite them even if they live down the hall. I mean, they were home every other day of the year." You scanned the audience with exaggerated concentration. "My dry cleaner's here...the doorman I once begged a cigarette from...and if I squint hard enough, I'm fairly certain I can spot the man who took my virginity."

The audience broke apart with laughter before you nodded thoughtfully. "Actually...I'm gonna need that back. I found someone much more qualified to keep it." Applause thundered through the hall as Clark's ears burned crimson and Jimmy reached to slap him squarely on the thigh, it made him jolt. 

You waited for the noise to settle, then pointed toward the front row. "My self-appointed in-laws are here tonight, which probably means I shouldn't spend too much time talking about sex." You smiled warmly at Martha and Jonathan. "They own a farm, though, so I'm guessing they've seen plenty already." Another roar of laughter followed. "It's probably been a while since they've had to put any of it into practice, so listen carefully and take notes..." You leaned in conspiratorially. "...and when I come visit, whatever you do, don't approach the barn." The room quieted for you to finish. "And before anyone asks ‘how would they know you're in there?’..." You paused with impeccable timing, looking toward the ceiling as if genuinely considering the logistics. "...I'm pretty sure cows don't moan their son's name." 

The room dissolved into complete chaos, applause colliding with laughter so hard people doubled over in their seats, wiping tears from their eyes while even the musicians could be heard laughing. Clark simply buried his face in one hand, smiling wider than he thought possible.

You covered your eyes dramatically with one hand, peeking through your fingers as the laughter crashed over you. "Are they laughing?" you asked with genuine concern, tilting your head as if you couldn't quite tell beneath the echo filling the room. You lowered your hand a fraction, blinked toward the audience and your face lit up. "Oh! Yes they are!" The room erupted again, your relief so infectious it earned another wave of applause before you turned toward the front row, smiling warmly at Martha and Jonathan. "Am I still invited over for Christmas?" you asked hopefully. "I'd hate to have to shop for another surrogate family at the farmers' market..." You waved the concern away. "Don't worry, I hear snow's a fantastic soundproofing material. All that's left is handing out condoms and praying for it to come..." 

You paused, letting puzzled expressions bloom across the audience before nodding emphatically. "I definitely will. I meant the snow." The delayed realization hit like a freight train, laughter ricocheting off the balconies so loudly you wondered if everything you'd ever heard in clubs before tonight had merely been polite chuckling. You glanced over your shoulder toward the stage entrance. "Thank fuck I can take the back door after this..." People were already laughing before you raised a finger. "The one with hinges, people. Get your minds out of the gutter." 

You sighed theatrically. "Shame my old landlord couldn't make it, though. I did send him an invitation…Hopefully the gambling rehabilitation center forwards his mail eventually. Worst case, he'll read about this three months from now in one of those newspapers that's always late... somewhere between 'Do Superman’s smiles cause pregnancy?' and 'Is the President secretly from outer space?'" The audience roared as you shrugged innocently. "I only know the answer to one of those...and it involved a positive test." 

Clark’s shoulders shook with laughter as his face warmed further. You shook your head, laughing at yourself because only you knew why the joke amused you so much. 

"My biggest fear is having a funny kid." You nodded solemnly. "Hypocritical, I know...but I can finally talk about this now that there's at least a slight statistical possibility I might get laid tonight." You very intentionally looked everywhere except Clark. "No pressure, that's what magic wands are for." 

The theater nearly came apart. You let the applause wash over you before groaning dramatically. "Oh, Christ...family dinners are gonna be unbelievably awkward from now on and I'll be the one expected to fix it." You glanced toward the Kents again. "That's when I'm supposed to start casually waving stacks of cash around, right? I'll report back if I survive the first holiday." Another swell of laughter settled into warm applause. "Anyway...I hope this whole comedy thing lasts a while so I actually have time to prepare for parenthood. It's purely hypothetical for now…If you'd ever met my parents, you'd know none of this is hereditary..." You paused thoughtfully. "...but just in case bad luck refuses to skip a generation, I should probably start planning." The audience chuckled knowingly. "Kids are terrifyingly clever…I know because I was one." 

You smiled to yourself. "I remember being six and making it my personal mission to speed up my father's balding process." Laughter broke out before you even continued. "He gave me this whole speech about respect…which, by the way, is much scarier when your dad refuses to swear and finally told me I was getting on his nerves. So I looked him dead in the eye and said..." You leaned into the microphone. "'Well I hope the last one is as short as the remaining hairs on your head.'" The audience exploded and several people were doubled over, clutching the arms of their seats while Martha laughed so hard she had to dab at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. "It's a miracle I made it to eighteen without becoming homeless." You nodded thoughtfully. "Homelessness has missed me twice now and my roommate's here tonight, so the deciding vote is technically hers." You pointed toward Imogene, who was already wheezing into the shoulder of the person beside her. 

"Though if our last movie night taught me anything..." You grinned wickedly. "...she's a huge advocate for cuck chairs." Imogene buried her face in both hands as the crowd howled. "Which is reassuring," you finished with a satisfied nod. "Means my preferred evening activities probably won't traumatize her nearly as much as her taste in homemade telenovelas."

You smiled to yourself, nodding thoughtfully. "I guess...I should probably thank my parents for having sex all those years ago." The audience laughed before you added, "That one time." You pinched your fingers together. "Could've been a little quicker with the pullout, dad. You'd think a mathematician would've calculated the odds of this happening but then again...who knows if he ever paid attention in biology. People make questionable decisions when it's cold outside." 

The laughter rolled through the balconies, people doubling over in their seats as you shook your head sympathetically. "That learning curve must have been a circle." You traced one in the air with your finger as people laughed. "...it came right back around. And the worst part it’s that they genuinely tried their best." The room howled. "Personally...I would've preferred somebody else's best." 

Applause punctuated the laughter. "I'm just glad I left before they could start taking credit for mine." Your smile softened while you looked across the sea of faces as the room quieted. "Ever since I was little, I always knew what I didn't want. That much was easy…For a long time my dreams got hijacked by one simple idea...becoming the kind of daughter they'd be proud enough to show up for." 

You paused, letting the words breathe before your grin returned. "Then I grew up and realized they're the kind of people who'd climb a glass wall just to see what's on the other side." The audience laughed knowingly as you walked back toward the microphone stand, placing it there and resting one hand against it. 

"I want a big life." You nodded firmly. "I want something so undeniably wonderful they'll have no choice but to sit alone in an empty house wondering how they managed to overlook their own daughter…Truth is, none of this was planned." You smiled faintly. "It started because of one drunken misunderstanding...and because I was terrified no one would hear me once I finally found the words to express it." Your eyes drifted involuntarily toward the front row where Clark sat, smiling at you with tears gathering in his eyes. Martha reached over and squeezed his hand. "I've been in love with my best friend for so long..." you admitted, "...that losing what I thought we had felt like the end of absolutely everything. The future I'd imagined, my friends..." You sighed dramatically before brightening. "...the possibility of consistently good sex." 

The tension shattered into laughter. "It forced me to become independent...more independent than I already was, for reasons the people in this room are neither licensed to diagnose nor legally allowed to prescribe medication for." More laughter followed. "Never in my life did I imagine standing on a stage talking about it with all of you but when I heard rumors the journal factory exploded..." You spread your hands innocently. "...I figured there was no other ethical choice." Another wave of laughter crashed through the theater. "Granted...it also could've been alcohol withdrawal hallucinations after my particularly ambitious week of drinking...It’s hard to say." You nodded thoughtfully. "Either way, this is probably something I'll eventually unpack with a psychiatrist...assuming phenomenal sex doesn't solve the issue first." The applause nearly drowned out your next sentence. "Though if he handles me the same way he handles livestock back on the farm..." You glanced toward Clark with impeccable innocence. "I can't promise tonight's paycheck won't go towards funding a lifetime supply of birth control." The audience exploded. 

"I'm fairly certain my parents still consider my birth certificate a handwritten apology from the condom factory." Even Clark laughed helplessly into one hand. You let the room settle before offering one final shrug. "My advice? Go no-contact. Parenting's difficult enough without arguing with someone who should've been swallowed." 

The theater simply ceased functioning. Laughter collided with thunderous applause as people rose to their feet, entire rows standing at once until a standing ovation swept through the room like a wave. You couldn't help laughing with them, wiping at the corner of one eye before leaning toward the microphone one last time. 

"You've been an extraordinary audience." Your voice was softer, sincere beneath the humor. "Thank you...to my friend and manager Susie, to everyone at the Talon who gave me a voice..." Your gaze drifted to the front row, lingering on Martha, Jonathan, Clark, Imogene, Zelda and every familiar face that had carried you here. "...and to the people down front who taught me what the word family was supposed to mean." Your smile trembled. "Thank you...and goodnight!"

The applause became deafening. It swallowed everything else, the remaining laughter, the rustle of clothes and even your own breathing as every single person in the room remained on their feet. Beneath the warmth of the lights your vision blurred, whether from tears or brightness you couldn't tell anymore. Your heartbeat seemed to echo louder than the ovation itself, your knees suddenly unsteady under the weight of a dream that until this moment had never seemed real enough to picture. 

You crossed back through the double doors in a blur of applause still ringing in your ears, intercepted every few steps by another handshake, another congratulations and business card pressed insistently into your palm, conversations about tours, contracts and television appearances stacking faster than you could answer them. 

Hiding had never solved everything but until tonight, it had solved this. 

By morning, anonymity would be gone. Newspapers would connect the dots, helped along by your own face and you'd have to think about leaving Imogene's apartment before reporters camped outside the building, about the conversation your parents would inevitably try to have after reading headlines they hadn't earned the right to celebrate. 

Clark flew you home only after making sure Martha and Jonathan reached his apartment safely, returning with the news that Imogene's boyfriend had come into town and she'd very generously decided to spend the night at a hotel with him, though apparently not before promising you a very long lecture for hiding your job from her all these months. 

His friends and Perry had cornered him for answers on the way out but every question had been met with the same apologetic smile and a truthful "I don't know anything I can tell you." And later on, his phone buzzed relentlessly with messages from the Daily Planet group chat he'd eventually sighed at, muted and shoved deep into his pocket. 

That could wait until morning. 

Now the apartment was quiet, the city softened outside your windows, cardboard moving boxes still scattered where you'd never found time to unpack them. 

You sat cross-legged in the middle of your bed wearing one of Clark's old Smallville T-shirts, your makeup gone, your hair loose, eating directly from a tub of ice cream while apartment listings glowed from your laptop beside you, already looking for somewhere new even if you intended to spend every remaining day with Imogene before fame inevitably complicated that too. 

Clark, tie discarded, jacket folded neatly over the back of a chair and sleeves rolled to his forearms, carefully navigated around the boxes before pulling the chair beside your bed instead of risking dirtying your sheets with clothes that had been outside all evening. 

You scooped another spoonful absentmindedly. "My ears are still ringing." 

"Sweetheart, We don't have to do this tonight," he said gently. 

"Which part?" You smiled over the spoon. "This benefits both of us." You nudged the tape recorder toward him across the mattress. "I give you an exclusive interview and nobody tackles you in the bullpen tomorrow for showing up late." 

His eyebrows knitted together. "Why would I be late?" 

"Haven't seen my criminal record?" you replied innocently. "I'm extremely persuasive when I'm naked." 

The corner of his mouth twitched without his permission. You set the ice cream onto your bedside table, wiped your hands together and sat straighter, instantly slipping into interview posture. 

Clark only looked at you for a long moment, admiration softening every feature on his face. "You're different up there," he murmured. "The way you smile...the way you stand...even your voice changes." 

You tilted your head with a shy smile. "Learned from the best." 

He leaned in, both hands cradling your face before pressing one slow kiss against your lips, then another, smiling faintly as he tasted the vanilla you'd left behind. "Sweet, right?" you whispered, gesturing toward the melting tub. "Thought I'd let it soften so you could drizzle it over me later. I know, you're a hungry man and since Susie stole all the catering in Tupperware…I can’t let you starve." 

"How selfless of you," Clark laughed under his breath, shook his head, then reached for the recorder. "Let's get this over with, then. Ready?" He settled back into the chair. 

You nodded once. "Let's do it, Cronkite." 

He pressed the record button, the recorder chirping softly before the timer began counting upward. "I don't think any introduction could ever reach the bottom of her vintage heels," he began warmly. "But in case you missed her first but certainly not her last, performance at Carnegie Hall...allow me to fix that. Ladies and gentlemen..." His eyes lifted from the recorder to yours, full of pride. "...may I present the magnificent, the magical…the marvelous Mrs. Kent." 

You smiled warmly, realizing then that your acceptance of that name, one that wouldn't remain only on stage, had depended entirely on hearing it from him. Carnegie Hall wasn't an ending but the smallest glimpse of a life waiting beyond the walls you wouldn't be hiding behind anymore by sunrise. Bigger stages, brighter lights, louder crowds and reporters who'd spend years asking for more, could all wait a little longer. 

Tonight, the story belonged only to the two of you. Tomorrow, the rest of the world could have its turn.

You knew it was foolish to think any of it could wait, because being almost famous for a few hours was only a concept for people who hadn't yet reached the other side of it but who’d eventually belong to the world.

Nothing seemed out of reach now, not even love.

The enddddd!!

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

A - Attentiveness: Tucker is the ultimate attentive lover, approaching every sexual encounter with the thoughtful, observant care of a gentleman who genuinely wants to please and connect. 

He reads your body language the way he reads the ice during a game, noticing the slightest hitch in your breath, the way your thighs tense, the flutter of your eyelashes or how your nails dig into his shoulders. He starts by kissing you deeply, his big, warm hands mapping every curve of your body as if committing it to memory, murmuring in that smooth, low voice, "Tell me what feels good, darlin'. I want to learn every single thing that makes you tremble." Once he's between your legs, it becomes an act of worship, his eyes locked on yours from below while his tongue laps slowly at your folds, savoring your taste, then focusing on your clit with precise, rhythmic suction. He adds thick fingers at just the right moment, curling them against your g-spot while he hums in approval at how wet you get for him. 

If you try to close your thighs from the overwhelming pleasure, he gently but firmly holds them open with strong arms, continuing until you're gushing on his tongue and fingers. Tucker doesn't stop at one orgasm, his attentiveness means he coaxes you through waves of pleasure, adjusting pressure and speed based on your reactions, whispering constant praise like "That's my good girl, just like that" until you're a shaking, oversensitive mess. It never feels mechanical, it feels personal and intimate, as if he's pouring all his emotional availability into making you feel cherished and utterly undone at the same time.

B - Build-up: Tucker masters a slow, delicious build-up that turns you into a needy, dripping wreck long before he ever slides inside you. He's confident but never arrogant, using patience as his weapon.

It might start with him cooking dinner shirtless, the sight of his athletic build and low-slung pants already teasing you, then pulling you into him for deep, unhurried kisses that grow hotter and more demanding. His hands wander everywhere, palming your breasts and pinching your nipples until they ache, then sliding down to rub you through your panties with firm, circling pressure. 

"No need to rush, sweetheart. I want you soaked and begging before I give you what you need," he says, voice dropping lower as he feels how wet the fabric gets. He loves stripping you piece by piece, kissing and licking every newly exposed inch of skin, sucking marks into your inner thighs while his fingers tease your entrance without pushing inside. By the time he finally lines up and sinks into you inch by inch, you're trembling with anticipation, walls clenching desperately around him as he groans at how perfectly you grip him. The build-up makes every thrust feel electric. 

He starts slow and deep, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips, drawing it out until you're clawing at his back and pleading for more. It's sensual, controlled and deeply satisfying, reflecting his thoughtful nature and his ability to delay gratification for maximum pleasure.

C - Cooking and sensuality: Tucker's passion for cooking, inherited from raising himself alongside his single mom, infuses his sex life with rich, sensual layers that go beyond the physical. He prepares something warm and flavorful, maybe a late-night pasta or homemade dessert, feeding you bites from his fingers while you sit on the counter in just his shirt, his eyes darkening as sauce drips onto your thigh and he leans down to lick it off slowly. 

That same appreciation for taste and texture carries into the bedroom, he eats you out like he's savoring a fine meal, burying his face between your thighs with enthusiastic, messy devotion. His tongue delves deep, then flattens to lap broadly at your folds, sucking your clit while two fingers pump steadily, groaning at how sweet you taste. "Fuck, you're delicious," he mumbles against your slick skin, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. 

After intense rounds, he's the one who carries you to the kitchen still naked and glowing, making sandwiches or pouring water while stealing kisses that quickly turn heated again, bending you over the counter for a slower fuck where he can reach around to rub your clit and tell you how much he loves taking care of you. The blend of nurturing through food and raw sensuality makes everything feel nourishing and intimate, as though he's feeding both your hunger and your desire in equal measure.

D - Devotion: Once Tucker commits, his devotion translates into intensely connective, reverent sex that makes you feel utterly cherished. He's emotionally available and supportive, so even the filthiest moments carry weight and care. He favors positions where he can maintain eye contact, deep missionary with your legs wrapped around his waist, his shoulders flexing as he thrusts slow and grinding, one hand cradling your cheek while the other pins your hip. "Look at me, baby. Feel how deep I am? This is all for you," he groans, voice husky as your walls flutter around him. He's not afraid of raw need either, he'll flip you onto all fours and take you harder, one hand fisted gently in your hair while the other reaches around to circle your clit, devotion showing in how he checks your reactions and praises you constantly.

After you come, he doesn't pull out right away. He stays buried deep, kissing along your spine, murmuring how perfect you are and how he wants to build a life with you. His devotion makes multiple rounds feel like an extension of emotional intimacy where he holds you close through overstimulation, coaxing one more orgasm with his fingers or mouth before filling you with his release, then cuddling you tightly afterward as though he never wants to let go. It's boyfriend-material sex at its finest, passionate, loyal and deeply fulfilling.

E - Endurance: Tucker's hockey-honed stamina means he can keep going long after most guys would tap out, turning nights into extended sessions of pleasure that leave you limp and satisfied. His tall, athletic frame, broad shoulders, powerful thighs and strong core give him the strength to move you effortlessly. He might start by eating you out until you come twice, then slide into you with a deep groan, setting a steady rhythm that builds gradually. "I've got all night for you, darlin'," he promises, sweat glistening on his skin as he switches positions without breaking stride, pulling you on top so you can ride him while he grips your hips and thrusts up to meet you, then flipping you again for deeper penetration.

He can hold a hard, pounding pace for ages or slow to sensual grinds that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. After a game, when he's still buzzing with energy, expect wall sex where he holds you up with ease, stretching you with every upward thrust while his mouth claims yours. That endurance lets him draw out pleasure for both of you, edging until you're sobbing his name, then finally letting go with a low, satisfied groan as he fills you. It never feels exhausting in a bad way, it feels like he could worship your body indefinitely, reflecting the same steady, reliable nature he carries both on and off the ice.

F - Foreplay: Foreplay with him is an extended, immersive experience that feels luxurious and perfectly tailored, never rushed. He takes his time, using his charm and attentive nature to heighten every sensation. It often begins with deep, soulful kissing, his tongue teasing yours while his hands explore, massaging your breasts, rolling your nipples between skilled fingers until you're arching into him. He loves verbal teasing, "You're already so wet for me, sweetheart. Let's see how much wetter I can make you." His mouth follows his hands, sucking marks onto your neck and collarbones, then moving lower to lavish attention on your breasts, tongue flicking your nipples while fingers dip between your legs to stroke your folds and circle your clit with maddening lightness. 

He's a master of oral foreplay, settling comfortably between your spread thighs for long, unhurried sessions delivering broad licks from entrance to clit, focused suction and steady fingers pumping in rhythm until you're grinding against his face and coming hard. 

Mutual pleasure matters just as much, he might guide your hand to stroke him while he fingers you or encourage you to sit on his face so he can taste you while you take him in your mouth. By the time he finally pushes inside, you're dripping, desperate and perfectly prepped, every nerve alight. 

G - Gentleness: He balances raw athletic power with a surprising, soothing gentleness that makes even intense moments feel safe and cherished. As the thoughtful Southern gentleman, he knows when to be soft, especially after rougher rounds or when you're feeling vulnerable. 

He cradles you in his arms, stroking down your back with feather-light touches while he kisses you slowly, deeply, staying nestled inside you without moving for long moments, just letting you feel full and connected. "Easy, darlin'. I've got you," he murmurs, rolling his hips in gentle, grinding circles that rub perfectly against your clit without overwhelming you. 

He loves positions like spooning where he can wrap around you completely, one arm under your head, the other hand between your thighs rubbing soft, lazy circles while he thrusts shallow and slow, kissing the back of your neck. Even as passion builds and his strokes deepen, the gentleness remains in how he checks your face, whispers praise and holds you through your orgasms, never letting you feel exposed or used. 

After you come, he's all tender kisses and soft caresses, cleaning you up gently with a warm cloth he prepared ahead of time, then pulling you against his chest so you can listen to his steady heartbeat. 

H - Hands: Tucker's hands are a highlight, big, strong, calloused from hockey sticks and workouts, yet incredibly skilled and attentive. 

He uses them like tools of seduction. He might pin your wrists above your head with one while the other explores, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to spread you open so he can watch his fingers disappear inside you. "Look how pretty you stretch for my fingers, baby," he says, voice low and appreciative as he curls them against your g-spot, pumping steadily until you're soaking his palm. He loves gripping your hips hard enough to leave faint marks while he fucks you from behind or wrapping one hand loosely around your throat during missionary with pressure that makes your pulse race while he holds your gaze.

His fingers stay relentless during foreplay, two or three digits stretching you open, thumb circling your clit in perfect rhythm until you come hard, then he makes you suck them clean while watching you with dark, appreciative eyes. Once you've come, those same hands turn gentle again, massaging sore muscles or cradling your face as he kisses you.

I - Intimacy: Intimacy with Tucker feels soul-deep because of his emotional availability and his desire for real connection. He thrives on eye contact, foreheads pressed together and whispered conversation mid-thrust. Slow, passionate sex in missionary is a favorite, his body covering yours, hips rolling deeply so every inch of him drags against your walls while he murmurs how much he loves you, how perfect you feel. He intertwines your fingers, pinning your hands beside your head as he builds to a powerful rhythm, groaning your name when you clench around him. 

He pulls your back to his chest in doggy, one arm banded across your breasts, the other rubbing your clit as he thrusts deep, whispering filthy yet sweet praise right in your ear. "This is mine. You're my everything." 

Afterward, he's all cuddles and soft talk, discussing dreams or just holding you in comfortable silence, reflecting his family-oriented, nurturing side.

J - Jealousy and possessiveness: Though Tucker is generally laid-back and confident without ego, a flicker of jealousy brings out a deliciously possessive edge that heightens everything.

If he catches someone flirting with you, he pulls you close later with a dark, heated look, kissing you possessively before bending you over the nearest surface. "You're mine, sweetheart. Only I get to see you like this," he growls, tugging your panties down and thrusting into you in one smooth motion, taking you hard and deep with powerful strokes that make the headboard slam. 

His grip tightens, teeth grazing your shoulder as he claims you, all while staying attentive enough to make sure it feels incredible. 

The possessiveness shows in how he marks you, hickeys on your breasts or inner thighs that he traces later with gentle fingers and in the way he fills you, then keeps you plugged with his fingers or his cock afterward. 

K - Kissing: He’s an exceptional kisser, it makes your knees weak and your pulse race before clothes even come off. He kisses with purpose, starting soft and exploratory, then deepening with tongue and gentle bites, as if he can't get enough of you. During sex, the kissing never stops. 

He kisses you through every thrust, swallowing your moans while his hips snap forward, or trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your body before settling between your legs to taste you with the same passionate focus. In cowgirl, he sits up to kiss you deeply while you ride him, hands guiding your hips as tongues tangle. Even during quick, desperate moments, he steals messy kisses, murmuring endearments between them. 

L - Loyalty: Tucker's loyalty shows as unwavering focus and dedication in bed. Once he's yours, he's completely yours, pouring that same consistent, supportive energy into pleasing you. He remembers what you like from previous times and builds on it, making each encounter better. 

He'll spend hours between your thighs if that's what you need, prioritizing your pleasure above his own, switching techniques until you're boneless and satisfied before finally letting himself come deep inside you with a low groan. His loyalty means he's there for the long haul, marathon sessions where he brings you to peak after peak, then holds you through the come-down, ready to go again when you are. It also shows in his willingness to experiment thoughtfully, trying new positions or toys because he wants to explore with you, always checking in with that caring gaze. "Whatever you want, baby. I'm right here with you."

M - Morning sex: It’s slow, warm and deeply intimate, reflecting his nurturing side and the same thoughtful consistency he brings to everything. He often wakes up first, his body curled behind yours, morning wood pressed hot and heavy against you. Instead of rushing, he starts with soft kisses along your shoulder and neck, one hand sliding down to cup your breast, thumb lazily circling your nipple until it pebbles. 

"Mornin', darlin'," he murmurs, sleep still roughening his voice as his fingers dip between your thighs to find you already growing wet. He loves lazy grinding at first, sliding against your folds without entering, coating himself in your arousal while kissing the back of your neck. When he finally pushes inside from behind, it's a slow, deep slide that makes you both groan. 

He sets a gentle rhythm, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand reaching around to rub slow circles on your clit, praising how perfect you feel in the morning light, how he could stay buried in you all day. The pace builds gradually as desire heats up, turning into deeper, more purposeful thrusts that have you pushing back against him, his free hand gripping your hip. He draws it out, making sure you come first, sometimes twice, before he lets himself go, spilling deep inside you with a low, satisfied groan. 

N - Nurturing: Shaped by being raised by a single mom and his desire to build a family, it makes him an incredibly caring and attentive partner who prioritizes your comfort in every way. He's the one who keeps lube, water and snacks by the bed without being asked. 

During particularly intense sessions, he pauses to check in softly, "You good, baby? Need a break?", even while buried deep. His nurturing shows in extended aftercare that feels like an extension of the act itself, like running a warm bath, massaging your thighs and back with strong but gentle hands and feeding you bites of fruit or something he quickly prepares. In the moment, it translates into positions and techniques focused on your ease and pleasure. 

He loves having you on top so he can support your weight, hands guiding your hips while he thrusts up, watching your face with warm eyes and whispering encouragement. 

He's also drawn to sensory care, using his mouth everywhere, licking and sucking until you're trembling, then holding you close through the aftershocks. This side of him makes sex feel safe and holistic, as if he's not just pleasuring you but actively caring for your body and heart at the same time, which only makes the rawer, more desperate moments hit harder by contrast.

O - Oral worship: Oral with Tucker is pure, enthusiastic worship that can last as long as you can handle it. He approaches going down on you with the same dedication he puts into hockey drills or cooking a perfect meal. 

He settles between your spread thighs, shoulders holding you open and starts with reverent kisses along your inner thighs before licking a slow, broad stripe up through your folds. He uses his whole mouth, tongue working your entrance, lips sucking your clit, nose buried against you as he eats you messily and happily. 

Two fingers join in, curling perfectly while he focuses suction on your clit, eyes flicking up to watch your reactions with intense focus. He doesn't stop after one orgasm, he gentles his touch to bring you down, then builds you right back up again, sometimes adding a finger elsewhere for extra fullness if you're into it. 

When you take him in your mouth, he's vocal and appreciative, a hand resting in your hair, never forcing, hips twitching as he praises how good it feels, how well you take him. "That's it, sweetheart, just like that." Mutual oral in a sixty-nine position is heavenly because he can't stop touching and licking even while you work him with your mouth. 

P - Playfulness: Despite his thoughtful demeanor, Tucker has a playful, charming side that comes out beautifully in bed, keeping things light and fun even during intense heat. 

He might tease you with an easy smile and quick wit, tickling your sides mid-thrust just to hear you laugh and clench around him, then immediately switch to a deep, grinding stroke that wipes the smile off your face and replaces it with a moan.

He loves light-hearted challenges like "How many times can I make you come before I do?" delivered with a wink. His playfulness shows in the way he manhandles you affectionately, tossing you onto the bed with a grin before diving between your legs or lifting you effortlessly onto the counter after cooking together. 

He incorporates small games too, like making you hold eye contact while he fingers you, or rewarding you with kisses for staying quiet during a risky quickie. 

Q - Quiet intensity: Tucker can be quietly intense and it’s incredibly compelling with simmering passion that builds without needing loud theatrics. In moments of deep connection, he moves with controlled strokes, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours and every muscle in his body working in harmony. 

Sometimes there's minimal talk, just heavy breathing, low groans and the sound of skin meeting skin as he drives deep and steady. He holds your gaze through an entire orgasm, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face while he stretches and fills you perfectly. It often surfaces after emotional conversations or during makeup sex, raw need expressed through devastatingly good physicality rather than volume. He might pin you gently but firmly, hips snapping with precision, one hand cradling the back of your head so you stay close. 

R - Risk and restraint: He enjoys a touch of risk balanced with natural restraint and thoughtfulness. He's not as reckless as some teammates but the thrill of almost getting caught, a quick, heated moment in a semi-private spot like an empty locker room or the back of his car in a dark parking lot, brings out a focused, hungry side. 

He keeps one ear listening for footsteps while he bends you over, tugging your panties aside and moving in deep and fast, one hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds. 

"Gotta be quiet for me, baby," he whispers, the restraint in his voice making it hotter. At home, he shows a different kind of restraint during edging, bringing you right to the edge with his mouth and fingers, then backing off with soft kisses until you're begging, all while maintaining calm, devoted control. 

S - Sensual slow sex: He excels at sensual slow sex that feels like an all-encompassing experience, drawing out every sensation until you're lost in him. 

After a long day, he might draw you a bath or cook something simple, then carry you to bed where he spends what feels like hours just touching and kissing. He starts by worshipping your body with his mouth, sucking on your nipples until they're tight and sensitive, then kissing a trail down your stomach before spreading your thighs wide.

His tongue works you open slowly, licking broad stripes through your folds, circling your clit with patient precision while two fingers slide in and out at a maddeningly slow pace, curling just right against your g-spot. 

"Feel that, darlin'? I love how you squeeze around me," he murmurs against your skin, eyes flicking up to watch your face. When he finally enters you, it's inch by inch, both of you groaning as he bottoms out and stays there, grinding deep in slow circles that rub against your clit. He maintains that torturously delicious pace for ages, long, deep strokes where you feel every ridge of him dragging along your walls. His hands roam constantly, cradling your face for deep kisses, squeezing your breasts or gripping your hips to pull you closer. 

The scene is filled with his low praise, steady eye contact, and the slick sounds of connection. He brings you to the edge repeatedly, only letting you tip over when he's ready, finally speeding up just enough to come with you, spilling deep while holding you tight. 

T - Teasing and edge play: They blend affectionate control with generous reward, rooted in his patient discipline and desire to make every moment intensely pleasurable for you. 

He turns it into an extended game that can span hours. Imagine coming home to him after class, he greets you with an easy smile, pulls you onto the couch and starts with light touches, fingers tracing your thighs under your skirt and brushing over your panties without giving you the pressure you crave. "Not yet, sweetheart. We're gonna take our time tonight," he says, voice low and warm. 

He brings you close with slow circles on your clit through the fabric, watching your face intently, then pulls back to kiss you deeply, tongue teasing yours while your arousal builds and fades. This cycle repeats, his fingers eventually slipping inside you, pumping slowly and curling against your g-spot, lips on your neck, until you're right on the edge, thighs shaking. 

Then he stops, smiles that charming smile and suggests making a snack together, keeping you on edge the whole time with occasional touches. When he finally goes down on you, it's exquisite torture of long, slow licks, focused suction on your clit, fingers working in tandem, bringing you to the brink over and over until you're begging in broken whispers. 

Only then does he let you come hard against his mouth, holding you through the waves before finally sliding inside your oversensitive body and moving with deep strokes that quickly build you toward another shattering orgasm. 

U - Unhurried exploration: Tucker's unhurried exploration turns sex into a deeply personal journey of mutual discovery, reflecting his curious, emotionally available nature. 

He dedicates full evenings or lazy weekends to this, creating a safe, pressure-free space. 

A rich scene might start with both of you in bed after he's cooked a light dinner. He begins by having you lie back while he explores every inch with his hands and mouth, kissing the sensitive skin behind your knees, tracing along your hip bones, sucking gentle marks on your inner thighs while asking quietly what feels best. He encourages you to guide him or say what you want, turning it into an intimate conversation. 

When he goes down on you, it becomes exploratory, trying different pressures and patterns with his tongue, adding fingers in new ways, even bringing in a small toy if you're open to it, all while watching your reactions closely. 

"Like this? Or slower?" he asks, voice husky. Penetration comes later, after you're thoroughly relaxed and aroused. He slides in slowly, then experiments with angles, depths and rhythms, moving fluidly between positions, missionary for eye contact, you on top for control or spooning for closeness, to find what makes you moan loudest.

He might edge you lightly during this or introduce light restraint with his hands, always checking in along the way. The unhurried pace allows for multiple peaks, laughter when something feels ticklish and quiet conversation between rounds. 

V - Vocal praise and dirty talk: Tucker's vocal praise and dirty talk work so well because they blend sweet charm with raw filth, delivered in a voice that sends shivers down your spine.

He stays generous from start to finish. During foreplay, as his fingers sink into you, "Fuck, baby, you're absolutely soaked for me. Such a perfect, greedy girl." While going down on you for a prolonged session, "Taste so damn sweet, darlin'. I could stay right here between these thighs all night, listening to you moan my name." As he moves deep and hard, "That's it, take every inch. Look how well you stretch for me, this was made just for me." He mixes in heartfelt praise that makes it feel emotional, "You're so beautiful when you come for me. I love how you trust me with your body." 

In one scene after a win, still riding the high, he has you bent over the kitchen counter after a celebratory meal he made, moving into you while growling, "Been thinking about having you like this since the final buzzer. Gonna fill you up." Then he softens it with, "You feel incredible. I'm so lucky you're mine." He loves when you talk back, encouraging you with more praise for every moan or word. 

W - Whole-body worship: Whole-body worship with Tucker is a slow, reverent ritual that celebrates every part of you. 

He treats it like a full sensory experience, lights low, maybe soft music, starting with a full-body massage using warm oil. His hands work your shoulders, back and legs, turning therapeutic into erotic as he kisses every spot he massages. He pays loving attention to less obvious areas, sucking on your fingers, tracing the backs of your knees with his lips, gently biting along your hips before moving lower to tease with his tongue. 

He spends ample time on your breasts, sucking and licking your nipples until they're hypersensitive, then moves lower for extended oral. During penetration, he continues the theme, hands and mouth everywhere, kissing your neck and collarbones while thrusting deep and slow. In cowgirl, he sits up to worship your breasts and rub your clit while you ride him. The entire act leaves you feeling adored from head to toe, with him murmuring constant appreciation, "Every inch of you is perfect." Afterward, the worship continues with gentle cuddling and caresses. 

X - Extra care after rough sex: After rough, stamina-testing sessions where Tucker uses his athletic build for intense, pounding sex, his extra care is meticulous and loving, highlighting his protective qualities. 

A typical rough scene might involve him taking you hard against the wall or in deep doggy until you're both sweaty and spent, leaving marks from his grip and more than one release. Immediately after, he shifts seamlessly into caretaker mode. He scoops you up, carries you to the bathroom for a warm shower where he washes you gently with soapy hands, massaging any sore muscles in your thighs, hips or shoulders. 

Back in bed, he applies lotion to any sore spots or marks, whispering apologies mixed with praise, "You took me so well, baby. So strong for me." He makes sure you're hydrated, brings snacks he might have prepped (fruit, cheese, something light) and holds you close under the covers, legs tangled, stroking your hair while talking softly or simply being present. 

If you're feeling emotional or a little floaty afterward, he stays exceptionally patient, offering reassurance and cuddles until you feel grounded again. 

Y - Yearning: Tucker’s yearning for you runs deep and constant, a steady undercurrent that makes every reunion feel electric and every touch charged with genuine need. 

Whether it’s after a road game or a long day apart, he comes to you with hunger in his eyes, pulling you close the moment he’s through the door. His hands roam like he’s trying to memorize you all over again, kissing you with slow-burning intensity while murmuring how much he missed the taste of your skin, the sound of your voice breaking on his name.

That yearning translates into thorough, focused lovemaking where he takes his time rediscovering every sensitive spot. He’ll spend ages with his mouth on you, licking and sucking like he’s starved for your pleasure, groaning against your folds about how he thought about this the entire time he was gone. 

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a low, relieved sound, hips rolling deep and steady as if he’s trying to fuse the two of you together. “Been aching for you, darlin’,” he breathes against your lips, never rushing even when the need is overwhelming.

Z - Zest for your pleasure: He brings an infectious zest and enthusiasm to your pleasure that makes every encounter feel vibrant and alive. His athletic drive and positive energy mean he approaches sex with the same wholehearted commitment he gives to hockey, eager, focused,and determined to make you feel incredible. He gets visibly excited watching you come undone, that charming grin flashing before he dives back in with renewed vigor, whether it’s adding a third finger while sucking your clit or flipping you into a new position so he can hit that perfect angle.

He’s vocal about it too, praising your responses with genuine delight, “God, look at you…so fucking gorgeous when you let go for me.” That zest keeps things dynamic, one moment he’s playfully teasing you to the edge, the next he’s giving you exactly what you need with purposeful strokes that leave you breathless. 

Even in the quiet moments afterward, his energy changes to warm, affectionate care, holding you close, laughing softly with you, already buzzing with ideas for the next round.

Quarry Camp:

In the early days, the world was fresh in its death, nerves raw with everyone on edge. 

Daryl was a ghost at the edges of the group, crossbow always in hand, resentment simmering under his skin from Merle’s absence and the constant babysitting of these soft strangers. You were useful, another set of eyes, a decent shot and not afraid to get dirty. That was all it was.

He didn’t talk much, never did but one night after a supply run gone tense, the quarry’s humid air thick with insect noise and distant moans of the dead, he cornered you behind the tree line, away from the flickering campfires. His hand landed heavily on your hip, callused fingers digging in as yours did the same over the tent in his jeans.

“Need this,” he growled low, more a statement than a question. 

He spun you against a thick trunk, rough bark scraping your palms as he yanked your pants down just enough. His own jeans were shoved low on his hips, cock already hard and leaking from the day’s pent-up rage and there was no kissing. 

He spat in his palm, slicked himself once and pushed in a raw and thick, burning stretch that made your teeth clench. He fucked like he was punishing the world with brutal, shallow thrusts at first and then deeper, hips snapping with frustrated force. One hand fisted your hair while the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as grunts and low curses spilled from him.

“Fuck…tight…f–shit,” voice gravelly and breathless.

It was quick and ugly. He came with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he forcefully pulled out, then quickly tucked himself away while you were still catching your breath, slick dripping down your thighs. He quickly wiped you with a rag from his pocket, offered a nod and he was gone back to his tent. There was no aftercare or additional words because it was a matter of convenience and release, in the same way he would scratch an itch or hunt for food.

CDC:

The CDC felt like false hope wrapped in sterile walls. Everyone was drunk on wine and the illusion of safety while Daryl was still on the outside of the main room, distrust thick in his veins but the alcohol loosened his tongue just a fraction. You ended up in a dim side corridor after everyone else had passed out or paired off.

He was a little less feral here, still no tenderness but the frustration had changed into survival-fueled need mixed with the knowledge that tomorrow might be the end. He pulled you into a shadowed lab room and bent you over a cold metal table, pushing your jeans down and shoving your shirt up so he could look at your strengthening back muscles. His mouth was on your neck this time, biting more than kissing, teeth scraping skin as he lined up and sank in with one rough thrust.

“Keep quiet,” he muttered against your ear with a thick voice. His pace was steadier but still punishing, hips slapping loud in the empty room as the table creaked under you.

He reached around, rough fingers finding your clit and rubbing in messy circles, it was in no way skilled, mostly effective. You clenched around him and he cursed, low and filthy, pounding in harder as sweat dripped from his chest onto your back. When he came it was with a bitten-off groan, hips flush against your ass as he pulsed inside.

He lingered a second longer than at the quarry, forehead pressed briefly to your shoulder while he caught his breath but then he pulled out, helped yank your pants up with a grunt and left. This time, it was convenience with the faintest edge of mutual reliance now since you watched each other’s backs out there more than once.

Hershel’s Farm:

The farm brought fragile stability as days blurred into chores, patrols and quiet nights. Daryl was more integrated but still prickly, especially after Sophia. You hunted together now as silent but efficient partners in the woods and inevitably, that shared competence started bleeding into everything else.

Sex wasn’t random anymore. It happened after long days tracking, in abandoned barns  or deep in the woods where no one wandered. He still didn’t do ‘soft’ but there was more of a rhythm now and he made sure you came at least once.

One evening after a successful hunt, blood still under his nails, he tugged you up the ladder into the hayloft, moonlight filtering through the slats. He stripped you slowly, your shirt went first but he still hesitated to touch anywhere else. When he pushed inside, you were on your back in the hay, legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts were deep and grinding, less frantic than before but still very blunt. Skin slapped and heavy breathing filled the space with the occasional low “Yeah…like that,” when you moaned or tightened around him.

He watched your face more, studying reactions like he studied tracks. One hand pinned your wrist above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could hit deeper. Sweat-slick and grunting, he fucked you until your legs shook and when you came, he didn’t stop, just kept that relentless pace until he followed, burying himself with a ragged groan and staying there longer, hips twitching.

Afterwards, he didn’t leave right away. He rolled off but stayed close, one arm draped heavy over your waist while you both breathed heavily. There was no ‘love talk’ or any real cuddling but there was a quiet acknowledgment, you were not just a warm body anymore. You were the one who moved silently with him through the trees, the one who didn’t flinch at his scars or his moods.

Respect was starting to root, even if feelings were still buried deep under layers of loss and survival.

The road after the barn burned:

The farm was ash and the group was scattered on the road, exhausted, hungry and hunted while nights were cold and the days brutal. You and Daryl fell into a rhythm of scouting ahead, hunting small game and watching each other’s backs without needing words. 

The sex became less about pure frustration and more about grounding each other in the chaos, two hardened survivors stealing heat and release when the weight of leadership and loss pressed too heavy.

One night the group camped in a tight circle of cars off a forgotten highway. You slipped away together into the tree line, far enough for privacy but close enough to hear if walkers or threats appeared. Daryl pulled you behind a thick oak, his crossbow leaned nearby within easy reach. 

The air smelled of pine and distant smoke. He was dirt-streaked and tense but his hands were sure when he turned you to face the tree. “C’mere,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel though you were starting to like it. He tugged your pants and underwear down to your knees in one motion, then freed himself, he was already hard, thick and flushed, veins prominent from the day’s adrenaline. He spat into his palm again, an old habit but this time he reached around and worked the slickness over your entrance with two rough fingers, opening you up properly for the first time in weeks.

When he pushed in it was still shallow, still a stretch that burned so good, too good, but slower. He bottomed out with a heavy exhale against the back of your neck while one arm braced on the trunk above your head, the other wrapped around your waist, holding you steadily against him. His thrusts started deep and rolling, in long strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, yet the slap of skin was muffled by the night. He grunted softly with each thrust, breath hot on your skin.

“Fuck…you feel good,” he admitted between clenched teeth. It definitely wasn’t sweet talk, it sounded more like pure honesty, a bit surprising. His hand slid down, callused fingers finding your clit and rubbing firm, steady circles in time with his hips. 

He was learning your body now, paying attention to the way you clenched and gasped, so when your legs started to shake, he didn’t speed up, he kept that relentless pace until you came hard around him, biting your own arm to stay quiet.

Only then did he let go, hips snapping sharper as he chased his own release. He came with a low, broken groan, pressing deep and staying buried while he pulsed inside you, forehead dropped to your shoulder. 

For a long minute he just breathed there with you, arm still banded around your middle like he just remembered what came after this. He pulled out carefully, helped you fix your clothes with surprisingly gentle hands, then wiped himself with a rag before offering it to you. 

You hunted together the next morning like always and the respect was palpable now. He trusted you with his life out there and the sex had become another way you took care of each other in a world that took everything.

The prison (Before the Governor):

Prison walls finally offered something like safety with its cells, fences and routines. Daryl was more settled but still carried the weight of the group on his shoulders. 

You two shared a cell more often than not as the weeks passed and the sex reflected that. It was still rough around the edges but laced with intimacy born of partnership since you had bled together, killed together and kept the group alive together.

Late one night after a long watch shift, the prison was quiet except for distant walker groans outside the fences. You were in the lower bunk of a cell in another block, the place you usually went to when you needed to get away from the group. Daryl climbed in after you, his body heavy and warm as he pressed you into the thin mattress. No words were needed before he stripped you both efficiently, hands roaming your sides and mapping scars he had memorized by now.

He settled between your thighs, cock heavy and leaking against your soaked pussy. This time he took his time entering, thick inch by inch, watching your face in the dim light filtering through the bars. Once he was fully seated he paused, hips flush, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open. “Good?” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. You nodded and he started moving deeply with precise thrusts that rocked the bunk frame quietly. His mouth found your neck then, sucking marks that would be hidden by a high-neck shirt in the morning.

He fucked you like a man who knew exactly what you needed after a hard day. One hand pinned your hip while the other braced beside your head and the angle let him grind against your clit with every thrust. His grunts were low and guttural, “That’s it…take it…fuck, too good of a habit to quit.” The words slipped out heavily with the truth of your partnership as he was claiming you in the only way he knew how.

When you came he rode it out, stroking you through it until you were trembling, then he let himself go, burying deep with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he filled you. He collapsed half on top of you afterward, breathing hard against your neck with one arm wrapped around your waist. He didn’t pull out immediately, he stayed inside you, softening, while his thumb stroked lazy circles on your skin, yet there were no grand declarations but the protectiveness was there in every touch. You were his hunting partner, his cellmate, the one person he let see the cracks and he realized how respect had become bone-deep loyalty.

The prison (After the Governor):

The Governor’s attack left scars, literal and otherwise. The prison was damaged, the group fractured and trust in short supply. Daryl was darker now, angrier and more withdrawn after losing so many, as a result, the sex turned fiercer, punishing in its intensity but it was still the one place where the two of you could reconnect without the weight of leadership crushing you.

After a brutal day reinforcing defenses and scouting for revenge, he found you in that same secluded cell block and tension rolled off him in waves, same with you. He pushed you against the cold concrete wall, removing your boots, yanking your pants down roughly while his own were haphazardly shoved low by you. He was rock hard, angry-hard and he spat on his cock before hiking your thigh up and driving into you in one brutal thrust.

“Need you,” he growled against your ear, teeth grazing the shell. There was no warmup that time, he fucked you hard and fast with deep, punishing strokes that lifted you onto your toes. The slap of skin echoed as his hand wrapped around your throat lightly, holding you possessively while the other remained at your thigh, fingers gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Don’t you fuckin’ leave me too,” he snarled between thrusts, voice cracking with everything he wouldn’t say outright.

It was desperate and sweat dripped. Your moans mixed with his grunts as he angled to hit that spot inside you relentlessly until you shattered around him, clenching so tight he cursed viciously. He followed right after, slamming deep and staying there, cock pulsing as he spilled hot and thick inside you with a long moan.

He stayed pressed against your front for a long time, breathing ragged, arms caging you in until he softened and pulled out, resting his forehead against yours for a silent moment, allowing rare vulnerability. Then he helped clean you up with hands steadier than his mood. 

The partnership was ironclad now, he would kill for you without hesitation and the sex was how he reminded you and himself that you were still here, still his to protect in this brutal world. There weren’t any feelings yet but the foundation was set, layered with deep respect, fierce loyalty and a bone-deep need that only grew stronger with every loss.

Alexandria (Before Negan):

Alexandria’s walls felt like a different world between the clean houses, running water and the people still trying to pretend the dead weren’t out there. Daryl was uncomfortable with the softness and domesticity but he was adapting. You two had a house now, a shared space and inevitably, the sex changed noticeably. The frustration and pure convenience were gone since respect had deepened into vulnerability and feelings started to surface in the quiet moments after, now that there was a space they could live in safely.

One night the house was quiet and the neighborhood asleep. You were in the bedroom you shared, moonlight cutting through the curtains when Daryl came back from a late watch, still wired. He found you already in bed and stripped slowly, eyes locked on you the entire time and when he climbed over you, his touch was still callused and sure but there was a new reverence in it.

He kissed you now in deep, hungry kisses that tasted like want and something softer. His mouth trailed down your neck, sucking marks you no longer hid and he took his time undressing you, hands mapping every inch like he was memorizing you all over again. 

When he finally pushed inside, it was slow and thick, stretching you open with a groan that vibrated against your throat, though you didn’t need to be quiet now.

“Goddamn…always so good for me,” he murmured, voice rough but laced with emotion he couldn’t quite hide. His hips rolled in deep and steady thrusts, they had grown confident and controlled, hitting every spot that made your back arch. He was fully present, watching your face and adjusting his angle whenever your breath caught. 

One hand laced with yours above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could sink even deeper.

The pace built gradually making your skin slick with sweat as the bed creaked softly. He ground against your clit with every thrust, low grunts mixing with your moans. “Been keeping those sounds away from me? Those are mine now,” he whispered against your lips, it was the first time he said it quite like that, claiming in a way that carried weight. When you came he rode it through, kissing you through the tremors, then let himself follow, burying deep with a ragged groan as he filled you, hips stuttering with the intensity of it.

He stayed inside you for a long minute, then rolled you both so you were draped over his chest, arms wrapped around you as one hand stroked slowly up and down your back. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, small and hesitant but at least there was no more bolting and no more walls to keep up. The feelings were there now, quiet and extremely terrifying for a man who had lost everything. He held you like you were the one thing in this world he refused to let slip away.

The Hilltop:

Hilltop brought new alliances, new dangers and new responsibilities. The relationship had settled into something solid by then as sex reflected his growing confidence, he knew what he wanted, knew what you needed and he gave it without hesitation.

You stole a night in one of the smaller trailers on the outskirts. The air was cooler, tension from recent runs still humming under his skin as he pulled you onto the narrow bed, stripping you both with practiced hands. He was harder and more assured now in what the two of you had built.

He went down on you first, something that had become more common. His rough stubble scraped your inner thighs, tongue and lips relentless and skilled from practice before two thick fingers curled inside you while he sucked on your clit until your hips bucked and you came against his mouth with a muffled cry. Only then did he climb up, cock heavy and dripping as he slid into your soaked pussy in one smooth thrust.

“Fucking…perfect,” he growled, voice low and gravelly. His thrusts were powerful and confident in deep, rolling strokes that made the bed frame knock against the wall. He pinned your wrists lightly, mouth on your neck, sucking fresh marks while he fucked you steady and hard. He changed angles until he found the one that made you keen, then exploited it mercilessly, hips snapping with precision.

The possessiveness was stronger now, mixed with open care. “Stay with me,” he rasped between thrusts. “Ain’t losin’ you out there.” When you clenched around him and came again he groaned loudly, following you over the edge and burying himself to the hilt as he spilled hot and deep, hips grinding through the pulses.

After, he cleaned you both with a warm cloth from the basin, then pulled you tight against him under the thin blankets. His hand rested on your hip, thumb stroking lazy circles and he talked more now, just quiet murmurs about the day, about worries for the group and about how you made the weight feel bearable. The man who once fucked you against a tree and left was gone, this Daryl held you like you were home.

Alexandria (After Negan):

Negan’s shadow had left its mark of blood, loss, captivity and war. Daryl was harder again in some ways but with you he was open like he never was before. The sex, when he could finally indulge in it, was emotional, a release and a reaffirmation that you both had survived. He had lost too many and the fear of losing you fueled everything.

Back in your shared house in Alexandria, the first night after Negan and the Saviors were successfully defeated by the group, he was on you the moment the door closed and he kissed you like a man drowning with deep and desperate hands roaming everywhere. Clothes came off in a frantic trail to the bedroom and once you reached it, he lifted you onto the bed, spread your thighs wide and buried his face between them first, eating you out with single-minded hunger until you were shaking and oversensitive.

Then he was inside you, thick and stretching you out perfectly. He fucked you with deep, shallow strokes, hips snapping against yours with control. Every thrust carried the weight of relief, love he still struggled to name and inevitably, the fear of tomorrow. 

“Can’t lose you,” he growled against your mouth, voice breaking. “You hear me? You’re it for me.”

He laced your fingers together, pinning your hands beside your head while he drove into you. The pace was relentless and the sound of skin slapping obscene as sweat-slick bodies moved together. He watched your face the entire time, drinking in every moan and flutter like it was the first time and when you came he didn’t stop, he kept fucking you through it until you were sobbing his name and cumming again, then finally let go with a deep, guttural moan, emptying himself inside you in long, pulsing waves that sounded painful.

He collapsed beside you and pulled you into his arms immediately, holding you so tight it was almost bruising. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in and apologizing for being so “gone” which you immediately corrected even as he pressed soft kisses to your temple and shoulder. His hand stroked your hair, your back and anywhere he could reach because there was no hiding anymore, the feelings were overflowing and terrifying. He whispered rough promises against your skin, about how he would always come back to you and how he would protect what you had built together.

This Daryl was confident, devoted and deeply in love, even if the words still came slowly. The evolution was complete in its own way, from frustrated quick fucks in the woods to this raw, emotional and unbreakable connection without a place to hide.

The Commonwealth:

Years had carved their marks deep into both of you. The Commonwealth offered structure, safety, even a fragile sense of normalcy with its bustling streets, electricity and attempts at governance but Daryl had seen too many utopias crumble. You were the one constant he refused to lose, the one person who had walked every mile of hell beside him, from quarry dirt to these polished Commonwealth streets. The sex between you now was no longer just release or partnership, it was love made physical and intricate, a language only the two of you fully understood. It was slow when time allowed and desperate when the ghosts pressed close, always profound.

One night in your shared apartment, modest by Commonwealth standards but private and secure, Daryl returned from a long day helping with outer perimeter checks. The weight of old habits lingered in his shoulders, his crossbow still strapped nearby even there. 

You met him at the door and the moment his eyes locked on yours, the tension changed. He pulled you into a deep, claiming kiss, hands sliding under your shirt to feel warm skin, thumbs brushing the familiar scars he knew by heart and clothes were shed without rush but with purpose, leaving a trail through the living room into the bedroom. The bed was larger than any you had shared before, dressed in soft sheets that still felt foreign against skin used to rough blankets and forest floors.

Daryl laid you down like something precious, his body covering yours, heavy, solid and safe while his mouth explored with patient hunger, kissing down your throat, across your collarbone, sucking one nipple until it pebbled under his tongue while his callused hand palmed the other breast. He moved lower, broad shoulders spreading your thighs wide as he settled between them.

His stubble scraped deliciously against sensitive skin while his tongue parted your folds, licking long, slow stripes before focusing on your clit with precise, relentless circles. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right, pumping steadily as he sucked and licked until your back arched and your fingers fisted in his long hair. He didn’t stop when you came the first time, drawing it out and savoring every flutter and gasp, murmuring low praises against your slick flesh, “Tha’s it…let me hear ya…so fuckin’ beautiful f’me.”

When he finally climbed back up, his cock was heavy, flushed dark and leaking. He held your gaze as he pushed in, stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.

A deep groan escaped him at the tight heat and for a long moment he stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing the same air. “Can’t lose you,” he whispered, voice rough and cracked with years of unsaid terror. “Lost too many…not you, never you. I’ll be selfish ‘bout tha’” 

Then he began to move in deep, rolling thrusts that ground against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips moved with confident precision, the years of learning your body were evident in every stroke. One hand laced with yours, pinning it beside your head as  the other gripped your hip, tilting you just right so he could sink even deeper.

The rhythm built gradually, skin sliding hot and slick together as the wet sounds of sex filled the room alongside his low grunts and your moans. He kissed you through it, messily and open-mouthed, tongues tangling as his pace turned harder and more possessive. He moved to hook one of your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle until you were crying out with every thrust. “Gonna marry ya,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing the skin he had marked a thousand times before. “‘S always been ya. My home…my reason.” The words were sparse but heavy with everything he felt, the love, the fear and devotion of a man who had finally found something worth living for after the world ended.

When you came again, clenching hard around him, he rode it out with gritted teeth, prolonging your pleasure until you were trembling and oversensitive. Only then did he let go, thrusts turning deep and erratic, hips snapping as he buried himself as far as possible and came with a long, broken groan. You felt every pulse, every hot spurt of thick cum as he filled you, marking you from the inside like he always had. He stayed buried deep, hips making tiny, involuntary rocks while he softened, savoring the connection. His arms wrapped around you, rolling you both so you were draped across his chest as his hand stroked slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.