sky

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.

You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.

"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."

"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."

Oh. That John Tucker.

"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.

"Isn't that a big coincidence?"

"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"

"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."

"Mom — what, that's not really —"

"She's probably not even going to use it."

She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.

What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.

He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.

Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.

"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."

"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.

"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."

He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"

You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.

"He's right," you said.

"He's a traitor," Tucker said.

You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.

You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.

Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.

"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"

"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."

"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."

He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

You looked back down at the onion.

Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.

"Not a word," you said.

"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.

The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.

party saturday, be here, i made a playlist

You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?

yourself and good energy

You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.

what time

nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud

That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.

You thought about it the entire rest of the week.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.

You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.

You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.

It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.

You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.

Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.

"You look great," he said, holding the door open.

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"

"Tucker."

"What."

"We're not cooking. There are already people here."

He looked genuinely confused. "So?"

You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.

Dean wasn't in the kitchen.

You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.

Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."

"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.

"I'm a guest," you said.

"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.

You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.

Dean appeared sometime around ten.

He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.

So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.

You went to find Tucker.

The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.

Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party

You typed back: fine. dean's here.

Three seconds.

oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.

maybe

that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do

You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.

The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.

You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.

The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.

You told it to shut up.

It had a point though.

You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.

You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.

"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."

Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.

"I've been talking to people," you said.

"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."

"Maybe I just like that side of the room."

He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.

"You've been doing that for a year," he said.

"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.

"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."

The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.

You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.

"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.

Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.

"Yeah," he said.

He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.

The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.

He didn't kiss you right away.

That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.

"You made me wait a long time," he said.

"You could have said something sooner," you said.

"I said something tonight."

"Barely."

Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.

"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.

He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.

"Take your jacket off," he said.

You did.

He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.

"Good," he said, like that meant something.

Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.

He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"There it is," he murmured.

"Shut up," you said.

"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.

He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.

"Dean —"

"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."

He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.

"Dean."

"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.

"You're so —"

"Tell me."

You told him.

"Please"

The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.

He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.

"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."

"Dean —"

"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."

"That's your fault," you managed.

"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."

When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.

He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.

You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.

You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.

"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.

"Yeah," you said.

He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.

It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.

"Months," he said again. Quieter now.

"I know," you said. "I know."

When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.

You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.

You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.

You met his eyes in the mirror.

"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.

Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"

You turned around. "What kind of thing?"

He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.

"Right," you said simply.

Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.

You unlocked the door.

"Hey," Dean said.

You looked back.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."

You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.

Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.

You took it.

"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.

"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."

"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."

"Tucker."

"It's in the pot on the back burner."

You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.

"Thank you," you said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."

You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

Tucker handed you a chip.

You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.

Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.

Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"

"Made it myself," Tucker said.

"You absolutely did not."

Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's your house," you said.

He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."

"I know," you said.

Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.

It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.

It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?

The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.

You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.

i know. yes or no.

fine.

The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.

You sat in the middle of the couch.

He pulled up the movie without comment.

It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.

Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.

The movie ended and neither of you moved.

He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.

You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.

Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.

You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.

That was how it started.

By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.

You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.

He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?

You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.

Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.

You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.

"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.

"I didn't say that."

"You described a situationship."

"I described two people who spend time together."

"With benefits."

"Occasionally."

She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"

You said nothing.

"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"

You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."

Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.

The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.

The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.

"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."

"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"

"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."

The room went quiet.

"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."

Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay," you said.

The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.

The first sign was the texts.

Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.

You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.

You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.

You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.

But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.

You went over on a Thursday.

Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.

You looked at him for a moment.

"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."

"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"I want you to say what's actually happening."

He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.

"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.

You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."

"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.

"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"

"I never called it anything," you said.

"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."

The room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.

"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."

He opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."

"Hey —"

"Good night, Dean."

You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.

You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.

You texted Anna: you were right.

She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.

"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.

"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."

The hard part came later, at midnight.

You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.

You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.

You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.

The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.

Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.

You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.

"What is that," you said.

"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"

"Tucker."

"I know."

You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.

"It's salvageable," you said.

He exhaled. "I knew it."

"Get me the garlic."

You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.

Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"

"We're collaborating," Tucker said.

Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.

Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.

"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.

"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"

"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.

You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.

"Smells good," Dean said.

You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.

Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.

"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.

"I can see that," Dean said.

Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"

"I know," you said, drying the pan.

You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.

When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."

"Noted," Tucker said.

You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.

Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.

Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.

"She labeled it," Dean said.

"She always labels it," Tucker said.

Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."

"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."

He couldn't focus in class the next morning.

The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.

Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.

He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —

You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.

You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.

You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that.

He stared at his laptop screen.

You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.

And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.

Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.

Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.

He wrote something down without reading it.

The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.

You don't belong here.

He closed his laptop. Opened it again.

You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.

He was not fine.

That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.

Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.

He picked up his pen. Put it down.

Wait.

He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.

The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.

You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.

He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.

You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.

Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.

He started noticing everything.

The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.

He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.

He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.

He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.

He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —

That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.

He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.

He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."

"She didn't do anything," Dean said.

A pause. "Then tell me what you did."

Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."

"And?"

"And she's fine."

"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"

"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.

You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.

Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."

"I know," Dean said.

Logan looked at him. "Just saying."

"I know," Dean said again.

Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.

He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.

You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.

He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.

It was a random Wednesday in late January.

Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.

Tucker's laugh. And then yours.

He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.

"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.

"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"

"I was recovering, there's a difference—"

"There is no difference, the result was the same—"

Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.

He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.

You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.

"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."

"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.

"See," Tucker said to you.

"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."

Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.

An hour later you started putting your coat on.

"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."

"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."

"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."

"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.

"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.

"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.

You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.

Tucker looked up from his phone.

The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.

"She forgot her mug," Dean said.

"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.

Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.

"She said bye to you first," he said.

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Tucker —"

"I'm not doing this, Dean."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."

From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.

Dean looked at the door.

"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.

Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.

He lasted four days.

Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.

He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.

He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.

He threw one.

It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.

He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.

The window opened.

You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.

"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."

"I need to talk to you."

"It's eleven o'clock."

"I know. You weren't answering my texts."

You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."

"You didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Can I come up?"

The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."

"There's a trellis."

You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."

"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."

You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.

You didn't close the window.

"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."

He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.

Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.

You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.

"I need to say something," he said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."

"I'm not stopping you," you said.

He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.

He took a breath.

"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.

You waited.

"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."

The room was quiet.

"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"

"Dean," you said.

He stopped.

You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.

"I know," you said quietly.

He blinked. "You —"

"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."

He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."

"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."

You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.

"I know," you said again. Softer this time.

"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."

You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.

"Come here," you said.

He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.

His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.

You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.

"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.

You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.

He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.

"Hi," he said, quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."

He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.

"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."

You exhaled like something releasing.

It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.

When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.

When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.

Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.

Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.

"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.

"Small rocks."

"You hit Anna's window first."

"She didn't see me."

"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."

You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.

He pressed his mouth to your hair.

"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."

You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."

"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"Not a complaint."

You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.

"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.

Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.

"He's known for months."

"I know."

"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"

Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."

"You're not."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

A beat.

"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"

"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."

"I'm going to kill Garrett too."

"You're really not."

"No," he said. "I'm really not."

You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said.

ogilvie blinks from across you. he runs a hand through his tousled hair and nods curtly. “oh,” he says faintly, internally freaking out because he was the top of his class at whatever school he went to and he wasn’t supposed to mess up.

you grin, knowing that feeling all too well. “hey, don’t get down on yourself. with time comes wisdom. you’ll get used to it.” you promise, giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder. you scribble something quick on the chart and hand it back to him before he scurries off.

you’re already turning back to the computer when you pat the counter beside you automatically, searching for something that isn’t there. your hand lands on the cold desk and you frown. “…damn.”

dana glances over. “what’s up, kid?” she tilts her head, looking above the top of her glasses.

“forgot my coffee this morning,” you sigh, already pulling up another chart. “i was already here before i realized.”

“rookie mistake.” she tsks, already looking up at the patient board again.

“i know,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “this shift might kill me.” you say casually, fingers clicking against the keyboard again.

three feet to your left, jack abbott hears every word. he’s leaning against the far counter pretending to review a chart he finished five minutes ago. his eyes lift the second you say forgot my coffee. he continues watching you—like always. you’re talking again now, explaining something to a student doctor javadi, gesturing with your pen, hair slightly messy from the start of a long shift. you laugh at something perlah says and the sound carries toward him.

jack used to feel guilty for observing you. it would curl up the nape of his neck and plant itself there every time he realized he’d been watching you for longer than necessary. you were one of the best residents he’d ever seen, so naturally, like any other attending, he kept an eye on you (even though you technically were under dr. robby). still, the first few times he caught himself leaning against a counter across the department, eyes following the way you moved from patient to patient, he’d look away immediately. like he’d been caught doing something he couldn’t quite justify.

now it’s just routine. jack walks into the department and his eyes find you automatically. across the room, down the hall, wherever you’ve planted yourself in the middle of the noise. he tells himself it’s habit. just keeping track of a resident. but the truth is simpler than that.

“abbott.” he looks over, snapping out of whatever trance overtook him. robby, his longtime friend and coworker, raises an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at her for like…three minutes. blink, brother.”

jack glances back at you. you’re still talking, still smiling, still completely unaware. “…was reading the chart,” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

robby snorts, fingers drumming against the tabletop. they’ve known each other long enough to call bullshit. “whatever keeps you going.”

jack sets the chart down with a huff and pushes off the counter. he taps his pocket, feeling the cold weight of his phone, and murmurs, “gonna make a call.”

robby stifles a laugh, shaking his head briefly before assisting dr. mckay with her patient.

~

about twenty minutes later, you’re halfway through typing a note when a paper coffee cup slides quietly into your line of sight. you pause, blinking like it’s a figment of your imagination, before looking up.

dr. jack abbott stands on the other side of the station, one hand braced on the counter, the other nudging the coffee toward you. he’s wearing a black scrub top that squeezes his juicy biceps, and acting pretty casually for someone who’s not supposed to be working yet.

your eyes flick between the cup and him. “did someone get this for me?” you ask, fluttering your lashes at him subconsciously.

jack stares at you. his mind runs blank. behind you, princess slowly swivels her chair to watch. jack drags a hand down his face. “yeah,” he says flatly. “somebody did.”

you nod thoughtfully. you should ask who or where it came from, but you’re running on fumes. “okay.” you pick up the coffee, pressing your lips against the lid and taking a generous sip. jack watches you drink it like a man waiting for a verdict, his finger tapping against his thigh. your shoulders relax instantly. you hum quietly. “this is really good.”

jack exhales through his nose. “glad you approve,” he murmurs, biting back a smirk. call him a creep, but he’s the only person in the department that can get your coffee order correct down to a T.

you finally glance up again, eyebrows lifting like you’ve only just remembered he exists. “wait,” you say. “you’re here early.”

jack tilts his head slightly, pursing his lips. “that bother you?” his voice is lower than before, causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

“no,” you say quickly, ignoring the tingly sensation in your stomach. truth be told, you’re never bothered to see him. “you just usually come in later.”

he shrugs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. it’s a losing battle to keep your eyes on his. “couldn’t sleep.”

dana snorts from behind you, shaking her head while dialing a number on the phone. she bites her tongue, choosing peace for once. jack doesn’t take his eyes off of you, ignoring dana’s antics entirely.

you groan sympathetically. “that’s the worst. i always have melatonin with me if you need it.”

jack’s mouth twitches. a flush forms from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. still, his gaze stays glued on you. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

with a smile, you turn back to the computer, already clicking through charts again, and attempting to calm your nerves. you grip the poor coffee cup, hoping jack doesn’t notice your skin is hot to the touch.

finally, he begrudgingly leaves to assist on a patient down the hall. when he’s out of sight, dana, who stands besides you, leans closer. “you know he bought that for you, right?”

you frown at your chart. “abbot?” you glance up at her, brows furrowed. she nods her head, widening her eyes like ‘wasn’t it obvious?’ you glance over your shoulder toward the hallway he disappeared down. “yeah, but he’s just nice. he’d do it for anyone.” you insist, scratching the top of your head.

dana stares at you like she’s trying to solve a complex neurological condition. “sure…” she finally says.

you just shrug, taking another sip of your coffee because that has to be the reason. right? why else would he buy you the coffee? you close your eyes, shaking the thoughts out of your head because…no way. meanwhile, somewhere down the hall, jack abbott is absolutely losing his mind.

{ TWO }

hour five is always the worst, in your opinion. close enough to the middle of your shift that you should feel motivated, but not quite there. not enough to push you through. just enough time for the exhaustion to settle in your bones and stay.

you’re in bay four with a chart tucked under your arm. the elderly woman on the stretcher looks small under the hospital blanket, silver hair falling loose around her shoulders. her ankle is already swelling beneath the thin sheet and she keeps apologizing every few seconds for something that wasn’t her fault.

“hey,” you murmur gently, crouching slightly so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see you. “no apologies. gravity gets the best of all of us.”

she laughs softly at that. “i tripped on the rug,” she explains again. “my daughter keeps telling me to get rid of it.” her lips pull downward as she continues. “but it’s just so beautiful.”

you nod while carefully pressing along her ankle, fingers gentle but firm as you check for tenderness. “nothing wrong with enjoying art,” you say lightly. your thumb presses along the swollen joint and she winces just a little. you soften your touch immediately. “even if it occasionally decides to fight back.” she smiles in response.

behind you, jack stands close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours when you shift. robby got pulled into something more serious ten minutes ago, and jack (who once again is here before the start of his shift) stepped in without much explanation besides a quiet, i’ll help you with this one. you didn’t question it.

jack watches the way you explain each movement before you touch the patient. the way your voice softens slightly when she winces. the way your hands move with that careful confidence that only comes from repetition. you’re good at this. he already knew that, but still.

“alright,” you say after a moment, straightening slightly. “i’m gonna order an x-ray just to be safe, okay?”

the woman nods, commenting something about you being a doll. then, her eyes flick between you and jack. a slow smile spreads across her face. “aren’t you two just the sweetest together.” you both freeze. “such a nice couple,” she continues warmly. “working side by side like that.”

your brain stutters. “oh-” you start, laughing nervously. jack’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t flinch. you shoot him a quick look before turning back to the patient. “we’re not-”

the woman waves her hand dismissively. “no need to explain, dear.”

jack lets out a quiet chuckle behind you. it’s low and amused and extremely unhelpful. you clear your throat, suddenly very focused on the color of your pen ink. “we just work together.”

the woman hums like she heard you and chose not to believe it. well,” she says sweetly, glancing at jack, “he looks at you very nicely.”

your face heats instantly. you pretend to adjust the blanket around her ankle so you don’t have to respond. jack goes very still beside you. the room stays quiet for a beat before you say, a little too brightly, “okay! we’ll get that x-ray and see what’s going on.”

you scribble something on the chart and step toward the door. jack follows. the second you’re out in the hallway, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath. “oh my god.” jack laughs softly in response. you glance at him. “you could’ve said something.”

“about what.” he feigns innocence.

“the couple thing.”

jack shrugs, hands slipping casually into the pockets of his scrub pants. “didn’t seem necessary.”

you stare at him. your eyes are wide and mouth agape. “it was embarrassing.”

jack tilts his head slightly, studying you for a second longer than necessary. then he says, voice low and teasing, “i didn’t mind playing your boyfriend for a few minutes.”

your brain stalls. you stare at him like he spoke a different language. jack watches the exact moment the words land. the faint color climbing up your neck. the way the floor tiles suddenly call your attention. his mouth curves slightly.

you clear your throat once again. he definitely didn’t mean it like that. jack abbot is many things, including a vigorous flirt. he’s just trying to fluster you. “i’m sure you’d do it for anyone,” you say weakly, turning toward the nurses’ station, “i-i,” cough, “have to, to go do something.”

jack moves to the side, motioning for you to walk. “go ahead,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling.

{ THREE }

the ambulance bay doors swing shut behind you with a hollow metallic clang. outside, the air is colder than it looked through the glass. it slips straight through the thin fabric of your scrubs, raising goosebumps along your arms almost instantly. your hands brace against the cool metal railing and you stare out into the dark parking lot like it might answer the questions still bouncing around your head.

the case had gone bad fast. too fast. one minute the patient had been talking. the next minute the room filled with voices and hands and alarms screaming over each other. someone calling for another unit of blood. someone else pushing meds. robby barking orders across the bed. you’d done everything right.

your shift ended an hour ago. by now, you should’ve been cuddled up with a hot cup of tea and your favorite fluffy socks and maybe a nice book. but after…that…you couldn’t leave. you offered to help the transition into the night shift and assist with some cases. it was enough to keep your mind off of it until now.

your jaw tightens. you take another slow breath, trying to push the noise out of your head. the ambulance bay door opens again behind you, but you don’t have the strength to turn around. heavy footsteps approach, steady and familiar, until someone stops beside you.

jack rests his forearms on the railing beside you. for a second, neither of you speak. he glances sideways, taking a deep breath. the brisk air burns his throat. you’re staring straight ahead, shoulders tense, lips pressed together like you’re trying very hard not to let the thoughts spill out.

jack knows that look. he’s spent way too long memorizing it. “hey,” he says quietly, bumping his shoulder against yours. you hum in response, which is about the most energy you can spare. jack watches you for another moment. “you did good in there.”

you shake your head slightly, inhaling sharply. “we lost him.”

jack sighs, nodding. “sometimes we do.”

you stare harder at the parking lot. “that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.” you mutter, tears pooling at your waterline.

that pulls the faintest huff of a laugh out of him. “yeah,” he says. “that’s the official medical term.” you shake your head, a small smile threatening at the corner of your mouth before it disappears again.

the wind picks up slightly. you shift your weight. jack’s eyes fall to your arms. they’re crossed loosely over your stomach, bumps covering every inch of skin. your shoulders hunch just a little to tell that you’re shivering. he straightens slightly. “hold on.” he says with a tight-lipped smile.

you glance at him. “wha-” but he’s already pushing off the railing before you can finish. you watch him disappear back through the ambulance bay doors with a small frown. he probably got sick of watching you mope. you scoff, kicking yourself mentally because he’s the chief attending and you’re standing here burdening him with your emotional issues.

about a minute later the door swings open again. jack steps back outside to find you in the same position as before. this time, something dark is slung over his arm. you blink as he walks back over and holds it out. a gray zip-up sweatshirt lies in his extended hands.

you stare at it, not moving. “what’s this?” you ask, even though it’s pretty obvious. you’ve never seen him wear the fabric. you’ve only watched him saunter through the automatic doors, eyes intense, and sweatshirt in his hand as he prepares for the night shift.

jack lifts an eyebrow, motioning his hand toward you. “take it.” his voice is low and raspy.

you hesitate. “i’m fine.”

jack gives you a look. the kind that clearly says you’re absolutely not fine. “you’re shivering.” he simply states.

you glance down at your arms like you only just noticed. “…maybe a little.” your hands rub up and down against your arms. jack doesn’t move. the sweatshirt stays extended toward you. after a second, you sigh and take it. “thanks.” when you pull it on, the scent of musky cologne and him fill your senses. you breathe deeper, the smell like a drug. your brain catches up a bit later. “wait—are you gonna be cold?”

jack snorts quietly. “i’ll survive.”

you zip it up the rest of the way, the sleeves a little long over your hands. you fold your arms again, but this time it’s inside the sweatshirt. “thanks,” your voice is softer.

jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “don’t get used to it.”

you glance sideways at him. “you’re very grumpy for someone doing something nice.”

“i’m always grumpy.”

“debatable.”

jack looks at you. his eyes bore into yours, memorizing every detail he can of you. your shoulders have relaxed slightly. the tight line between your brows is gone. mission accomplished. “you should go home now.” he starts softly. “the day shift is all gone and we can handle the rest from here.” he urges.

after a moment, you clear your throat and nod. “i’ll bring this back tomorrow.”

he shakes his head. “keep it.” he says it like it’s no big deal. like he’s not your boss and he’s not lending you a sweatshirt in an oddly intimate way. before you can argue, he says, “you forget things,” he’s already turning toward the door. “figure this way you’ve got a spare.”

you stare at him and just laugh. “that seems like a terrible system.” your shoulders move as you giggle. after the night you’ve had, this is the funniest scenario ever.

jack glances back over his shoulder. his mouth curves slightly. “works for me.” he disappears back inside before you can respond. you stand there for another moment, wrapped in his sweatshirt, staring at the ambulance bay doors.

your fingers curl into the sleeves, fabric bunching around your hands, still warm from him. it sits heavier on your shoulders than it should. you exhale slowly, shaking your head to yourself, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips.

he’s probably just used to this. used to residents stepping out after bad cases, quiet and shaken and trying to hold it together. used to knowing exactly what to say, what to do. how to fix it just enough to get you back on your feet.

you huff out a soft breath, pushing yourself off the railing. “yeah,” you murmur under your breath, already turning toward the doors. “he’s just good at his job.”

{ + ONE }

the bar is loud. a different type of loud than you’re used to. instead of the sharp, frantic noise of the ER, it’s the warmth of conversation and light jokes. robby makes a toast, glasses clink, and drinks are tipped back. the day shift claimed a long stretch of tables near the back. someone dragged two together at some point. chairs are half pulled out, people shifting and talking over each other like no one’s had a full thought all day and now they finally can.

you’re next to samira with one leg tucked under your chair, and your drink sweating in your hand. “i’m telling you,” samira says, covering her mouth to giggle before she even gets the words out. “dr. robby is hot.”

you gasp, choking on your drink before barking out in laughter. “i mean…i can see it.” you say quietly. she raises an eyebrow. you pause. “ok…of course he is.” you rephrase. “he’s just not my usual type.”

beside you, perlah and princess chuckle, pretending that they aren’t eavesdropping.

“what you mean is,” samira takes a swig of her drink before finishing. “he’s not jack abbot.”

you swear you almost drop your glass. “keep your voice down!” you hiss, looking over both shoulders to see if anyone heard.

“it’s not like it’s a secret!” she argues, barely containing her laughter. “you both like each other and you’re both too dense to see it.”

“i would know if someone liked me.” you insist, swirling your straw around in your glass. the ice cubes clink with each stir.

she rolls her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. “yet, you’re the only one who doesn’t.” she huffs out a laugh, shaking her head.

the conversation shifts again after that. someone across the table starts complaining about charting, whittaker gets louder, joy says something dry that makes half the table go quiet for a second before laughing. this is the part of the job makes everything else feel worth it.

you’re sitting quiet, listening to the chatter of samira and the occasional arguments of the med-students when a cool breeze brings goosebumps in its wake. you shiver, peaking over your shoulder.

jack abbott steps inside, pausing just past the threshold. he wasn’t planning on coming. it’s his night off. he told himself he’d stay home for once, maybe get a decent night’s sleep. maybe do something that didn’t revolve around the hospital. then robby mentioned called and drinks. then mentioned you’d be there, and here he is.

he scans the room once, finding you easily. he almost physically stumbles when he processes you. you’re laughing at something samira said, head tipped slightly back, hair down around your shoulders instead of tied up like it always is. you traded your scrubs for a pair of jeans and a simple top that fit you in a way that should be illegal.

jack exhales slowly. right. this was a mistake. he runs a hand over the back of his neck, debating turning around and walking right back out. instead, he straightens slightly and makes his way over. he doesn’t go to you first. mostly because he’s nervous and he’s sporting a semi-hard that needs to go down.

he stops by the end of the table, nodding at everyone, and engaging in conversation with robby. dana gives him a knowing look that he pointedly ignores. “thought you had the night off,” she says, blatantly interrupting robby.

“i do.” he crosses his arms.

“and yet.” dana motions to the room and where he stands.

jack shrugs, casual. “heard there were drinks.” dana hums like she doesn’t believe him for a second. she glances past him, toward you, and then back. jack pretends not to notice. he lingers there longer than necessary, letting himself get pulled into the edge of a conversation he’s not really listening to. how could he listen when you’re there looking like that?

he’s aware of you in a way that hinders his ability to interact. the sound of your voice cutting through the noise. the way you gesture when you talk. the way you lean into samira, laughing at something under your breath. he drags his gaze away, but it always comes back. he’s metal being pulled into your magnetic field.

finally, he pushes off from the end of the table. he circles the group until he’s right behind you. he can hear you clearly now, even smell your perfume.

“you always this loud?” he asks, voice cutting cleanly into your conversation, “or is this a special occasion?”

you freeze. samira’s eyes go wide for half a second before she bites her lip to keep from laughing. slowly—slowly—you turn your head. up close, he looks even better than he did from across the room. you can see his features clearly. the stubble beard he bother shaving, his salt and peppered curls, and that hardened look that always melts you. could he be anymore perfect?

your brain stutters. “i’m not loud,” you retort, which is immediately a lie.

jack raises an eyebrow. “no?” he asks, voice low, amused. “could’ve fooled me.”

samira lets out a quiet snort beside you. you shoot her a look before turning back to him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “maybe you’re just eavesdropping.”

“maybe you’re just easy to overhear.”

you open your mouth, then close it. you can barely breathe the way he’s still looking at you, never mind forming coherent sentences. you swallow. “what are you doing here?” you ask, tone lower.

jack shrugs, one hand settling on the back of your chair. your back brushes his fingers when you lean closer. “thought i’d see what you all look like outside the hospital.”

your stomach flips. samira makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like oh my god. “and?” you ask, lifting your chin slightly. “what’s the verdict?”

jack’s gaze drags over you in an antagonizing slow manner. it starts at your face, and dips before coming back up. your breath catches.

he hums. “undecided.”

samira chokes on her drink. “i need another round,” she blurts, already sliding out of her seat. she grabs princess and perlah by the wrist and drags the with her before you can even process what just happened.

traitors.

you’re suddenly very aware of the empty chairs beside you, and the fact that jack doesn’t move away. if anything, he moves closer. “so,” you say, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the way your heart is picking up speed. “night off?”

“yeah.”

“and you chose to spend it here.”

“seems that way.”

you huff a quiet laugh, glancing down at your drink (because if you don’t you’ll stare at him arms). “we’re honored.”

jack’s mouth twitches. “you should be.” he lowers his voice to a gruff sound. that has to be his bedroom voice, you think. you look back up at him, rolling your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

he watches you for a second longer than necessary before finally dropping into the chair samira abandoned like it was always his. your knee brushes his and neither of you move. you take a sip of your drink just to give your hands something to do. jack doesn’t look away. he leans back slightly in his chair, one arm draped behind you like it belongs there.

you clear your throat. “so,” you say, glancing at him, “you just haunt bars on your nights off now?”

jack huffs quietly. “only the ones you’re in.”

your brain trips over itself for half a second. you recover fast. mostly. “that’s…concerning.”

“yeah,” he nods. “i’ve been told.”

you shake your head, trying not to smile into your drink. the liquor warms your throat, giving you some much needed confidence. neither of you move. you glance down at your glass again, tracing the rim with your finger. “they’re short on night shift,” you say after a second. “again.”

jack’s attention sharpens. he notes the way your voice lowers. you don’t want anyone else at the table to hear. “yeah,” he nods, pouring himself a beer from the pitcher on the table. “we are.”

you look up at him through your lashes and he has to adjust his pants. you stall, questioning if this is the right time or place to talk about this. finally, you exhale. “i was thinking about maybe switching over for a bit,” you continue, shrugging one shoulder. “just temporarily. try something different.”

almost immediately, he replies, “you should.”

you blink, stifling a laugh. “that was fast.”

he doesn’t even try to backtrack. “you’d be good over there.”

you tilt your head slightly. “you don’t even know what i’d be like on nights.”

“yeah, i do.”

your brows lift. “you’ve never seen me on nights.”

“don’t need to.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to calm yourself. you feel tingly all over. “you’re very confident.” you say, avoiding eye contact with him.

“i’m usually right.”

“debatable.”

“not about this.” there’s a quiet certainty in his voice that makes it hard to brush off.

you shift slightly in your seat. “i just-” you sigh. “i don’t know how robby’s gonna feel about it. i feel like he’s gonna think i’m abandoning day shift or something.” you ramble. “and-”

jack leans forward now, thick forearms resting on the table. “robby won’t be mad at you,” he interrupts with no room for discussion.

you glance at him. “you say that like you speak for him.”

“i’ve known him longer than you,” jack replies easily. “he’s not gonna hold you back.” you nod slowly, but your not convinced. “he likes you,” jack adds.

your lips twitch. “he likes everyone.”

jack shakes his head slightly. “he admires you.” he corrects himself.

your eyes flick back to his. there’s something in his tone that makes your chest tighten again. you look down quickly. “i just don’t want it to be weird,” you say, softer now.

jack watches you for a second. then leans in just a little more. “it won’t be,” he says. he’s close enough that you can feel his breath fanning against your skin. your breath catches. after a moment, he straightens again. “we can talk more about it over dinner.” he states in a matter of fact tone.

you nearly choke. your brain tries to file that under professional—it doesn’t match. “…what?”

jack’s mouth curves slightly. “dinner,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. like you’re the one lagging behind.

you stare at him. that didn’t sound like just a friendly request. your heart starts picking up. “like…with the team?” you ask, clinging to logic.

jack’s gaze doesn’t waver. “no.”

your stomach drops. “…just us?”

“that’s usually how dates go, no?” he smirks. there’s no hesitation.

everything clicks at once. the realization flashes across your eyes in series of memories. the coffee, the sweatshirt, the way he shows up early, and the way he watches you like you’re the only thing in the room. your breath catches. “you’re asking me on a date?” you ask like you had to say it out loud for it to process.

jack’s smile deepens. “took you long enough.”

your heart stutters. “wait-” you sit up straighter, staring at him. “you’re serious?”

jack leans in slightly, voice low. “i asked you to dinner.”

your pulse jumps. “i thought you meant like talking about the shift-”

“we can talk about the shift,” he nods, taking a sip of his glass. his eyes flick down to your lips for a split second before coming back up. “doesn’t have to be the only thing.”

oh.

oh.

your face heats. you look away, then back, like you don’t know where to land. “you’ve been-” you shake your head slightly, almost laughing. “this whole time?”

“pretty much.”

you huff out a disbelieving breath. “i thought you were just-” you stop yourself.

jack raises an eyebrow. “just what.”

you groan, dropping your head into your hand for a second. “i don’t know…normal.”

that actually makes him laugh real low. “this is me being normal?”

you peek at him. “apparently not.” you lower your hand slowly, looking at him again. your heart is still racing, but you don’t hate it. “you’re bold,” you say quietly.

jack’s mouth curves. “only when it counts.”

your stomach twists again. you shake your head slightly, smiling despite yourself. “and you just assumed i’d say yes?”

“no.” he shrugs simply.

the honesty catches you off guard. “then why ask?”

jack holds your gaze. “because i wanted to.” he murmurs. “figured you were worth the risk.”

you stare at him for a second longer, tilting your head like it might help you figure him out better. “…ok.” it slips out before you can overthink it.

jack tilts his head slightly. “ok?”

you nod, a little more certain now. “yes, i’ll go out with you.”

a boyish grin takes over his face. it may have taken months of what he thought was obvious flirting, hundreds spent on overpriced coffees, and more self-control than he’d ever admit out loud, but he got there. now you’re sitting in front of him, cheeks warm, eyes a little wide, finally seeing him the way he’s been seeing you all along.

The cold flush painted across your face started to finally warm up and fade as you sipped on the warm mulled wine cradled in your hands. Outside, the city was already cold, the harsh winds harrowing as you observed the already-greyed sky become darker as the night settled in. Though the snow that had blanketed over the city was beautiful and dangerous at once, sparkling beneath streetlights. The sound of its crunching under your boots when you stepped into the bar.

Though it was happy hour on a Friday after work, you internally thanked that you could have some peace in the hole-in-the-wall bar you and your work friend had once found a few months back. It was quaint in the way that it felt intentional; the owners, being the older millennials they were through and through, were able to curate the bar to make it look effortlessly cozy. Warm lights hung low over wooden tables and second-hand stools that didn’t match at all. Thrifted decor that made you wish you’d gotten your hands on it first to keep in your home, but no matter how many times you asked, they’d never tell where they got it from. The playlist humming in the back that always added the right ambiance to any topic of discussion. 

“You seriously need to go on vacation,” your work friend, Sunny, exclaimed as she eyed you taking a huge sip of your drink. “I can’t remember the last time you took time off for yourself and actually relaxed.”

Offended, you remarked, “No, there was that one time back in December, remember?” 

“That was a sick day,” she deadpanned. 

“That counts! Plus, I need to make sure the projections and future forecasts are perfect so that the Eden Young acquisition goes according to plan, so I can prove to that buzzed out-cokehead bastard that I know what I’m doing.” You tip your glass over to down the rest of the wine before smacking your lips again, tasting the citrus and spice coat your mouth again. “Plus, relationships are exhausting. I don’t have the energy for that right now.” 

This work week couldn’t have gotten any more hectic than it already had been for you as you decided to give yourself more work than your boss had ever expected, and mostly out of your own free will, and slightly to spite the one person you’d been competing against your whole career since you’d first joined the firm. Sunny rolled her eyes, clearly not having heard this the first time. 

“Never mind, you need a vacation, and you seriously need to get laid to get whatever this hatred is in your system out.” She pulled out her phone, showing her lockscreen picture of her and her partner, “I mean, look at me and Roxanne! We never got along, and then one day, I got my shit rocked by them, and now we’ve been living together happily for three years.” 

“You left your boyfriend during a date and then had sex with them in the bathroom.” 

“Thank fuck I did, I don’t know how much longer we could have gone lying to each other.” 

You nodded in understanding, “Tris was a good guy; he looks happy with his boyfriend now.” To which Sunny hummed in agreement. Behind you, the door swung open, letting in a sharp gust of cold and the sound of laughter that didn’t belong in a place this calm. Snow scattered across the entryway as two figures stepped inside, shaking off the storm like they weren’t already a nuisance.

Sunny smirked at you.

“Speaking of buzzed-out cokehead bastards, yours just walked in with his little minion.”

You groaned and turned to the bartender with a look of desperation and quiet resignation, sliding your empty glass across the counter. “Espresso martini, please. And triple the amount of vodka.”

The bartender glanced over your shoulder, then back at you, lips twitching. “Rough night?”

“You have no idea,” you muttered.

Rafe Cameron’s voice carried easily through the bar, low and confident, saying something smug enough that it made Sunny snort into her drink. She leaned closer to you, stage-whispering, “Wow. Even his entrance is obnoxious.”

“Please don’t let him see us,” you murmured. 

Rafe had immediately spotted you from the entrance of the bar, your silhouette ingrained far too well in his mind. Though it was cold outside, seeing you made the weather feel incomparably warmer, as you never greeted him with the kindness he’s seen you've shown others. Still, riling you up was always fun, even if you managed to get on his nerves with the silent competition that happened between you two, if it meant he got the opportunity to talk to you. 

He hated how much he wanted that and hated even more how you consumed his thoughts all the time. The way every giggle you let out while talking to that one analyst from the financial planning and analysis team made his heart race and fester with jealousy – not from the fact that you were enjoying your job, but that he wasn’t the one who was able to get that reaction out from you and instead are met with witty remarks and not-so-subtle eyerolls that he wished he could get out of you through other ways. 

There’d been one too many times where he wanted to bang his head into the wall, getting frustrated from when you’d give him a hard time with any joint projects within the team from how stubborn you were with him. Then, heading home wired from the interaction itself, ultimately giving into the urge and jerking off to the sight of you earlier as you were bent over conference tables as you drew out merger tactics. 

Your drink was shortly handed to you, along with two shots of tequila. You looked up at the bartender, as he winked at you. “On the house, thought you might need it.”  

Right when you and Sunny went to clink your glasses, a familiar scent of pinewood cut through the air.  

“Not even an hour off the clock and you’re already downing shots like you’re in a sorority. Have some decorum.”  

Slowly, you turned your head. Rafe stood far too close for comfort, jacket shrugged open, eyes flicking between the shots and your expression with clear amusement. Bryan, his little minion, a data analyst who laughed a second too late at everything Rafe said—hovered just behind him, already nursing a beer and pretending not to stare. 

You downed the shot in one go, then the second, slamming the glass back onto the bar with a sharp clink before finally looking at him. 

Your hand stilled mid-air. Sunny, on the other hand, turned with open interest, eyes flicking between the shots, your frozen expression, and the man now standing far too close to you. 

Rafe had shed his coat, the first few buttons of his button-up undone casually like he wasn’t the source of half your professional stress. Snow still clung to the dark fabric at his collar, melting slowly, and when you finally glanced at him, his gaze was already on you with a look of amusement.  

You tipped the shot back in one smooth motion, then the second, slamming the empty glass onto the bar before turning to face him fully. 

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you asked coolly, your eyes narrowing in on him as he took in your appearance after work. “No one at home to annoy with your snark and flaunt daddy’s money? How do you even know about Bar Poet?”  

“Everyone knows about Bar Poet.”  

“What? No, no one does.”  

Rafe sighed your name in pity and annoyance, a tone you knew all too well and had grown to have a hate-love relationship with. “Then why the fuck is it on the New York Times ‘Top Ten Bars in the City’?” 

Sheepishly looking away, you took a sip of your espresso martini before taking in the scene outside. The snowfall had started to pick up, the streets becoming visibly more white as it gusts through. Winters in the city were great, except only when you were in the comfort of your condo, which you couldn’t wait to get to. The idea of a scorching hot bath, the bath salts you’d bought sitting in your bag, and your current read was calling your name, and with Rafe looming over you, it was the only thing that would probably get you through the rest of your evening. 

Rafe purposefully hovered over you as he gave his order to the bartender, smirking at the blush creeping up your face as you became acutely aware of just how little space there was between your bodies. You felt an unusual pressure from the core between your thighs grow warm, heat blossoming from the He could feel the heat radiating off you, close enough to notice the way it mixed with the scent of vanilla and something warm, like amber, from your perfume that he’d grown accustomed to. 

You’d be lying to yourself if you said Rafe didn’t look at least a bit more different here today than he usually did. He usually did a good job of not letting his 

“Relax, Princess,” he said, “we’re only here for a drink anyway.” 

“I’ll go grab us a table,” Bryan stated, before Sunny mercifully—or maybe maliciously—decided to fill the silence and grabbed his arm.  

“Stay! Look, there’s so much space, and a little birdie told me you saw the bossman at Pilates,” she teased, grinning as she tugged him back toward the bar stool next to her. 

Bryan coughed awkwardly, cheeks flushing as he shot Rafe a look. “I, uh—purely coincidental,” he said quickly, suddenly very invested in the condensation on his glass.  

“What do you mean it was coincidental? Hiding something, Bryan?” You smirked.  

Rafe snorted, rolling his shoulders as the conversation bored him already. “If Bryan’s hiding anything, it’s how he somehow manages to complain about the workload while still never being the one who actually gets blamed when shit hits the fan.” 

You shot him a look. “Like how you always send emails at seven o’clock in the morning and then complain that no one respects your time?”  

“I work,” Rafe shot back smoothly, “relentlessly. It’s exhausting carrying half the firm on my back and being the only one that the boss can truly rely on.” 

“Oh my god,” you muttered into your drink.  

“Plus, if you ever did notice, I’m always working late. I couldn’t even remember what my apartment looked like at one point. I don’t recall seeing you at the office until then.”  

“That’s because I sit at a focus pod so I don’t have to hear you, Cameron.”  

 Sunny pointed her finger at you, quick to your defence. “She also hasn’t taken a day off since ever!”  

“That’s crazy,” Bryan said, “especially considering Jason always lets Rafe take extra time off.”   

“That’s because I work my ass off hard enough for Jason to notice.” 

“And the rest of us don’t?” You looked at him, eyebrows furrowed in a V-shape as you studied whatever audacity he had in him to overlook everyone else’s efforts.

“Not as hard as me,” Rafe shrugged nonchalantly, his arms slightly brushing against yours, burning this path into your skin while you tried to tell yourself to get over it. “The numbers speak for themselves.”

“Listen, I get that it’s tiring to be the boss’ pet and constantly dick ride him, but can you go not go three seconds without talking about it?" You turn around to face him, 

“Careful,” he said lightly, tilting his head toward you. “For someone who claims she doesn’t care, you’re awfully invested in my work ethic.”

Bryan snorted into his beer. “God, you two need to fuck each other before either one of you chokes the other one out.” 

“That’s what I said!” Sunny exclaimed, “There’s more sexual tension between these two than there was in the entire 50 Shades of Grey series.” 

You scoffed. “Excuse me?”

Rafe blinked once, like the idea had genuinely caught him off guard—though not for the reason anyone else would assume. He recovered quickly, leaning back against the bar. “That’s never gonna happen, Bryan.”

“Yeah,” you said flatly. “I’ll never sleep with someone who probably jerks off to his quarterly performance review.”

A slow smile spread across his face, not because he was offended or embarrassed, but worse. He was actually amused. He leaned in just enough that only you could really feel it.

“Funny,” he murmured. “You don’t want to sleep with me, but you’ve clearly spent some time thinking about it.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before coming back up. “Makes me wonder who’s actually interested here.” 

You carefully looked at Rafe, taking in his current state —at the loosened tie, the faint flush in his cheeks from the cold, the way his attention stayed fixed on you no matter who else was talking. It only made the knot in your chest tighten and burn from the inside, from both embarrassment and exasperation. There were one too many times where you’d woken up, heaving for air and sweating profusely from a wet dream, where Rafe had his head between your legs as an apology for the way he’d irritated you at work, or how he’d done the one thing that you’d never forgive him for, no matter how many times you’d thought about how his lips would mould against yours.

“Can you just…not? I’ve had a long week,” you said flatly. “And you’re not helping.”

You looked away, your eyes meeting the bartender’s softened ones, looking back at you. He leaned over the counter, his voice soft as he set another napkin down in front of you, “If it makes you feel any better, you’re the highlight of my day whenever you come in.”

On the napkin was his name, Ryan, and a phone number scribbled in blue ink. You blinked, clearly off guard because he’d remembered you while you barely even knew his name. Heat crept up your neck, a soft laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “That’s very kind of you.”

From beside you, Rafe stiffened. “Hey,” he said coolly, looking at the bartender with a tight jaw and narrowed eyes. “Quit flirting with your customers and focus on making my drink.”

You looked at Rafe like he’d grown three heads as you contemplated ripping his off. The smug smirk on his face added fuel to the growing hatred you had for him. “Rafe!” 

“What? Pretty sure I ordered first.” 

Sunny’s eyes were practically sparkling at the whole interaction, while Bryan suddenly found his beer even more interesting than it was before. You cleared your throat, overwhelmed by the attention and all the alcohol in your system that was starting to make Rafe’s irritation feel oddly personal as you thought more about it. “I- uh, I’ll be right back.” 

You slid off the stool, grabbing your bag a little too quickly as you walked off, trying to ignore the set of eyes you knew were watching you as you went down the narrow hallways. It wasn’t like it happened the first time, every time you had something good happen to you, whether it be praise for your work or a good moment between a coworker and yourself, Rafe had always stepped in and burst your bubble in some way. He’d always managed to take something that was specifically yours and then turn it around for it to be his, leaving no room for you to feel pride in any sort of form. Yet, some part of you kept pulling you back into the cycle in hopes of one day getting your payback and proving him wrong, slightly because while your ego was bruised, it was also so that the younger you, who’d fought tooth and nail to get to where you were now, didn’t sacrifice her own mental sanity for nothing.

Looking into the bathroom mirror, you composed yourself before getting a message from Sunny. 

Sunny: Hey, im SO soz but i have to run bc Rox had an emergency! lmk when you get home!!!

“Great,” you muttered to yourself as you braced for whatever was on the other side of the door, “how am I gonna sneak past them?” 

Just as you walked out, you collided with a firm frame, only for it to be Rafe’s when you looked up. 

“You alright?” Rafe’s voice was low as he steadied you with his hands on your arms, the heat from his arms burning through the fabric of your shirt as if they were made of fire. 

“I don’t need your concern, Cameron. I really don’t have the energy for you anymore tonight,” you said, voice as cold as ice as you attempted to push away from him.

“Liar.”

“Yeah? First, you intrude my space after work with whatever audacity you have. Then, you miraculously have the ability to trample over whatever good thing happens to me. And you still expect me to have any energy left for you tonight?”

“Is this what this is about?” Rafe raised an eyebrow, though it was obvious that he was smug about it. “You’re mad that I cockblocked you and that bartender?” 

“Oh, don’t try to fucking patronize me.” You leaned in closer, hissing, “This is more than just that, and you know it. You think everything revolves around you, but God forbid the office’s nepo-baby isn’t the centre of attention.” 

“I am not a nepo-baby,” he shot back. “He was flirting with you while he was working on the clock. He wasn’t doing his fucking job like he should have and gotten me my drink before.” 

“Are you hearing yourself right now? You don’t get to have an opinion about who I talk to or who talks to me.”

“I wasn’t giving an opinion.” 

“You literally told him to focus on your drink like-”

“Because he was looking at you like-”

“Like what?” you challenged, stepping closer without realizing it. You both had gotten closer to each other without even realizing it, to the point where you could feel him breathing in the same air as you, focusing on how he took deeper breaths from the exchange. “Like someone who actually enjoys my company? Like someone who actually wants to know me? Sorry that’s such a foreign concept to you, Rafe, but it’s how relationships start.”

His hands flexed at his sides.

“Don’t,” he warned quietly.

“Don’t what? Point out that you can’t stand someone else getting the attention you never got from a girl? That you can’t stand when I-”

You were suddenly caught off by Rafe as he pressed his lips to yours, kissing you like it was his first and last time. It was anything but gentle, the months of pent-up frustration and unspoken tension pouring into it as his hand braced against the wall beside your head as if he needed the support to keep himself from topping you both to the ground. For a split second, you froze, your mind in disbelief that Rafe, the one person who vexed you, who knew how to get you riled up, who you truly despised, was the one who was kissing you. 

Then the anger melted straight into heat, feeling yourself melt like butter into the kiss. You slightly gasped into the kiss as he began to move his lips against yours, swiping this against the seams of your lips and tasting the bitterness of coffee on yours. You curled your fingers into this shirt before you could think better of it, slightly moaning against Rafe’s lips. 

Rafe initially couldn’t fathom that he’d gone ahead and kissed you mid-conversation, but was even more confused now as he felt you kiss him back. His heart beat faster than it possibly could, his thoughts ran faster though as he felt the softness of your lips move against yours and your hands now placed against his chest. Admittedly, while Rafe was annoyed that he still hadn’t gotten his drink, seeing the bartender be able to flirt with you so effortlessly sparked a possessive flame in him that set off his reaction. You’d never felt at ease with him like you did with a complete stranger, and you’d definitely never give the same doe-eyed look that you’d seen you give to the bartender. He was tired of losing against everyone for someone he was always bickering with for something he wasn’t even sure how it’d started in the first place. 

As his body pressed flush against yours, the unmistakable hardness between you made your breath catch. Heat pooled low in your stomach, your hips moving before you could stop yourself, seeking friction against him.

Rafe’s hand slid to the small of your back, fingers spreading wide as he dragged you closer, eliminating whatever space had been left between your bodies. A quiet sound left his throat when you moved against him again — approval, hunger, something darker — and he answered by rolling his hips slowly into yours in return.

“Ahem.” Your heads whipped to a woman with irritation painted on her face, waiting to get to the bathroom door, “Can I… go in?” 

You both muttered your apologies and stepped to the side, clearly even more frustrated than before.

“I- fuck,” Rafe breathed out, “You’re coming home with me.” His thumb brushed over your jutted out bottom lip, slow as if he was tracing where he’d left his mark.

Your mind was so hazed over from the alcohol, and even moreso from the intoxicating kiss you both had just shared, you simply nodded your head and picked up your bag from the floor where they’d dropped it. “What about Bryan?”

“He left early, can’t remember what he said though.” 

“I’ll just uh,” you looked towards the bar, Ryan’s back was towards you as he helped another customer. “Pay my tab an-”

“Already handled it. C’mon.” 

Rafe grabbed your hand, picking up the rest of whatever was left at your spots and heading back out into the cold as the snowfall began to pick up. Even through the limited visibility ahead of you, Rafe’s hand hadn’t let go of you once as he guided you through the city. 

Rafe’s lips had barely left you once since you’d entered the building, from the moment the elevator doors slid shut, he was on you. Your back hit the mirrored wall with a dull thud as his mouth crashed against yours, a messy, desperate clash of teeth and tongues as either of you tried to fight for dominance. You hadn’t realized that the elevators had stopped until a bell chimed and Rafe’s face whipped behind to see who’d interrupted. A teenager, no older than sixteen, stared with his mouth agape at the sight of Rafe with his hand on your chest and one of your legs hiked up. Rafe just shot the kid a filthy smirk over your shoulder before the doors closed again. 

By the time you stumbled into his apartment, neither of you were pretending this was anything but inevitable. Your bag hit the floor somewhere near the entryway as his coat followed. You barely registered moving down the hallway before the back of your knees hit the mattress. You landed on Rafe’s bed with a soft bounce, the expensive sheets cool against your flushed skin as he trailed his kisses from behind your ear to your neck. He inhaled the smell of your shampoo, citrusy and fresh, while his hands made work of pulling off your shirt. Rafe felt like he was experiencing sex for the first time all over again as his eyes quickly took in the state you were in, your lips swollen, eyes full of need. It was almost like he had complete reign over you, but he still was at your mercy if you wanted him to since he’d never imagined that he’d get to have you in his bed, let alone even kiss you. 

You smirked, noticing that Rafe was spacing out, “Cat finally got your tongue?” 

Rafe pinched your nipple through your bra, making you arch against his body. “You have such a fuckin’ mouth on you, even in bed.” 

“And you aren’t doing anything,” you countered, as you undid your bra and threw it to the side. “I could’ve gotten myself to cum by now.” 

Rafe followed, stripping himself quickly while throwing in, “So that’s why you’re always in a mood, because no one’s ever been able to get you off.” 

“Shut up, I could make you cum before I do - oh my god,” you breathed out just as Rafe took your breast in his mouth, his tongue circling your nipple. Your nails dug into his shoulders, a sharp, satisfying pain that made him hiss.

"You talk too much, princess," he snarled, yanking your dress pants down your legs. He hooked his fingers into your panties and tore them, the flimsy fabric giving way with a sharp sound. "Always have something to say." He spread your thighs roughly, his gaze dropping to the slick heat between them. A cruel, triumphant smile twisted his lips. "Look at you. Already soakin’ for me."

"Go to hell," you breathed, but it came out as a moan as he dragged a finger through your folds, circling your clit without giving you the friction you desperately craved. It was a power play, and you both knew it. He wanted you begging for more, and oddly enough, something in you wanted to see how long you could make him make you work for it before he broke and caved in on himself. Rafe continued to collect the slick that’d collected between your thighs, feeling you become wetter. His finger continued its maddening dance, a slow, deliberate circle that never quite touched the pulsing, sensitive nub at your core. Your hips bucked involuntarily, trying to chase the friction, to force his hand where you needed it most. You breathed out his name, feel frustrated from the building tension yet with not going further like you needed him to. “Faster, please.”

“Saying please?” He shifted, his knee pressing between your thighs, forcing them wider. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against yours, a feather light touch that was more torment to you than comfort. “That’s a first, princess.” 

"Asshole," you gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders, hard enough to draw blood hoping it hurt. Then Rafe’s hand came down, landing a sharp, stinging slap directly onto your exposed pussy. The jolt was electric, a bolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure intermingled with pain that shot straight to your core. You cried out, your forehead resting against the cool glass as your body trembled. 

"Oh my god," your voice a ragged whisper.

He obliged. Another sharp slap, then another, until you were a quivering mess, your body humming with a desperate, frantic energy. "You like that, don't you?" he taunted, his voice akin to a dark caress. "Look at you," he snarled in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "All high and mighty, but you're dripping for me, aren't you? So desperate for my cock you can't even think straight."

Rafe wasn't wrong. You could feel the slickness coating your inner thighs, a humiliating betrayal of your body's desire. He ran his fingers through your drenched folds, a cruel, exploratory touch that had you writhing against the glass. "So fucking wet from jus’ that," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "Jesus." He brought his slick fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a groan of pure satisfaction. The sight was so obscene, so possessive, it made your knees weak.

“You taste so fuckin’ good, just as good as you look.” Rafe inserted a finger into you, pumping in and out as he leaned in to kiss you again. You could taste yourself on his tongue, feeling dirty about the whole ordeal. It wasn’t long until Rafe pushed another finger into you, coaxing you that you’d been ready for it because of how wet you were. Though you had no capability to think, this was the wettest and most turned on you’d been since forever. 

You pulsed around his fingers, gripping onto them, and he kept moving, and felt the tension in the apex of your tights becoming tighter when you realized that he’d been close to getting you to cum first. It pained you to have to deny your own orgasm, but you’d be damned if you let Rafe win; it’d give him the ego boost you couldn’t afford to give, even on your deathbed. 

In an instant, you pulled yourself away from the kiss and guided Rafe’s hands out of you before sinking to the ground and onto the plush carpet. It almost pained you to have to ruin them, knowing you were dripping of arousal on what felt like a designer carpet, but once you’d remembered that Rafe had come from money, it didn’t feel as bad. Rafe watched you through hooded eyes and the lingering thought of how angelic you looked at that moment as you freed his cock from his boxers, your hands wrapping around the base of it, and it slightly twitched — thick, long, and flushed in a deep shade. The head was already leaking with beads of precum that’d evidently been smeared, and you guided it to your mouth. 

Rafe couldn’t wait any longer, thus fisting his hand into your hair and shoving himself inside. He moaned at the feeling of your warm mouth enveloped around his cock, and even moreso melting at the sight of your current state—the way your lips stretched around him as he guided you up and down, hitting the back of your throat. You gagged, tears springing to your eyes, but you didn't pull away. You took it, taking him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his brutal size. He set a punishing rhythm, fucking your face with a raw, primal need. "That's it, princess," he grunted, his hips pistoning. "Shit, if I’d known how good you were with your mouth, I’d have shut you up a long time ago." You slapped one of his thighs, looking up at him in annoyance.

He pulled you off him, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the glistening head of his cock. He hauled you to your feet and threw you onto the bed, making you bounce on the mattress. You scrambled to your hands and knees, but he was on you before you could get away. He covered your body with his, his weight a delicious, suffocating pressure, and lined himself up with your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock through your soaked folds to tease you.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Beg for it."

"Fuck you," you spat, pushing back against him, trying to impale yourself on his cock.

He huffed out a controlled breath and grabbed your hips, stilling your movements. "God, I have to do everything, don’t I, Princess?" He delivered a sharp, stinging slap to your ass. "C’mon. Beg," he commanded again, his voice leaving no room for argument. Rafe pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath. He saw everything—the desperation, the hate, the reluctant desire. He saw you, completely undone, and he loved it. 

You tried your best to move, you really did, but Rafe’s grip was too strong. Though you kept a grip on yourself, refusing to give in as you were somewhat eager to see if his walls would crack just enough for you to take charge. While Rafe wasn’t used to his conquests in bed ever disobeying him, he felt himself throb even more at how you’d always managed to put up a fight and in a way, it fascinated him even more to see the lengths you’d go to get the orgasm he so desperately wanted you to have first. He landed another smack to your ass again, your skin feeling like it was on fire, before picking you up and placing you to the side. 

You stared at him, confused as he moved away from the bed, “Wh-what? Where are you going?”

Rafe shrugged, “You don’t want to beg, and I’m not gonna give an orgasm to someone who’s bein’ a brat.” 

“Fine,” you lay down on the bed while looking at him, “then I guess you don’t mind if I get myself off to the thought of Ryan.” 

“Excuse me?” He felt the same jealousy burn in him again, but tried to keep his cool. His eyes followed to where you started to rub circles against your clit, before looking back into yours. Neither of you broke eye contact, but rather, you let out a lazy, yet daunting, smile as your fingers began to get to work. It was a calculated risk, but as soon as you noticed the flash of fury in Rafe’s eyes, it all became worth it. His composure that he often held, the one that could never falter, soon crumbled to dust. He was no longer the detached observer; he was a man possessed.

Your fingers dipped lower, gathering your slickness before returning to your clit, rubbing a little faster, a little harder. You let out a soft, breathy moan, a sound you knew would drive him insane. "He probably would have done anything I asked."

That did it. A low, guttural growl ripped from Rafe's chest, a sound of pure, primal rage. He was looming over you in the second, putting your movements to a halt as he kissed you again, almost like he was taking possession of you. Rafe rubbed his length through your folds, lubing himself with your slick, and in with one brutal, unforgiving thrust, he buried himself to the hilt. 

You screamed, a raw, guttural sound of pure ecstasy as he split you open. Rafe gave you no time to adjust, setting a fast pace from the very beginning. Each thrust was a punishment, a claim, a reminder of every hateful word you'd ever exchanged. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a lewd, percussive rhythm that was the soundtrack to your destruction. He reached around and found your clit, his fingers rubbing tight, merciless circles. The dual stimulation was too much.

“Cum for me,” he demanded. 

“You cum first,” you spat back. He increased the pressure on your clit, thrusting harder than he was doing before. His touch was rough and insistent, matching the brutal pace of his hips. The dual stimulation was a sensory overload, a delicious, agonizing assault on your senses. The anger, the jealousy, the hate—it was all melting away, consumed by the white-hot fire of his possession.

“I’m gonna count to five, and then you’re gonna cum.” 

“And if I don’t?”

“Oh, trust me,” Rafe smirked. “You will.” 

Rafe’s grip on your hip tightened, his other hand fisting in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back. His body was a hard line against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“One,” he gritted out, his voice a low growl as he drove into you with a sharp, powerful thrust that stole your breath. The pressure built instantly, a familiar tension building up again in your belly. He didn't give you a chance to adjust before he moved again.

“Two,” he counted, the sound rough and possessive. This thrust was deeper, harder, designed to push you closer to that edge. A desperate cry escaped your lips, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back. He paused for a fraction of a second, letting the anticipation hang in the air before his hips snapped forward again.

“Three.” The word was punctuated by a thrust that hit that perfect spot deep inside you, making your vision blur with pleasure. The coil in your stomach tightened to an almost painful degree, your entire body trembling with the need for release.

“Four,” he snarled, his rhythm becoming erratic, his control clearly fraying. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your broken moans and his harsh breathing. You were right there, teetering on the precipice, waiting for the final push.

“Five.” The last number was a guttural declaration as he slammed into you one final, brutal time, holding himself deep as he whispered against your lips, “Cum for me, princess. Show me who you belong to.” His words were your undoing. Your orgasm tore through you, a violent, convulsive wave that ripped a scream from your lungs. Your body spasmed, your vision going white as pleasure, sharp and absolute, consumed you. Wave after wave of intense, overwhelming pleasure pulsed through you, leaving you a shaking, breathless mess in his arms. He fucked you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, his breathing ragged in your ear as he chased his own release.

"Mine," he grunted, his grip on your hips tightening painfully. "You're fucking mine."

With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he came, his hot release flooding you. He collapsed to your side, your body already missing the way his kept you warm, then pulled you over to face him. He kissed you again, slower and more intense, like you’d vanish if he stopped. You explored him, tasting the Jack Daniels that was left on his tongue from the bar, memorizing the texture of his lips, the sharp edge of his teeth. You rocked your hips again, a slow, deliberate grind that had him groaning into your mouth before pulling away. 

Rafe stroked your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle. The silence was heavy, thick with the unspoken truth that had just been violently fucked into existence. It wasn’t long until your felt your eyes begin to close, your mind succumbing to the rest it so desperately needed.

The first thing you noticed was pure white light seeping through the windows and a type of silence you hadn’t heard in years. The sheets were softer, heavier, and more luxurious than the ones you’d bought from a department store before moving here, smelling faintly of something unfamiliar, like cedar and laundry detergent instead of your usual lavender. 

Your eyes opened slowly, confusion knitting your brows together as you took in the unfamiliar ceiling, the unfamiliar bedding, the unfamiliar sunlight filtering through curtains that definitely did not exist in your apartment. Then you felt the weight and the steady heat of another body pressed against yours. An arm draped over your stomach and soft snores that hummed close to your ear. Carefully turning your head, you moved to see where you were — and nearly choked. 

Rafe was blissfully sleeping right next to you. Naked. Just like you. 

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, elongating the word as the reality of your situation settled in, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

It almost made you scream, dread filling you as you tried to navigate how you’d leave without waking him up. As slowly as you could, you lifted Rafe’s arm off of you and quickly placed a pillow underneath it before moving away. Looking around, it terrified you how minimalistic and lifeless his apartment looked, almost as if it had replicated itself from American Psycho. Almost like it was a reflection of Rafe himself, cold, calculated, and anything but lively. You made quick work to get dressed when you looked to see Rafe’s button-up from last night lying next to your blouse on the ground. As a final fuck you, you slipped it on and grabbed yours and headed out, grabbing your bag and coat on the way that you’d put on in the lobby to not waste another second. 

Though you could barely tell what you’d even seen of the apartment last night, stepping through the hallway, it became apparent that you’d set foot in only a fraction of what seemingly looked like a mansion. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the living space, sunlight pouring in over sleek furniture that looked like it belonged in a showroom rather than somewhere someone lived.

“No wonder he forgot what his apartment looked like,” you muttered to yourself as you walked to the door, where a singular picture frame hung on a small corner of the wall next to the entrance. In it held a picture of Rafe, who looked no older than four, being held by a woman who looked exactly like Rafe. 

His child-like eyes were soft, much softer than the hard ones that you were used to seeing all the time, and a genuine smile that held happiness that could only stem from the joy of being young and naive. It made your heart ache to wonder what happened to have turned that little boy into someone who was no different from a robot, or how this was the same person who you held resentment for, when he was someone’s baby. 

Your stomach twisted unexpectedly. You’d always assumed Rafe lived the way he came off to be, loud and chaotic, but instead, the apartment felt quiet and controlled. Even more so lonely, like he’d been put in the most luxurious, minimalistic jail for a crime he’d never confess to. You were snapped out of your thoughts when someone started knocking at the door, scaring you because if Rafe woke up and caught you sneaking out, you’d be in even deeper in a mess than you already were. So you did the most logical thing. 

You opened the door. 

On the other end was a man who looked to be a part of the building’s management team, staring at you in the same way you were at him. You leaned against the doorframe, trying to look as natural a homeowner as possible.

“H-hey,” you glanced down to find his nametag, only to realize he didn’t have one. “What brings you here?”

“Good morning, miss,” he said cautiously, “I just came with an important message if I could just let t-” 

“You can let me know! Matter of fact, I was just about to head out, let me grab my things, and we go.” 

“Well, miss, I wish I could, but I really need to tel-”

“Yeah, no, yeah, I’ll hear you out. Don’t worry. Just need to get this other—umph—heel on, and we’ll go. Sorry, what did you say your name wa-” 

“Hey, Louis.” Your face dropped as you froze up. If someone were pumping a cooling agent into your bloodstream, you could definitely feel it with the way your blood ran cold. Rafe came up behind you, his hand on the small of your back as he came to the doorframe to speak directly to the man who was clearly judging you now. His voice, thick with sleep, rasped, “I see you’ve met my…friend. Is everything okay?” 

“Ah, yes, she’s quite the talker. I just wanted to personally let you know that we’re advising everyone to stay inside due to the weather and our ability to get out.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“The doors are blocked, we’ve been snowed in.” 

“What?” You yelped, “You mean I’m stuck here?” 

“Uh, yes? Were you not aware that there was a snowstorm today? It was all over the news.” 

“Okay, thank you for letting us know, Louis,” Rafe interjected, “Have a good day.” With that, you were pulled back into the apartment and the door shut. Rafe was now leaning against the hallway wall, blocking you from going any further. His shirtless frame, messy hair, and sweatpants hanging low on his hips threw you off. You could tell he was eyeing you, taking in the sight of his shirt on your body, then back to your face. 

“It’s one thing to leave someone alone in bed, acting like last night never happened,” he started, the corner of his mouth twitched, “Stealing my clothes as well? I must say, that’s very bold of you to do.” 

“Had to give you the whole experience,” you sarcastically shot back before pushing him aside to look out of the windows to assess the situation. A quiet huff of amusement left him, but it faded just as quickly when he glanced toward the windows.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “About that.” 

You looked out to see nothing but snow, not just falling, but piling. Thick white sheets that had already blanketed the streets below more than it already had last night, cars barely visible, wind still whipping flakes sideways against the glass. 

“No,” you breathed.

Rafe dragged a hand down his face. “Storm warning came in overnight. Roads are shut down.”

You turned slowly toward him. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was, princess.”

The realization settled between you both, “I’m stuck with…you? For the next two days?” You panicked. 

“Not how I wanted to spend the only days I have away from you, either.” 

You ignored him, trying to find a way out, “There has to be an Uber available for me to go-” you were cut short again when you saw that there were no rides available. “I was supposed to go house-sitting for my sister. Ugh.” 

“Is that why you looked like you’re carrying a duffle bag at work, but you still wanted to take my Tom Ford?” 

“It does not look that big.”

“I can see three sets of clothes packed in there right now. But yeah, by all means, take the shirt I bought with my own money.”

“You’re not gonna die without it, you fuckin’ crybaby. And yes, she’s gone to Mexico to meet her boyfriend’s parents.” You stared out, trying to figure out how to get out of here to not only save yourself from the impending truth about how you’d slept with Rafe, but also that you enjoyed it to the point where you felt yourself heating up at the thought of last night. Rafe walked away, overwhelmed that you were not only wearing his shirt like he’d once dreamed of, but that he’d have to spend two days with you even though you both couldn’t stand to be around one another. 

It wasn’t until moments later when Rafe walked up and offered you a protein bar, “It’s for breakfast.” 

You stared at it, “You don’t have any food in the house?” 

“I do, but the chef I hired won’t be able to come in so...” 

“And you don’t know how to cook?” You stared at him incredulously, wondering how he could live in such a place, with the most beautiful kitchen you’d ever seen, and not even use it. “You have groceries, just make something.”

“I don’t have time for that.” 

“You know damn well you do,” you replied, walking over to open the fridge, with you being met with rows of neatly organized containers and glass bottles of green juice. Typical, you thought to yourself. There was enough food to feed a family of five.

“If I did, I wouldn’t have hired someone,” he said defensively behind you. You turned, brows raised. “And now you have all the time in the world, yet you’re relying on a protein bar.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you move around his kitchen like you belonged there, opening cabinets to pull out a pan, then tying your hair back with the elastic from your wrist.

Something in his chest tightened once he realized what you were about to do. No one had ever willingly done anything for him before without expecting something in return, at least not since his mother passed. 

“You don’t have to—” he started.

“I know,” you cut him off. “I want to.”

Rafe went quiet, before you spoke up again. “But you’re going to do it with me.” 

The rest of the day went by with both of you actively avoiding each other, except every single opportunity between you two led to both of you irritating each other. 

You both were sitting on opposite sides of the couch, Rafe mindlessly scrolling on his phone while you watched TV. 

“You breath loud” he said without looking up. 

You turned slowly, “I do not breath loudly. Have you heard yourself snore?”

“Someone paid attention last night,” Rafe smirked. You shook your head, looking away from him and returning back to where you’d left off. “What are you even watching?”

“You hate it.”

“Put it back on,” he said when you reached for the remote.

Oddly enough, Rafe had offered to make you coffee as a way to warm you both up, but your skepticism made you follow him into the kitchen when he was taking too long. On the counter, a mug, handthrown and nothing like the aesthetic that Rafe had going on in this place, was set. 

You grabbed it without thinking twice, hoping it’d be a quick exit for you to get back to your book, when you took a sip and immediately grimaced. 

“Jesus, Rafe, this tastes like—”

“That’s mine.”

You froze mid-sentence. Slowly, you looked down at the mug in your hand, seeing nothing but black coffee swirling in its confinements, then back up at him. He was leaning against the counter, holding another cup that was identical to yours except your coffee was lighter. 

“My sister, Wheezie, she got into pottery and sent this over to me a while back,” He walked over to you, holding your coffee mug out. “Made yours with cream and sugar.” 

“You couldn’t label it?” you muttered, suddenly very aware of where your lips had just been.

“You didn’t ask.”

You scoffed, but handed the mug to Rafe in exchange for your drink. You watched as he turned it slightly in his hand, almost deliberately aligning it, then lifted the mug to his mouth and drank from the exact same spot your lips had just touched. 

Your stomach flipped.

“That’s disgusting,” you said, but your voice came out thinner than you intended. Rafe lowered the mug, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Didn’t seem to bother you five seconds ago.”

Heat crept up your neck.

“You’re insufferable.” You took a sip from the mug, painted to look whimsical as ever, and smiled a little, “But your sister has a talent for painting though.” 

Rafe’s phone buzzed once, and a couple more times afterwards, making you slightly annoyed as you continued to read your book.

Then he laughed, though it wasn’t in his usual sharp, detached huff, but something lighter. Warmer. The kind of laugh you’d heard before, back when boys thought they were subtle about having a crush. Your stomach twisted as it lingered over the possibility that all this time, Rafe was infatuated with someone else while you’d slept with him. Even worse, you’d began to feel warmer towards Rafe, where his glance made you slightly weak in the knees instead of digging your nails into the palms as you’d clenched your fists. Perhaps Sunny had been right, you did need to get laid, but getting laid by Rafe was not what you anticipated that she meant. 

You glanced over, “Who’s that?” 

“Why do you care?” 

“You’re smiling at your screen! You never smile, period.” 

Rafe turned to look at you and rolled his eyes, “So? It’s none of your business.”

You looked away, your cheeks blushing in embarrassment. Rafe was right, it really was none of your business and the fact that you cared more than you should have for someone you thought you despised mortified you. 

It wasn’t until a bit later when he spoke up, “It was a picture of my niece from my sister, if you were wondering.”

Walking into the living room, you found Rafe doing push-ups on the floor. Shirtless. 

Of course. 

You rolled your eyes as you walked over to grab your laptop from your bag. “Is this really necessary?” 

“Yes, I can’t miss a single day.” 

“You live in this big ass fancy apartment and they don’t have a gym here?” 

“It’s not like the one I go to,” he pushed up. The muscles on his back flexed as he continued his movements, making your mouth go slightly dry. He looked back up at you, sweat droplets dragging down his forehead and he noticed you in a trance. “You staring?” 

“What? No, I’m judging you and your lack of form.” 

“Sure you are.” 

You grabbed a throw pillow and threw it at his head, but to your surprise, he caught it mid-air without breaking form.

“Don’t you have anything else to do?” He said between reps, his voice heavy.

He dropped to the floor again, slower this time. You hated how your eyes followed the movement, seeing his back flex made you wonder about what it felt to have touched them last night. The way his short spurts of breath and heavy whimpering reminded you of what you’d heard as Rafe thrusted into you made confused all over again, so you grabbed your things and walked away.

“You folded that wrong.” Rafe said, watching you handle his laundry.

“It’s a towel, Rafe, how else does one fold it?” 

“It has a system,” he walked over to the living room where you’d set up his laundry, grabbing it from you and rolling it up, “and don’t touch my stuff.” 

“You left it in the dryer for God knows how long,” you fussed, “I need to do mine too if I’m stuck here. Instead of being a tad bit grateful that I’m keeping this place functional, you keep bitching at me.” 

“I’m not the one with a stick up her ass,” Rafe shot back, completely unbothered, hands shoved into his sweatpants pockets.

You scoffed. “Please. If anyone here has a stick up their ass, it’s—”

Something cold smacked into the side of your shoulder.

You froze. Slowly, you looked down to find snow, packed into a neat little ball, already crumbling against your sweater.

Rafe stood three feet away by the balcony, lips pressed together like he was trying not to smile. Your jaw dropped. “Did you just—”

Another snowball hit you. This time square in the chest, making you gasp. 

“Oh, my- RAFE!” 

You lunged for the small pile of snow gathered along the balcony edge, scooping some up and launching it at him. He dodged the first one easily, laughing which only made you more determined.

“Oh, it’s funny?” you snapped, throwing another. “You think you’re hilarious?”

“I am hilarious,” he said, ducking again, then retaliating with one that caught your hip. “You’re just mad you’re losing.”

“I am not—”

You stepped forward too fast.

Your sock hit melted slush.

The world tilted.

There was a split second where you realized you were going down—followed immediately by the impact of Rafe grabbing for you, which only made both of you lose balance entirely. You landed on your back with a startled gasp, feeling the impact of the hard surface beneath you, only for Rafe to land on top of you. Neither of you moved, simply looking each other in the eyes. Rafe broke contact first, just to glance down at your lips, though you caught it. Snowflakes drifted down around you as the wind blew some threw the open balcony door. Rafe’s weight braced on his forearms so he didn’t crush you, but still close enough that you could feel his breath against your cheek.

Then you started laughing. You weren’t even sure why, maybe from the adrenaline, or perhaps the absurdity of this situation as a whole was insane enough. Rafe blinked down at you—and then he laughed too. A warm, genuine laugh, eliciting the same way you felt when you saw his baby picture of him, almost as if you wanted to take him in your arms and tell him that he’s okay, that he doesn’t need to keep playing the cold, restrained person he always came off as.

Soon, your laughter faded when you realized how close your faces where. You could see the tiny scare near his eyebrow, the way his pupils were blown wider than normal, and the faint baby pink flush in his cheeks from the cold. Your voice came out softer than you meant. “I… have bath salts.”

His brows pulled together slightly. “What?”

“In my bag,” you clarified, suddenly very aware of his hands still planted on either side of you. “If you… wanted to warm up together. Since this is technically your fault.”

A beat.

Then his mouth tilted into that slow, dangerous smile you were starting to recognize.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, okay.”

The bathroom filled with steam quickly, the large tub taking longer than expected to fill. You both hovered in that awkward not-awkward space of pretending this was normal while absolutely knowing it wasn’t. 

“You’re getting in with your clothes on?” Rafe asked, nodding towards your discarded sweater. 

“They’re underwear,” you said defensively. “And you’re literally wearing sweatpants.”

“They come off.” 

“I wasn’t born yesterday,” you scoffed as you stepped out of your sweatpants and placed them to the side. “No need to be a smartass.” 

“Pretty sure I can be anything I want in my house, princeess.” You hated how easily your body betrayed you, the way your pulse softened instead of spiking like it would when he’d call you that in the office. 

A few minutes and Rafe dumping more than half of your bottle of bath salts later, you both were in the tub, him in his boxer briefs, you in underwear and a thin tank, knees bumping occasionally under the water as lavender-scented steam curled between you two. For once, neither of you were talking, afraid to ruin an intimate moment as this that’d come after a day of banter and snark thrown at each other. 

Rafe sat across from you, arms resting loosely along the sides of the tub, but his shoulders stayed tight — like he was hyperaware of every inch of space between you, or the way your bodies would accidentally touch and then immediately pull away from each other. Even then, Rafe would count the seconds until it’d happen again. His eyes were fixed on his thumbs as he twiddled them to distract himself from staring at your features and wondering how he’d carve them if he’d been a sculptor back in the sixteenth century. He was feeling more vulnerable than he’d ever felt since he’d moved away from his hometown. 

It wasn’t supposed to feel like, he should’ve been more resentful towards you. He should have just stayed in his home office and let you roam about like he wasn’t even there, that’s what he would’ve done at the office. Instead, he found himself wanting to be around you all the time, like leaving you to be on your own wasn’t an option, even if it meant bickering with you all the time. Bickering was barely an issue to him anymore, Rafe enjoyed it because at least it meant someone paid attention to him past the surface level and materialism that he had to offer. You’d spent the day in his kitchen, on his couch, arguing with him, laughing at him, even laughing with him. Being forced to exist in a space that had never felt like anything more than a hotel room that he happened to call home, until now. 

Rafe loved the way you fought him, even if it peeved him a little. He loved how you never folded when he pushed, and he pushed you a lot more than he should, just to see if you’d still be there after. He loved when you’d call him out when he knew he deserved it. He loved the way you never thought twice to speak your mind during business meetings, even having a civil argument that he knew he would’ve fumbled if he let his emotions get the best of him. He loved how you’d always leave at 2:30 to grab an iced latte with Sunny but still stay late to make up for the time you’d wasted. 

Love. Rafe loved you. Yet, you’d never know it.

The worst part was knowing you reacted to him the way he’d reacted to everyone else, but he couldn’t understand what made you resent him in the first place. Every bite in your tone was something he’d handed to you first. He hated that about himself. He hated that the best day he’d had in years had been spent doing nothing but arguing and cooking and throwing snow at each other like children.

Rafe hesitated to speak up and ask why you felt the way you did, afraid that he’d say the wrong thing and you’d leave him to cool in the steaming mist. He glanced at you through the steam, only to find you staring at the water, absentmindedly dragging your fingers through it. You would never realize that you’d shifted something inside him just by staying, and he knew he’d forever yearn for the chance to explain how he adored you in ways he’d only ever seen his mother adored in, or how he had the same glint in his eyes like his sister, Sarah, did when she met her partner. You’d never understand why he’d felt so at peach just laying in your arms, even if it was a night you both did on a spur, or how his hand molded the small dip of your back so perfectly, that he’d keep it there forever, even if it meant using superglue. 

His train of thought finally stopped in its tracks when you’d spoken up, “Who’s the woman with you in that picture?”

Rafe looked up again to see you looking at him with a curious look, making him almost soften from the inside from how innocent and real it made you look, though, it felt far more dangerous than any insult you’d ever thrown at him. 

“Which one?” 

You looked at him knowingly, almost as if you could sense the internal battle of thoughts that were in his mind. You softly replied, not wanting to come off as snarky as you usually did. “You know which one I’m talking about.” 

His chest loosened. “That’s my mom,” he said, voice softer than he intended. Something in your expression shifted — subtle, but he caught it. The tension in your shoulders stayed, but your mouth parted just slightly like you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until now. 

“Oh.” 

“She died when I was younger. It’s one of my favourite pictures I took before leaving my hometown.” He paused, watching you process it. 

“I’m so sorry, Rafe.”  

Rafe shrugged it off and looked away, his jaw tightening for a moment like he was bracing for impact. “She was the only one who ever really believed in me. Like, even if I’d been scared to do something, she never let me feel doubt in myself. 

“Mom kind of just made me feel like I… belonged, y’know? Sarah had my dad on her side, but with Mom, I knew she was in my corner. But she never chose between us. She used to always tell me how she hopes I’m just as good of a person in the future.” 

He chuckled to himself over the irony of it all, “Guess I screwed that up when she died. It was like everything flipped and I kept tripping over myself for everything I did.” 

“I’m sure it wasn’t like that,” you tried to reassure him, the gesture feeling foreign to do it to him, specifically, “ 

“No, it was-” Rafe cut himself off and huffed a breath. He tried to steady himself as he continued. “My dad… He was nothing like her.”  He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers dragging slowly as though the words weighed like burdens on his neck that he kept holding up. 

“After she died, I was just- I felt SO alone and it didn’t help that he’d dialled in on me and held it against me. Every mistake I made, every time I screwed up… he made sure I didn’t forget it.” His throat worked around the next sentence. “And I gave him plenty to work with.” 

You didn’t say anything but swish through the spacious bathtub to sit next to him, the water’s rippling slowing as you settled next to him. Close enough that he felt the warmth of you, close that he didn’t feel alone with the memories he was recounting. 

“I’m not proud of the stuff I did,” he said quietly. “The drugs, the fights… losing control all the damn time. I was out of hand. And he’d look at me like I wasn’t just disappointing him — like I was confirming everything he already believed.” Rafe could already hear the scold and lectures that Ward had given him, replaying like a vinyl that set to play any time through his brain at any given moment.  

“I know I deserved him to lash at me, I had to be straightened out. But I just wanted my dad… I just wanted him to at least try to make it feel like mom wasn’t gone.” His fingers curled at his sides. You reached out, your hand brushing his arm, but it was enough for him that he felt it all the way down to his chest.  

“He got me this job kind of as repayment for a favour he’d done for Jason a while back. For once in my life, it’s the real chance I’ve gotten to make something of myself and prove that I’m not the screwup he decided I was. I don’t even care what I have to do to do it, I just want to prove him wrong, so he’d shut up and not see me as some fuck up.”  

“Rafe,” you spoke up, “You don’t have to prove anything to someone who never tried to understand you.” His eyes flicked to yours, wary of you as he searched the slightest amount of sarcasm in your voice. 

“But if you want to prove something to yourself?” you continued. “Then do it the way you want, not the way your dad wants you to.”  

For a second, he didn’t move. Then his shoulders loosened, not from pain this time, but from being able to take off one of the weights he had on his shoulders and breathe a little better. “It’d been so many years, I almost forgot what her laugh sounded like,” he paused, “until I heard yours. You kind of have the same laugh as hers.” 

Guilty and warmth bloomed in you, brewing low in your chest in a way that you hadn’t expected. Part of you made it feel adored that he’d specifically looked for your voice, that he actually liked it. Yet, it weighed on you that even with such a comparison, you thought of all the times he thought of his mother, hurting over her absence and having a painful reminder that he’d have to listen to without any control over it.  

You swallowed, your chest tightening with a tenderness you weren’t ready for. “She sounds like someone anyone would’ve been lucky to know.” 

All Rafe could do was nod, he could feel his pulse in his throat that signals the familiar edge of panic he’d get whenever he thought about his past. Vulnerability always felt like a mistake, so it was easier to push it down and be harsh to everyone else around him, because he’d indirectly just be disciplining himself to not be weak. He saw it though, the way you didn’t look at him and think he was weak as he poured his biggest flaw in him to you.  

Rafe couldn’t tell if it was just his emotions getting in the way, or if his feelings for you had started to feel even more prevalent as he felt the water move between your bodies, becoming more aware that you were next to him, that you willingly moved to by his side. He wasn’t sure if he deserved that kind of steadiness from someone — but for the first time in a long while, he wanted to try. Wanted to be someone his mom would’ve recognized, someone she would’ve been proud of. Then he remembered how he got to this point in the first place, and took the leap of faith that he’d been hesitant to take for a while. 

“Why do you hate me so much?” Rafe asked bluntly, wincing once he realized that he’d probably ruined the moment. He watched as you stopped your movements and looked at him like he’d said the most obvious thing ever.  

“You don’t remember?” 

“I- no? You keep acting so hostile towards me and I don’t even have a clue what I did.” Rafe felt helpless, not even remotely knowing what he might have done to you for him to make you act this way except compete against you to see who was better. 

You scoffed to yourself, not believing that he wasn’t aware of it. Suddenly, you felt like you were in that meeting room all over again, sitting in the seat as you sank further into it. The harsh lights in your eyes that made blurred whatever happened afterwards, the tight knot in your throat and the way your palms had gone cold as you pretended that it all didn’t sting.  

The memory hit you so sharply you almost forgot to breathe. 

Of course he didn’t remember. Why would he? To him, it had probably been a gateway to where he was now versus your current position at work. Something he’d lobbed because he could — because he didn’t think anyone would take it to heart. His words replayed in your head as you imagined yourself back in that position, I don’t even care what I have to do to do it.  

You lifted your eyes to his, your voice steady though your body clearly wasn’t. You could feel yourself shake even though the water hadn’t cooled yet. “Rafe, you don’t remember the Northland acquisition deal from three years ago when we both joined?” 

You’d stayed overtime at the office three nights in a row this week alone, your eyes burning as you worked tirelessly on spreadsheets that bled into strategy trees, colorcoded tabs fanned across the table like ribs. You’d rehearsed contingencies until your voice went hoarse. Confidence exuded through you as you walked into the meeting room to present it to Jason, who directly managed over you, and two other executives from the company. It was going to work, you knew it, you had been at it for over a month.  

The door opened, for you to find Rafe walking in, relaxed, his sleeves pushed up like he’d been here forever instead of six months like you’d been. “Hey, this for the meeting?” 

You stood proud, smiling to yourself as you slid your desk across the deck. “This is the route that gets us to Northland without overpaying in year one-tiered earn-outs, a staggered approach over their governance, and lockup language that keeps their OFC on our side.”  

Rafe hadn’t paid much attention, absentmindedly nodding to your words and skimming the first page. “Got it.” 

Finally, the presentation started, but as soon as you’d gotten up to present your strategy, it’d immediately left when Rafe had gotten up faster and sauntered the front. It all shocked you that you’d stayed remained sat when everything inside you was screaming to get up and put him in his place, but instead, you were frozen.  

“Rafe, what are you-” 

Jason interjected in a tone that made you want to throw up as he called your name in a hushed tone, “Sit, let Rafe do his presentation.”  

A wrecking ball hitting through bricks couldn’t cover half of what you felt at the moment.  

Rafe talked clean and fast — your earnout ladder, your governance framework, your lockup clause. Your model numbers, your talking points, your risk table, everything that you’d lost sleep over was coming out of his mouth like he’d stuck his hands in the mud and did the dirty work. Jason nodded, pleased as he announced that he knew that taking him on the team. The CEO said it was brilliantly done, while the CFO said exactly what we needed. At the front of the room, Rafe was smug as he glowed with the praise he’d gotten. Not a single mention that you’d done the work left Rafe’s mouth, the praise didn’t drift your way. It moved around you, like current skirting a rock.  

You sat still, your lips pressed together so tightly, you were afraid you’d bite through the skin. Your fingers pressed to the paper so they wouldn’t shake. When it ended, you blinked back the hot tears that welled in your eyes, managed a professional smile, and walked out of the door with resentment at Rafe brewing deep within you. For days, you told yourself you’d be fine, but every email that mentioned Northland, along with Rafe’s name written right after, was like a knife to the heart.  

It wasn’t until you thought back to the last time you’d felt this defeated that sobered you up, numbed you from the name and months that came after the acquisition was complete, because you knew how to survive being erased once. Because not too long ago, someone who you’d given your heart, would diminish your hopes, saying you’d never make past a certain point because you weren’t built for the pressure. He’d said it like clockwork, as if it was a pacifier to sooth your ex from the fact that he’d been falling behind as you excelled in your field, and you’d still fight back every single time. But at night, when you’d look yourself in the mirror, it hurt to think that someone thought as lowly of you as he did.  

You promised yourself then that you’d prove him that you weren’t the type to crack, and even more so, you promised yourself that you’d be proud of yourself, even if no one else said your name out loud.  

Rafe looked down, telling you that he remembered the events of that day as clearly as you did, guilt twisting his stomach all over again like it did when he first stepped up in front of the room that day.  

He remembered that day all too well, the way Ward had called, condescending him that if he didn’t have anything to show for this job, he was done for. With all the pent-up anger, he’d just looked at you, content and focused as you looked through your slides, he could feel your energy from behind the glass and see that you clearly belonged in that room more than he ever it. But as he looked at the text Ward had sent over that call, Rafe decided it was his moment to take. Back then, he’d told himself it didn’t matter. That you would tolerate him anyway if he tried to charm you just right, that you wouldn’t care, that it was just strategy and numbers and a clean presentation. But beneath all of that, buried under layers of pride and fear, was the part of him that wanted you to notice him — to see something in him worth looking twice at. 

A part of him felt bad, especially when he’d been intrigued by you from the day he’d joined. Drawn to you in a way that irritated him as much as it scared him. You were sharp, unshakeable, impossible to ignore. He found himself watching you in meetings longer than he should, memorizing the way your eyebrow twitched when you disagreed with someone, the way you bit your lip as you were deep in thought.  

But when he lifted his eyes to you after presenting, he couldn’t miss the glassy coat over your eyes. He realized that you had noticed him, just not in the way you wanted. 

Your voice came out leveled, no bite like it usually did which made it worse.  

“You used my strategy, Rafe. You took the deck off my desk while I was in the print room, changed the title slide, and pitched it. Jason and the execs all give you their respect, and you didn’t correct them once. You didn’t look at me. You just… took the win.” 

Rafe breathed out, the sound low and uneven. He rubbed a hand over his face, a frustrated, ashamed drag. When he looked at you again, the defensiveness was gone; something raw sat in its place. “I did. I did look at you.” His voice cracked, almost too quietly to hear. “I shouldn’t have done that. Especially not you.”  

You held his gaze, not daring to look away. “Did you know how much it hurts to see everything you worked on be blatantly taken from your hands and you don’t even get the simplest acknowledgement?” You curled up, your legs pulling themselves up to your chest as you wallowed in where you were three years ago.  

“It cost me something to let you walk out of that room with it,” you whispered. “It cost me even more to keep showing up after to keep proving myself.”  

The steam from the warm water died down, yet still, something heavy and thick with regret filled the atmosphere.  

Rafe looked down at his hands, the bravado he always wore like armor had seams now. “I was desperate,” he said, this voice low and rough. “That’s not… I’m not saying it was okay. It wasn’t. I just, I’d gotten off of a call with my dad, and I wanted a win so bad that I didn’t think twice about who I was hurting. Not saying that my dad is an excuse either. I just, reacted irrationally.”  

A beat passed by before Rafe spoke up again, “I’m sorry.”  

You exhaled, not sure what to do with the ache his apology unlocked. “I worked for that acquisition deal,” you said, softer now. “Not just the hours, Rafe, years. Building myself back up after someone I trusted told me I wasn’t enough. I told myself I would never let anyone decide my ceiling again. And then you—” Your voice thinned, until you steadied it again. “You made me feel small. And I hated that I let you.” 

Rafe closed his eyes for a second, like the only way to stand still was to shut something out. When he opened them, they were steady. The water between you quieted, now cold, but the warmth your bodies kept it bearable. He shifted closer, your arms pressed against each other, but it felt like they found shape with each other quickly. He was careful, like the space itself might shatter. “I can’t change that day,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I can change the next one.” 

You studied him, the fight and the fear both visible now. The part of you that had learned to endure wanted to fold back into silence and keep moving. The part of you that had learned to be proud wanted the truth to land. “You want to prove your dad wrong,” you said. “I get that. I’ve been proving ghosts wrong my whole life.” You took a breath. “But if you want to prove something, do it on your own accords, on your own terms. Do it through a way that wouldn’t make you regret it after.”  

Rafe’s expression shifted. not dramatically, but enough that you saw something crack open in him. Something he’d been holding back for far longer than he should have. He wet his lips, eyes flicking down, then back up at you like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say the next words aloud. “You know… every time I look at you, I think about what I could’ve been if I wasn’t so damn stupid back then.” 

You squinted at him, eyebrows furred together in a way that, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his voice.  

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Y’know I always notice you, right? Even when you give me the hardest time.” His fingers brushed the surface of the water, creating soft ripples between you.  

“You walk into rooms like you already knew what you’re worth.” His breath stuttered just slightly.  

Your heart thudded once, hard. 

Rafe swallowed, his voice dropping to something rougher. “You were the first person here who actually made me want to be better. Especially when I pretended you pissed me off.” 

You felt a warmth rise in your chest, confusing and achingly familiar. 

“And after the Northland acquisition,” he continued, softer now, “I kept telling myself you hated me because you saw right through me. Because you knew I wasn’t on your level.” His eyes searched yours, earnest in a way that made your throat tighten.  

“But the truth is… I just wanted you to look at me the way you looked at your work. Like I mattered. I know my worth, but it crumbles when it comes to you, and I’d let it crumble at your mercy a thousand times over if it meant I could be in your presence all the time.” The confession hung between you, fragile and unguarded. 

Before you could respond, Rafe took a slow breath, his hand hesitating in the water before settling gently at your waist. Not pulling — just making contact, asking for your permission without explicitly asking. “Tell me if this is too much,” he murmured. 

You didn’t move away, you let the moment hold you both. And that was all the permission he needed. He guided you toward him, careful and deliberate, the water shifting around your hips as your knees brushed his. You felt the warmth of him beneath you, grounding and steady, as he pulled you onto his lap as though he’d imagined doing it a hundred times but never believed he’d actually be allowed. The movement sent a soft splash against the sides of the tub, ripples spreading around you in lazy circles. 

Rafe’s breath hitched, his nose brushing yours, his forehead touching your own like he needed one more second to be sure. “I don’t want to keep messing this up,” he whispered, voice cracking just slightly. “Not with you.” 

Your arms curled around his shoulders, drawing him closer. You didn’t have to say a word. He closed the last inch and kissed you—slow and reverent—like he’d been waiting for this since forever. The water stilled around you both, but everything inside you felt like it was finally moving. You returned his kiss, moving your lips around his like you were dancing around the confession. It wasn’t before long until his arms left your waist and traced a path of fire down to your thighs, moving your legs wrapping around his waist as he settled you against the thick, hard ridge of his cock. The friction was a delicious promise, a silent vow of what was to come.

The rest of the night dissolved into a hazy, feverish dream. The tension that had always coiled between you was gone, replaced by a profound, aching need to be close. Your clothes became a forgotten trail on the bathroom floor as he carried you to his bedroom, his gaze never leaving yours. He laid you down against his sheets like you were something precious.  

Every kiss was softer, more apologetic than the last, a silent atonement for every harsh word ever spoken. Every thrust was slower, more deliberate, a prolonged act of worship rather than a claim of ownership. It was slow, like you both were taking the time to learn each other’s bodies. Rafe moved with an unhurried rhythm, hitting deep, forcing you to feel every thick inch of him as he stretched and filled you completely.

Every so often, Rafe’s lips would brush against your ear, whispering sweet nothings that made your inner walls clench around him as he hit your cervix.  

"M' so sorry, princess."

"My girl," he groaned, his voice thick with emotion as he pressed impossibly deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix. "Taking me so well."

And when you awoke in his arms the next morning, the world felt softer somehow — muted by snowfall and the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You didn’t question it. Didn’t question him. Instead, you burrowed closer, tucking your face into the warmth of his shoulder, letting sleep pull you under again like a tide you were finally willing to surrender to.

The rest of the weekend unfolded in that same suspended, dreamlike rhythm.

The banter never disappeared — it simply changed shape. Sharper edges softened into teasing smiles, insults dissolving into quiet laughter that lingered a little too long. You found yourselves tangled beneath the same blanket more often than not, knees brushing, shoulders pressed together while you traded stories about childhood embarrassments, nightmare clients, and the strange paths that had led you both here.

At some point, you realized you were memorizing him — the cadence of his voice when he talked about something he loved, the crease that formed between his brows when he concentrated, the way his hand would absentmindedly find your hip like it belonged there.

And when Rafe surprised you with dinner — something he’d cooked himself, unevenly chopped vegetables and all — it wasn’t the food that made your chest ache.

It was the quiet pride in his eyes when he set the plate down in front of you. Like you mattered more than anything he’d ever tried to win before. 

It wasn’t until late in the evening when you’d gotten news that the snow had cleared up and you could safely head out now.  

“I’ll just head home since the snow’s cleared,” you stated, packing whatever you’d taken out back into your bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”  

“What? No, you can stay here, it’s just another night.” Rafe looked at you, what looked to me, an attempt at making puppy eyes. “Please?”  

“You did not just try to make puppy eyes at me at your grown age.”  

“Did it work?”  

“…Yes.”  

As soon as you’d both gotten to work, it was as if a switch had gone off, and Rafe was back to his usual self, either annoying you or being cocky. He was no longer the soft, vulnerable man you’d seen him as when you left the apartment together, nor the one who’d pressed sleepy kisses into your shoulder before you’d slipped out of bed that morning. By the time your elevator reach the floor to your office, he barely even looked at you. 

Meetings came and went, emails flew back and forth within your circles, even conversations happened around you like you weren’t even there. If it’d been anyone else who’d done it, you would’ve brushed it off as normal workplace distance. But this was Rafe, the man who’d tried to convince you to skip work with him and pretend the snow caused your absence. It wasn’t until you skipped your daily coffee run with Sunny when she dropped your drink and stared at you, eyes wide and feral with curiosity. 

“Something’s wrong. What happened during the snowstorm?” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you continued to type before thanking her for the drink and grabbing, “It was just a regular-shmegular snow storm.” You thought you’d played it off as nonchalant as you possibly could as she eyed you up and down, her honey brown eyes taking in every single detail of your appearance. 

“You got laid.”

You choked on your coffee. “What?”

“You’re glowing,” she whispered loudly. “Your hair looks suspiciously blown out better than usual. And you’re wearing the ‘I have secrets’ face. You got laid.”

“I did not—”

“You DID,” she emphasized. “My intuition does not lie, don’t lie to me.” 

You glanced across the floor before you could stop yourself. Rafe was at his desk, jaw tight, shoulders squared, typing with aggressive precision like the keyboard had personally offended him. He didn’t look up once, though you could tell he was listening.

Your stomach sank, unsure why he’d pulled a 180 and suddenly acted like you no longer existed to him.

“…Okay maybe I did,” you muttered.

Sunny gasped like she’d just witnessed a solar eclipse. “WITH WHO? Was it the bartender guy?”

You didn’t answer, just simply looking down to avoid confirming or denying anything. 

“Oh my God. It was!”

Suddenly, you both were started when Rafe had let out a huge huff and walked by your desk, still not making any eye contact with you. 

The next three days were worse. If avoidance were an Olympic sport, Rafe would’ve taken gold. It was nothing but short replies and no eye contact. He’d even started delegating through others on the team instead of speaking to you directly. He was professional to the point of cruelty, which made the burden you’d had on you worsen as you stayed late finishing your latest project. You’d found yourself tuning out more and replaying the weekend over again, just to see if you’d overthought and misinterpreted anything. If the night in the bath was just purely out of frustration and you’d been vulnerable with each other out of obligation.

By the time the Eden-Young acquisition presentation arrived, you were running purely on spite and caffeine. The conference room was packed. The same two execs from the last time you’d presented, multiple financial planning analysts, and your boss at the head of the table.

You thought back to the last time you’d given a strategy rundown for a company this big, and remembered everything that transpired after. You worked hard to where you were today, and even if Rafe was in the room, looking at everywhere but you, you’d be damned if it dampened your performance. And so you did, you’d delivered your presentation almost flawlessly, the projections, integration strategy, and risk mitigation all outlinted to a tee. Weeks of work poured into twenty minutes.

When you finished, there was a brief silence. Then your boss nodded slowly, proud of how you’d done.

“Impressive. You’ve clearly been taking notes from Rafe.”

Though he’d given you the only thing you’d cared about, the words hit like a slap. All the effort you’d put in, just be credited to Rafe. 

Before you could even react, Rafe spoke.

“That was all her.”

The room shifted, and suddenly all eyes were on Rafe or you. Your boss looked between you both. “Excuse me?”

Rafe leaned back slightly, completely calm. “The modeling, the integration timeline, the synergy assumptions — she did all of it. The work is hers. Just like the Northland acquisition.”

Your boss blinked, then nodded again, this time toward you.

“Well. Excellent work.”

Heat rushed to your face — pride, validation, and yet, confusion tangled underneath at the base. The man who had just given you public credit hadn’t spoken more than ten words to you all week, he hadn’t looked your way at all, he didn’t even acknowledge your existence. It made the praise feel heavier somehow, like a bouquet handed over a locked door. It was like he’d now sparked the firestarter in you, and before you knew it, you had the same resentment you’d held for him before. 

Except this time, you were going to outright confront him.

You kept an eye out for when Rafe was about to leave, though he always left late. It wasn’t until he’d gotten up from his desk to head out when you grabbed his arm and pulled him into an empty conference room closeby. 

“What the hell if your problem?” you demanded. 

Rafe froze, surprised by the contact.

“You ignore me for three days,” you continued, voice tight. “and then suddenly you’re defending me in meetings like nothing happened? You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to pretend the weekend didn’t happen.”

His jaw locked just as his hand flexed open, itching to grab onto you. You couldn’t understand his constraint against you when you’d laid everything bare in front of him. 

“I wasn’t pretending,” he said quietly.

“Really? Because it sure felt like—”

“I was trying to figure out if it was real.” That stopped you. You looked at Rafe, only to find him looking back at you with raw emotion and uncertainty. The tears you’d held back all week finally welled in the corner of your eyes as you could tell that he was being vulnerable again, that he truly was at a crossroads with himself. 

“I needed to know,” he continued, voice lower, “that I wasn’t just… caught up in proximity. Or adrenaline. Or finally getting something I’ve wanted for years.” He swallowed. “I needed to know I wasn’t going to ruin you because I couldn’t separate work from… this.”

“Rafe—”

“I love you.”

The words landed heavy between you, but it made your heart begin to race faster than it had when you first saw him.

“I think I have for a while,” he admitted. “I just didn’t realize it wasn’t hate until you stayed. Until you didn’t leave Saturday morning. Until you were in my kitchen telling me I don’t know how to use my own stove.” 

A shaky breath left him as he continued. “You’re the best part of my day,” he said. “Even when you’re yelling at me. Especially when you’re yelling at me. So, I took a few days to make sure I wasn’t about to screw this up.”

The silence stretched, only thing to be heard was your sniffles from your failed attempt at keeping your tears at bay. All this time, Rafe had been trying to figure out why he felt the way he did, but it hurt you more that he felt the need to step away just to save you from being hurt again. 

As you wiped your tears with the back of your sleeve, you spoke up again. “You could have came to me, Rafe. We could have worked this out.” 

“I know, but,” Rafe ran his hand through his buzzed hair, exasperated, “If I lose you, then I lose it all. No one’s ever made me this happy or anxious all at once, but.” He paused and looked at you, and with the way you looked at him earnestly, willing to hear him out even after what he’d done, Rafe felt himself falling in love with you all over again. “I want to love you the right way. However it is you want me to.”

You gently placed your palms on his cheeks, pulling his face closer as you softly placed a kiss on his lips as if it were a seal of confirmation that you, in fact, loved him as well. Even if you didn’t say it out loud.  

“You don’t have to love me perfectly,” you whispered against his lips, your voice still fragile from crying. “You just have to love me the way you know how to. And honestly.”

The words seemed to land somewhere deep inside him, somewhere bruised and guarded that he didn’t let many people reach. His hands came up instinctively, wrapping around your wrists where they cradled his face, like he needed to anchor himself there. Relief flooded his face so quickly it almost made you laugh through the remnants of your tears. He leaned forward again, pressing another kiss to your lips, steadier this time, like something had finally clicked into place. You both were so enamoured with each other, you hadn’t realized a figure in the door way, gaping at the scene in front of her.

“YOU HOOKED UP WITH RAFE?” 

divider credits: @cursed-carmine @saradika-graphics

Brunette hair cut short and sleek, sundress that screams sweet girl-next-door, sunglasses perched just-so on her head. One hand on the hood near him. Too near. Her body angled in, voice pitched low, intimate. Laughing like she’s earned it.

Your chest tightens sharply, like someone’s wrapped a fist around your ribs and decided to test their grip.

You don’t hear what she says, but you see her reach out, fingers brushing his arm, casual. Possessive. Familiar in a way that crawls under your skin.

Rafe doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t flirt back either. His smile doesn’t widen. His posture doesn’t change. But he doesn’t move away.

And that’s enough for you.

Your pride kicks in before hurt has time to bloom.

You stop walking abruptly, and for exactly half a second, you consider staying. Letting him see you. Letting him explain. You imagine your face, always cool, composed, perfectly neutral. You imagine how stupidly transparent that would be for someone like you.

So you turn.

Immediately.

Your heels click once, sharp and decisive, as you pivot and start back toward your car, jaw set, grip tightening on the paper bag until it crinkles in protest. You’re already rehearsing the dismissal. Busy. No big deal. You were nearby. You desperately hope that he didn’t see you.

“Hey—”

Rafe’s voice cuts through the air, rougher than usual.

You don’t stop.

“Hey,” he says again, louder now. “Corporate.”

Damn it.

Your shoulders stiffen but you keep walking for two more steps before you force yourself to turn, stoic mask snapping into place so fast it almost hurts.

You lift a brow. “Busy?”

Sofia turns too, surprise flashing across her face as she takes you in. Assesses. You recognize the look. You’ve worn it yourself.

Rafe’s already moving, though.

He pushes off the truck, steps away from Sofia without a glance, closing the distance to you like gravity’s decided. His eyes search your face, sharp and focused, something flickering there.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he asks.

You hold up the bag. “Was in the area. Thought I’d drop this off.”

Your tone is light. Polite. Detached.

Too detached, and Rafe knows the barriers he's worked so hard for you to bring down are raising again.

His gaze drops to the bag. Then back to you. He exhales through his nose, quiet. “You were leavin’.”

“It looked like you were in the middle of something.”

Sofia clears her throat behind him. “Rafe, I should probably—”

He doesn’t turn around, doesn't even spare her a look, his blue eyes stay trained on you, flickering over your face as he desperately tries to find a crack in your armor.

“Yeah,” he says flatly to Sofia. “You should.”

There’s a pause. You don’t look, but you hear her heels retreating, hear the faint edge of irritation she doesn’t bother hiding when she mutters goodbye. Only when her car door slams do you let your shoulders drop the barest fraction.

Rafe rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Grease smears into his skin. “She didn’t mean nothin’.”

You smile. It’s practiced. “I didn’t say she did.”

He studies you for a beat, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t have to.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.

Finally, you sigh, all sharp edges and controlled restraint cracking just enough to sting. “She seemed… comfortable.”

His jaw tightens. “She’s an old acquaintance.”

“And an ex,” you add, quietly.

He doesn’t deny it. “On and off. A long time ago.”

Your fingers flex around the bag. “Funny how the past has a way of showing up uninvited.”

He steps closer. Close enough that you can smell oil and heat and that familiar clean undertone that always pulls at something low in your stomach. His voice drops. “You were gonna walk away.”

You lift your chin. “I don’t chase things that don’t want to be caught.”

That does it.

He reaches out, not touching you, but close, hand hovering near your wrist, heat radiating. “Look at me.”

You hesitate. Then you do.

His expression softens, just slightly. “I saw you,” he admits. “The second you stopped.”

Your breath catches despite yourself.

“And you still turned away,” he continues, not accusing. Just stating it. “Didn’t even give me the chance.”

Your composure finally slips. Just a hairline fracture. “I didn’t think you’d want one.”

Rafe swears under his breath, then finally closes the distance, fingers curling gently around your wrist, grounding. “You gotta stop doin’ that,” he murmurs. “Decidin’ for me.”

Your throat tightens. “You looked… fine without me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah? Felt like hell.”

You scoff weakly. “That’s dramatic.”

“Maybe.” His thumb brushes your pulse, slow. Intentional. “But I don’t flirt back. I don’t cross lines. And I don’t take lunches with anyone else when I’m already waitin’ on you.”

Your eyes flick to the bag between you.

His gaze follows and softens further. You can tell it means the world to him. “You brought me food?”

You swallow. “I was trying to be nice.”

He smiles then, real and warm and entirely for you, and leans down just enough to murmur, “Next time? Don’t walk away.”

You exhale, the last of your facade finally giving. “Next time,” you say quietly, “don’t look so comfortable without me.”

His grip tightens, just a little. “Deal.”

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms, @drewstarkeyspecs, @nightchanges777, @starkeyjoseph, @bonjourjiminie, @discomago, @kissylec, @kelbrave, @therosequartzwitch666, @laurel-inheaven, @parkjiminiemouse, @a-lovers-card, @lxvrgirl, @maryjaneeeee, @sebbystans1fan16, @vittoriaxcx, @shariiina, @mysticbby2009, @mrssssmalfoy, @delayeddrabbles, @kuskumu, @imliterallysocoolfr (ILY ALL im so sorry if i forgot to put you on the taglist, just lmk!!)

You never believed in the cliché of falling in love with your roommate. Ever. You used to read books, gossip columns, agony aunt submissions with an eye roll and a scoff; wondering how on earth people could be silly enough to fall in love with somebody they could never have.

But then, it happened to you.

At exactly 1:03am on a Saturday morning, after crashing through the front door; holding your too-high heels by the straps, rummaging around the fridge for something quick and delicious to eat. You’d tried to be quiet, you swear, but the drink had gone to your head and before you knew it, Clark appeared; leaning on the doorframe leading into his room.

Tousled dark hair, white shirt, plaid pyjama bottoms that always hung slightly too low. Grinning. Looking so incredibly attractive, so incredibly Clark, that you dropped the package of something microwavable you’d been holding.

It hit the floor with a dull thud as he walked towards you, picking it back up.

“Good night?” he’d smirked slightly, placing the packet back in the fridge. You frowned.

“I was gonna eat that.”

“You hate those things,” he said as-a-matter-of-factly, reaching into a cupboard above the stove and pulling out a pan, “Go on, sit down. Pancakes okay?”

“You don’t have to do that,” you told him, but you were already hoisting yourself up onto one of the stools.

“I know.” Clark had said back, quietly, back turned to you as he gathered everything he needed. “I want to.”

You didn’t question him. He asked you about your night, laughing at all the right points, remembering all the right things. Did your friend get that job she really wanted? Did the other one finally leave her cheating boyfriend? How did they all get home, are they safe? You know you could have called him instead of getting the subway, right? He has a car and it could do with a spin around.

At precisely 1:44am that very same night, you slotted into bed with a pounding heart, racing thoughts and the sickly, sweet realisation that you had officially fallen for the wholesome farm-boy propaganda that was, Clark Kent.

It all made sense to you then. You were going out more, drinking more, trying not to be around him more for a reason- and the reason was that.

Clark was having to stir up a fresh batch of pancake batter every weekend now, and sometimes he even had it ready for you when you stumbled through those doors; heels off, barefoot, humming the last tune you heard before hastily leaving the club.

He’d asked you about it once, why you had a sudden interest in all the partying. Your friend group hadn’t changed. Your job at The Daily Planet was going exceedingly well- promotions left, right and centre. Clark sat you down with a furrowed brow, tending to a cut on your knee that you’d earnt stumbling over someone’s bag at the bar, and asked, “You sure everything's okay?”

And you’d nodded, forcing a smile. Told him he was being silly; you were just making up for lost time, that was all; for all those nights spent bored and brain-dead cooped up inside, an unread book cracked at the spine on your lap.

Of course, you knew you couldn’t tell him the real reason you were out so much. The truth as to why whenever he’d get home from the station, still in his heavy work gear and dirtied tank top, you weren’t there to greet him anymore.

You had- agonisingly- become the very cliché you once despised. Only it was so much worse for you, because not only was Clark your roommate; he was also your best friend. Your superhuman, super kind and super sexy best friend, that was so noble and good that he had made saving people his entire life's work.

When he wasn’t thousands of feet in the sky, scanning for danger, he was on call at the Metropolis Fire Department; half his bunker gear hanging at his waist. When he wasn’t pushing collapsing buildings upright, he was wading through them in full uniform; voice assertive, tone steady, leading his crew with such confidence you often wondered how nobody had put two and two together yet.

So, yeah. You’d become one of those. A victim of Clark's, of Superman's; a stereotypical case study for the exact trope you used to find ridiculous.

You watched him now from the comfort of your couch, TV remote on your lap. He'd given it to you well over thirty minutes ago, but this was the first morning you'd spent together all week; regardless of how painful it was, you didn't want to waste it absent-mindedly flicking through channels you couldn't give less of a crap about. You owed him this, at least; your full, undivided attention.

"So," Clark started, pushing his glasses up with a soapy knuckle. You didn't know why he still wore them around you; it wasn't like they worked on you anymore. "How's work going?"

"You already asked me that,"

"Am I not allowed to ask you again?" he said rhetorically. You could almost hear the smile in his voice. "Humour me, please. I like hearing you talk."

For a second, your heart threatened to do that thing again; that weird, excruciating throb, a reaction to Clark doing or saying literally anything.

You shoved it to the back of your mind, fast.

"There's nothing more to say," your shrug was light, "I... had a bagel for lunch,"

"Riveting."

"Broke the printer, but fixed it again..."

"Proud of you."

"...And Lois helped me rewrite a article,"

"That your emotional friend?"

"No," you frowned, "That's Jimmy."

"Ah." Clark nodded, drying his hands on the lemon-printed tea towel beside him. He shifted to face you fully, leaning back against the counter with an easy curiosity. “And what article was Lois helping you with?”

Heat crept up your neck, and you ducked your gaze, suddenly fascinated with anything that wasn’t Clark’s eyes.

Because what began as a straightforward, neutral piece on the city’s social and political landscape had… evolved. First, into a decidedly not biased profile of Metropolis’s greatest protector- Clark’s caped counterpart, Superman.

And then, somehow, without your consent or control, it spiralled further. The boring filler article mutated into a full-blown, fifteen-thousand-word love letter to Superman’s legacy; the fit of his suit, the meaning of the symbol on his chest and- embarrassingly- whatever miracle hair product kept his curls in place.

Lois helped you with every unnecessary amendment; eyebrow permanently raised, pen cap chewed to pulp between her teeth. Someone's got a crush, she'd muttered, tapping the backspace button with a force that made you wince every time.

"Uh... it's just... a human interest piece," you lied, giving him an unconvincing smile. Thankfully, Clark didn't seem to notice.

"Well, when it gets front page, and your name's in the 'byline'," he smiled, fingers mimicking quotation marks at his correct use of journalist jargon, "I expect to be the very first person to read it. Before all of Metropolis. Deal?"

Your shoulders relaxed. A light laugh escaped your lips. He came over, holding out a massive pinky finger, waiting for yours to hook around it.

You did so, trying to ignore the red-hot temperature of your face that felt anything but appropriate.

"Deal."

Clark left not long after, flashing you a charming smile and making you promise- again- to call if you needed anything. Not that you ever would; he was always so busy at the station that you’d feel guilty letting the phone ring for more than a second.

You'd visited him before. Once. Three years ago, when you first moved in and saw that Clark had left his phone at home. You were about to leave, but the screen flashed with fifteen missed calls from a Ma and the guilt tugged at you hard enough that you detoured to the station on your way to brunch to hand it over.

You'd been wearing something tight and black with boots to match, the outfit a direct correlation to the boozy afternoon you were determined to have. At this point, Clark was nothing more than your new roommate; not even a friend yet, though he greeted you with freshly baked cookies and a lovely welcome card on your first official moving-in day.

And yet, he insisted on taking you to brunch. During work hours- his work hours. In the fire engine.

"Uh, Chief," one of the burly men- Jason, had said, scratching the nape of his neck as Clark opened the door for you and insisted you get in. "I don't know if this is a good idea."

"I'll be back in twenty, bud," Clark had said dismissively, though his voice still held that kind, steady tone. "Just down to the bar and back, okay? Don't want the lady walking alone."

It was 1pm. Daylight. On a very busy Saturday, mind you.

Yet you kept your mouth shut, legs dangling over the oversized seat of the engine, your body nothing but a bundle of nerves under all that buzz.

You both spent the ride talking, getting to know each other, as if you hadn't just moved the last of your things in the night before. You learnt that Clark was a Fire Chief, a life-long dream of his, and grew up in Kansas; he learnt that you were a reporter at The Daily Planet, fresh-faced and new, one day hoping to score an exclusive interview with someone exciting- someone like Superman.

He'd bitten his lip to keep from smiling. Months later, when he finally told you about his secret, you'd tried to swallow the embarrassment of swooning over him, to him, countless times before. He'd laughed, shook his head, nudged your shoulder and told you not to be silly. It was fine.

But it didn't feel fine. It felt intimate; knowing something like this about Clark. Flashes of him fighting whatever threat decided to grace the city that day made your heart do things it never had before, and the worst part was that he had no idea.

On the bright side, now you didn't worry so much when he ran into burning buildings. You knew he could take it, his biggest problem being restraint. It was the relentless space demons that invaded the earth every two weeks that got you.

"You should tell him," Jimmy said nonchalantly over the phone, and you envisioned him still in his bed; hair a mess, legs dangling off the side, no plans to move anytime soon to get his day off started.

You were all like that on your days away from the Planet. Overly-punctual and typically-structured Lois was probably still asleep, and it was almost lunchtime.

"I am not doing that,"

"You know that thing where you call me, ask me for advice, and don't take it?" he asked, "Yeah, maybe let's not do that anymore,"

You groaned, leaning your head back against the sofa. You hadn't moved since Clark left; you couldn't bring yourself to. "I'm sorry, I know, I need to shut up. I'm just..."

"In love. It's gross, I hate seeing you this way,"

"Wow. Thanks."

"I just think maybe you need a distraction. I keep telling you, I have this friend-"

You sighed, "Jimmy, I am not letting you set me up with an actor. They're the worst!"

"But Jack's nice-"

"Jimmy."

"You're no fun. When was the last time you even went on a date?"

"...Uh..."

"When was the last time Clark went on a date?"

"What?" you glared at nothing, "Why would you ask me that?"

"Answer the question."

You tried to remember. It was difficult; your days with Clark were all starting to merge into one and you couldn't really pinpoint when he'd last been out with a woman other than you- or if he even had since you moved in.

It definitely wasn't because of the lack of interest; everybody wanted Clark Kent. You weren’t clueless. He was a catch, and literally every citizen in Metropolis was well aware. The man was unfairly attractive, an actual gentleman, and spent his days protecting the city in more ways than one.

If Clark wasn’t being lured to fake emergencies so he could be eye candy at some bachelorette party, Superman was being thirst-tweeted under the hashtag #SuperDick. You couldn't win.

You thought, maybe he was just being considerate, refusing to bring a date home when he knew you'd be there just in case it made them- or even you- feel weird. Maybe he went to their places instead. Maybe, you cringed, not wanting to think about it but having no choice- he took them to the fire engine.

You gagged. Jimmy startled.

"What the-"

"Jimmy. I need to get over him."

"Atta girl," he yawned, the phone rustling to indicate movement on the other line, "Let's do this. Are you free tonight?"

You fiddled with the sleeves of your hoodie- Clark's, actually, he'd claimed it was too small for him now and looked better on you- and swallowed.

"Y-Yeah. I'm free."

"Great. So is Jack," you could hear his smug smirk over the phone, "you're gonna love him."

Nothing looked right. Your clothes felt foreign, and every lip combination you used to swear by now washed you out like you’d lined your mouth with grey pencil.

You were in the middle of re-applying your fifth different shade of lip gloss when you heard the front door open and close.

"Honey," Clark joked, the call-out his usual greeting whenever he could smell your perfume lingering in the hallway and knew you were home. "I'm ho-"

He stopped just short of your doorway, voice and walk clipped.

You made eye contact with him through the mirror you were leaning into, smile small as his eyebrows did a slight raise.

He looked good.

Really good.

You felt like slamming your head into the glass.

"Hey, you." you managed.

"You..." Clark blinked. For a second, he looked breathless, eyes scanning the way your dress clung to every curve of your body- just right. Paired with your most expensive pair of heels, an early birthday present to yourself that you'd bought just last month.

Clark knew; he loved the way they looked on you. He loved this combination specifically on you.

You'd made sure. If this date was a pre-cursor to any more, you wanted to market yourself just right. With hopes of it maybe- maybe- finally getting you over your heart-wrenching crush on your hunky roommate, who was currently looking at you in a way you didn't have time to decipher right now.

"...You look beautiful."

"As do you," you replied coolly, gesturing to the way the day's dirt clung onto the white tank top he always wore under his uniform. Somehow, some way, he made it work. He made it look sexy.

"No," Clark shook his head, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. "Don't do that. Don't shrug it off,"

"I'm not doing anything," you pressed your lips together, the pigment filling every line. It wasn't perfect by any means- but it would have to do.

"Better not be. Because you look gorgeous," he said softly, allowing his eyes to hover over you once more before dropping them. You watched as he pushed himself off of the frame, turning back to make his way to the living room. "You girls heading out somewhere fancy? Someone's birthday?"

"Actually," you went to bite your lip, the nerves suddenly bubbling up now, but decided against it; your $35 gloss would never forgive you. "I've got a date."

You hadn't been looking where you were going. As soon as the words left your mouth, your body crashed into something strong; unmoving, something that had halted movement entirely.

You went colliding into the back of Clark. A gasp left your mouth and you wobbled slightly, using the wall to steady yourself.

"Clark!"

"You've got a date?"

He shot out a hand to steady you, but the glare on your face stayed. If he'd stopped any quicker, there would have been $2 worth of a lip print right on his tank.

"Yes. I do,"

"With who?"

Your shoulders lifted in a shrug, "This guy that Jimmy knows,"

"Name?"

"Jack?"

"Surname,"

"...Uh..."

"You don't even know his full name?"

"I-I'll ask him!"

"So what I'm hearing is, you don't know this man,"

"It's literally a first date."

"That could turn into a second, a third."

"People do it all the time, Clark," you said in exasperation, sliding past him to grab your bag and double check that you had everything. "It's a very normal thing for people to do. Blind dates,"

He ignored your comment, "What does he look like?" you stayed silent, and his eyes widened. "You don't even know what he looks like?"

"It's a blind date!" your voice went up a pitch. Clark's lips opened like he wanted to say something else, but pursed shut again.

He couldn't believe you. You could tell, his expression not subtle in the slightest.

What you couldn't quite grasp was why he cared so much. It was your day off, you were heading out for the night, your typical weekend routine- what did it matter if it wasn't with your friends, but with a date instead?

You let yourself believe it meant something deeper than what it was. Just for a second. Just while Clark was looking at you like this, like you'd hung the stars and exploded the moon all in the same breath.

"You'll be careful?" his gaze bore into you, softened now under the tension. You nodded quickly. "And you'll call me if anything happens? Anything. Even if you're just bored and don't know how to get out of it,"

You let out a nervous chuckle, but Clark wasn't laughing. You cleared your throat, "Yes, Clark. I'll call you if he's anything other than the perfect gentleman."

He held up a hand. Your heart melted at the sight of his pinky, "Promise me."

You hooked your own through out, a tiny little ring adorning your own. It looked tiny compared to his. "I promise you."

That's when the doorbell rang, and you found yourself frozen in place.

Clark had had the worst day of his entire life.

Six false alarms. Three of them, on complete opposite ends of the city; the others quite obvious jobs for the police. Guy kept blowing up his phone, accusing him of ignoring them, of not caring- when all he'd needed was Superman's vote on whether The Justice Gang was the official name or whether League would be a better fit like Terrific insisted.

And to top it all off? You. Getting all dolled up, his favourite shade of gloss adorning your lips, those heels that always made him linger too long on your legs filling his mind and corrupting his vision.

And none of it was even for him.

"Jack," your date had grinned, blue eyes identical to Clark's but lacking the shine when he looked at you. "Jack Castello, nice to meet you. I'll be sure to have her back before 10." he joked.

Clark shook his hand, squeezed a bit too hard- naturally. He watched as the other man winced but ultimately said nothing, and you left; without so much as a second glance back at him.

He leant against the kitchen counter, jaw clenched. He'd been like that for a good hour now; just stood there, unmoving, gaze burning metaphorical holes in the floor. He was waiting, though he didn't know what for.

For you to come back? To realise that it was a mistake? To burst through the door, heels in your hand again, ready for another infamous round of pancakes, because you'd ditched the date and took a detour to find your friends' instead.

He swallowed. Wishful thinking.

Truthfully, Clark had no idea why he was so surprised- better yet, why he didn't see this coming.

You were barely ever home anymore. You rarely ever called him when you needed something, not like you used to, even though you knew he'd drop everything to get to you. You stopped putting your legs in his lap when you sat on the sofa together, and it didn't seem like you cared all that much whenever he was late to your move nights. Before, you'd huff, and he'd have to make it up to you with a bunch of your favourite snacks and the promise of doing better next time.

Sometimes, Clark would even be late on purpose. It gave him a reason to provide for you without all the confusion as to why.

He knew it wasn't sustainable. That lines were blurring between you both, black and white areas merging into grey, and that his true feelings could never come to light. You probably didn't feel the same. And he knew for a fact that he wouldn't survive that confession.

But for that period, for those months where it felt like you were both something; a unit that had everything but a label and locked lips, well... it had been the best time of his life.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and taking the glasses he'd put on, just for Jack, off. There was a knot in his shoulders he couldn't shake, and the apartment felt emptier somehow; weightless without you in it.

He wondered how it was going. You'd been out for a while now, definitely long enough to pass judgment on your date. Why hadn't you called him? Why hadn't you let him know how you were doing? You'd pinky-promised, for god's sake.

Clark's stomach lurched at the other possibility. What if you were actually having a great time- an amazing time? What if Jack had taken you to your favourite restaurant without knowing, and you'd lit up at the thought of that one pasta dish you loved because it had been a while since Clark picked it up for you- and what if right now, in this very instance, you were leaning forward, lips puckered, cleavage exposed, and what if he was looking at them? Clark would kill him, kill him dead, because how dare he, the nerve of that man.

Most importantly, what if right now, in this very moment in time, you'd already made up your mind- and Clark had unknowingly lost privileges he'd been so comfortable basking in up until this point?

He blinked the thought away, in turn allowing the red in his eyes to fade. The last thing he needed tonight was a hole in the kitchen counter.

After what felt like forever, Clark willed himself to move. He had a shower, ate something, drank enough coffee to wake him up. He didn't want to risk missing you when you came home; he wanted to know everything.

An hour passed. Then two. Then- not that Clark was counting- three and a half.

It was nearing four hours when he could finally feel your heartbeat coming up the stairs, could smell the sweet vanilla perfume you loved to wear before going out. He perked up on the sofa like a dog who'd just heard all of his favourite words in the same sentence.

Regardless, he kept his head down; book open on his lap, the words jumping off of the page. He tried to still his own heartbeat, tried not to imagine you stumbling in through the door with Jack holding your waist, kissing your neck, as you tugged him breathlessly towards your room-

"Hey," your voice snapped him out of his daydream, and his head shot up, eyes squinting in the light. He braced himself, ready for an uncontrolled gush on how well your date went and how you'd already set up another one.

Only, when he looked up, you were hovering in the hallway; smile small, eyes tired. The gloss on your lips untouched.

Sad.

Immediately, Clark was on his feet. He had no time to feel relief before he walked over, embracing you in such a crushing hug that for a split second, you struggled to breathe. He held you there for a bit, broad shoulders engulfing your entire body. You relaxed against him, arms snaking around his much bigger frame.

You were still in your heels; indicating that wherever Jack had taken you thankfully didn't involve a lot of standing.

Clark breathed you in. After a while, he murmured into your hair. "You okay?"

You didn't answer him right away. You just let your head fall onto his chest, listening to his heartbeat, taking him in.

"Mhm."

"Did you..." he swallowed, thumb rubbing smoothly against your skin. "Did you have a good time?"

You paused. He felt the hesitation, silently urging you not to lie to him.

"Yes." you finally replied. And although your expression said otherwise, he knew you were telling the truth.

Clark tried to ignore the way his heart cracked, just a little.

Because at the end of the day, he didn't own you. He had no claim over you other than being your roommate, one of your closest friends; someone temporary to come home to until you found someone better to fill the space.

And that alone broke him.

Because this- you, him, in the apartment you both shared, your weekend breakfast traditions and nights spent watching something he never paid attention to, just to be close to each other- well, this was it for him.

It was enough.

He'd like it to be more, of course he did. A perfect world would be coming home to you, unable to wait until he was settled before loving you in the way he'd thought about all day. He wouldn't let you go. He'd kiss you on the sofa, on the counter, against the window- and he'd do more, too. In those places exactly.

But if it was between sitting in silence and getting to keep what you both had for a little longer, versus the latter of losing you to someone else completely; Clark knew which one he'd rather.

"Then why are you so upset?" he mumbled lowly, voice a grumble against you. You swallowed again, and he could practically see the cogs in your head turning.

"I'm not upset."

"Could have fooled me."

"It was just... different."

"Never thought you'd be sad over 'different'."

Your head didn’t lift from his chest, not right away.

But he felt it- your pulse hitching, your breath growing shallow. He could track every shift inside you, feel the weight of each one cleaving straight through him.

Clark forced a smile, even though you couldn't see it. "Was he... nice?" he asked softly, hoping the calm in his voice hid the edge in it.

You stiffened against him. Just barely, but he caught it.

"Yeah," you murmured. "He was. He was very nice."

Clark’s jaw flexed. Nice. Jack was very nice. Nice enough to take you out. Nice enough to make you laugh. Nice enough to give you that small, tired smile you walked in with.

Nice enough to not be him.

"A gentleman?"

You let out a light, almost non existant laugh. "I guess,"

"Hm."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still resting on your arms. The silence felt unbearable now; aching to be filled with talk, about your night and his.

"You don't look too sure,"

The confusion on your face stretched slowly, "W-What?"

You could sense the questions forming in him before he spoke, like they pushed at the air around you. His jaw clenched once, subtle but sharp, as if he were choosing his words carefully.

Or rather, choosing the ones he didn’t want to ask.

"Are you oka-"

“Did he pull your chair out?” Clark asked evenly then, knowing once he started, he'd barely be able to stop. “Open doors for you?”

You blinked, his tone change catching you off guard. “Clark-”

His words came out structured and steady, as if he'd rehearsed them thousands of times in his head before. He couldn't stop them. Couldn't bring himself to.

“Did he order for you?” his voice dipped even lower. “Did he pour your wine? The one you like?"

Your lips parted. “Why are you-?”

“Did he make you feel good?” the words were quiet, almost painfully so. And he hated himself for how much he needed the answer, because you were currently looking at him like he'd said something insane. "When you were there with him today- wherever you went. Did he make you feel like he should?" your breath stuttered in your chest.

He felt that, too.

You looked away, suddenly flustered. Clark's fingers flexed at his sides, a break from the harsh clench.

"Are you... are you seeing him again?"

“I don’t know yet,” you muttered, cheeks warming, brain a fog. “Maybe. Maybe I will, or- I don't know, Clark. Why does it even matter to you?”

That landed like a punch.

Clark stepped closer before he could stop himself. He was drawn in, pulled in; helpless against the gravity that was only ever you.

You backed up a little, not out of fear but out of knowing exactly what would happen if he got too close: you'd suddenly forget how to breathe.

He followed through with it anyway.

Your heartbeat kicked up- sharp, loud, panicked. He wondered if it was the thoughts of Jack, or residual guilt for not calling him while you were out.

But for you, it was everything. Desire tangled in irritation, tangled in something you didn’t dare name after a full evening trying to get rid of it.

He swallowed, gaze dropping to your lips for a split second too long.

"Your heart," Clark murmured, the words brushing against your cheek like a touch. "I can hear it."

You froze.

"Is that…" his voice thickened. "Is that what it sounded like for him?"

Your eyes flashed.

"Clark," your voice broke, but your tone bordered on a warning. "Stop listening to my heart."

He didn’t move away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

"It’s all I listen to." he said then, pained.

A thick stillness wrapped around you both, thick with nerves, sick with heat.

Your lashes fluttered, breath hitching again. When Clark's hand brushed your wrist, barely there, he saw the slight twitch in your neck as you swallowed.

And God, he thought about it. About leaning in that last inch. About finally tasting the thing he’d been starving for since the day you moved in. About claiming something he’d spent years thinking about, dreaming of, chasing.

For a heartbeat, he swore you leaned in, too.

Your eyes flicked to his mouth, and that was almost enough. His forehead dipped closer to yours, a singular curl flopping forward, the world narrowing down to only the tiny space between you.

Then, Clark’s chest caved. A quiet, shaky exhale. Something breaking. Something giving up.

He didn’t step far, but he did move back. Just far enough that he couldn’t feel your breath anymore. His voice, when it finally came, was rough at the edges.

"You… you should call him," Clark whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. "If you want another date."

You didn’t move. You just stared at him, breath caught, his words echoing in the space where his closeness had been a second ago. The air still felt warm from him, your pulse still thundering from how near he’d gotten- near enough to kiss you, near enough to ruin the very foundation you'd spent the past four hours trying to tear down.

Clark stepped back like the ground beneath him had given out, jaw tight, eyes fixed anywhere but on you. Without another word, he turned and walked down the hall, shoulders tense, disappearing into the dim apartment like he was running from something. His bedroom door shut quietly, but it might as well have slammed.

He pressed his back to the wood once it closed, breath shaking out of him, hands braced against his knees as the reality of it hit him all at once.

What the hell did he just do?

“There’s my handsomest customer,” you flirt, smiling as you pull the largest to-go cup from the stack beside you. “The usual?”

“Yes, please,” Clark murmurs. “Slow day?”

“Every second you’re not here is slow,” you reply, drawing a heart on the cup beside his name. “Your day going okay?”

Clark shrugs one shoulder as he nears the pastry display.

“See anything you like?” you ask, laying your arm across the elevated counter and dropping your head against it. “In the case, I mean?”

Clark blinks rapidly, his mouth opening and closing twice before he manages to say, “Anything you would recommend?”

“Oh, I’d recommend a lot of things,” you drawl.

“In the case, I mean?” he reminds you with a shy smile.

“You seem like a brownie guy to me.”

“I do like brownies,” he affirms.

“A brownie, then.”

“What do I owe you?” Clark asks as you slide the door open to retrieve the brownie with disposable tongs.

“Handsome discount,” you remind him. “You don’t pay here.”

“That’s not a good business plan,” he murmurs, dropping a twenty in your tip jar.

“If it makes me happy, who cares?” you counter. Leaning over the register, you whisper, “You should care. You should take me on a date.”

“Perhaps another time,” he answers.

You sigh, turn dramatically, and finish making his drink. “Tomorrow, my love,” you say as you pass him the cup.

“Tomorrow, honey,” he replies under his breath. You’ve trained him well, even if he still gets shy at your attention. “Be safe.”

“You, too.”

Watching Clark leave, you tap your knuckles against the counter. He really is special. Another customer comes in, interrupts your daydream about Clark, and doesn’t tip nearly as well.

“Evening, Malik,” you greet as you enter the bodega. “How’s your sister feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” the shop owner answers.

You nod and lift a basket, reviewing your mental list of items to buy. Shopping for the coffee shop is easier, you think, because it’s all online and delivered straight to the fridge. Rounding a corner, you stop and smile.

“You better not be buying coffee,” you accuse.

Clark turns, wide-eyed behind his glasses, as he grips his basket. You think it bends in his grip, but then his hand opens. “It’s… for the office,” he explains shyly, looking guiltily at the coffee beans.

“Fine,” you sigh. “You can have this one pass. I knew you were a heartbreaker the first time I saw you.”

“I’m not,” he murmurs, looking at you through his thick, long lashes.

You laugh, shaking your head as you pick up an item from the shelf behind Clark. You’re standing side-by-side, facing opposite directions so that you can see each other in your peripheral vision.

“You, sweet boy, are the definition of a heartbreaker,” you argue. “Picture’s probably in the dictionary and everything.”

“Dictionaries don’t have pictures.”

“Well, if they did, and you were in it, people would still buy dictionaries.”

“Would you be in it?” Clark wonders.

“In the I section,” Malik calls, “for intolerable!”

“I was thinking F for flirty,” you amend. “Or maybe L for lovable.”

“Or P for-“

“That’s enough out of you, Malik!” you exclaim. “I’m trying to make Clark fall madly in love with me!”

“Oh,” Malik grumbles just loud enough for you to hear. “Good luck with that.”

“Anyway,” you say, waving a dismissive hand toward Malik. “Where were we?”

“You were being flirtatious, as usual,” Clark answers, his cheeks and the tops of his ears tinged pink as he looks pointedly at the shelf before him.

“Right.” You snap and ask, “Was I about to break you? Were you going to flirt back, proclaim your undying love?”

“I was going to ask if you’d recommend this dark roast,” Clark says, reaching for a bag of coffee beans.

“Tall, dark, and handsome is all you, Clark.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You smile and step past Clark to finish your shopping. He’ll be by your coffee shop in the morning, and you’ll probably apologize for pushing him even though you really enjoyed it.

A few minutes later, you’re leaving the store. You walk backward to the door, saying bye to Malik. “Tell your sister I said hey and tell her to try raspberry leaf tea; it works wonders.”

The door closes behind you, and Malik shakes his head as Clark approaches the counter.

“Is she always…” Clark trails off, gesturing vaguely upward.

“She is,” Malik answers with a smile. “She’s outgoing and talkative, but she cares. You’re lucky she likes you.”

“Oh, she doesn’t like me,” Clark argues. “She just does it to mess with me.”

Malik hums as he begins ringing up Clark’s items. “Maybe you should be in S or B in her new dictionary: stupid or blind.”

“Thanks, Malik,” Clark says flatly.

“Sure. You’re not going to like this coffee, it tastes like brake fluid.”

Tapping your foot against the cabinet, you check the time again. Clark has been late once in the two and a half months he’s been coming to your coffee shop, and it was the first week he arrived. He claimed it was because his training had run late, but you suspected he’d just gotten lost on his way over. The Daily Planet wasn’t far, and it was even closer if you knew which shortcuts to take.

The door opens, and you look up hopefully, then try to cover your disappointment with a welcoming smile.

“Hi, what can I get started for you today?” you ask.

The man doesn’t look up from his phone as he answers, “Long macchiato and red eye, both large. To go.”

“Sure thing,” you murmur, tapping the items on the register screen. “Anything else for you?”

“Nope.”

“Can I get a name for the order?”

“Uh, Lex.”

You press your lips together and scribble across the cups. Lex Luthor sends his assistant in every once in a while, but it’s rarely the same person twice. You haven’t seen this particular employee before. Since he’s been glued to his phone since before he entered, you assume he’s new and desperate to impress.

“$10.68,” you say.

He extends a black card, and you reach awkwardly around the register to tap it to the card reader.

“Thanks,” you say as he takes the card back. “I’ll have those done in just a second.”

Clark isn’t coming today, you realize as you put the lids on Lex’s order. Maybe you flirted too much, pushed him too hard. If he ever comes in again, you’ll offer to keep the flirting to a minimum. But you won’t enjoy it.

Another day goes by without seeing Clark. Then two. Then a week. Each hour feels worse than the last. After ten days without Clark, your other customers and your friends notice the change in you.

“Welcome,” you say when the door opens. Slamming a new filter into a coffee pot, you don’t turn around as you add, “I’ll be right with you.”

“Take your time.”

You spin immediately, dropping the coffee pot in your hand when you hear Clark’s voice. It shatters, sending glass all over the floor and onto your shoes.

“Hi,” you whisper.

Clark’s eyes widen as you step over the glass shards of the broken pot. He begins to reach toward you, but stops when you speak again.

“I’m sorry,” you offer.

“For what?” Clark inquires, tipping his head toward his shoulder.

“I went too far and scared you away and I feel bad that-“

“Wait,” he interrupts. “You didn’t do anything. I went home for a few days. I told you about the trip the week before I left.”

Your brows pinch as you try to remember him mentioning a trip to Kansas. The memory comes quickly. You’d joked that if you joined him, maybe his parents would agree that you’re his perfect match.

“Oh,” you murmur. “I forgot about that.”

“You didn’t go too far,” Clark reiterates. “I know you just do it to get under my skin.”

You laugh, accidentally stepping back onto a piece of glass and further breaking it beneath your shoe.

“I need to clean this up, but that’s funny,” you muse.

Clark looks utterly confused. When you realize his expression has changed, you drop your smile and stare at him.

“You are kidding, right?” you check.

“About what?”

Your jaw drops at the genuine question. “I don’t flirt with you just because it makes you shy!” you exclaim.

Clark shrugs, and you have the sudden urge to grab his face and kiss him over the counter. Apparently, you haven’t been obvious enough. Instead of kissing him, you grab a towel from the counter and squeeze it tightly in your hands as you move carefully to the sink. While the towel is getting wet, you lean back against the counter and shake your head.

“Tell me you know I meant it all,” you implore.

“I… I assumed you realized it had an effect and kept going because of that,” Clark replies, pushing his glasses up with rounded shoulders.

“Clark,” you sigh, turning off the sink. You drop the wet towel over the glass, then use your hands to sweep it toward the baseboard. When you stand, you walk past Clark and wash your hands wordlessly.

“So, handsome, are things going back to the way they were?” you ask.

“What’s the other option?” Clark inquires.

“Two options, really,” you begin as you return to the register, drying your hands on your apron. “First is I stop this and I’m just your barista and maybe your friend. Second, you accept that I mean it all and evaluate whether or not you have feelings for me too. No hard feelings either way.”

“I don’t… I can’t do this kind of thing like you can,” Clark admits. “You’re just so… bubbly.”

“Better B word than I normally get,” you joke. “And I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Clark. I can be the flirty one, you can be the drop dead gorgeous one, we’ll be the perfect couple.”

“I don’t think I can handle you,” Clark mumbles, dropping another twenty in the tip jar.

“You didn’t even order anything,” you point out.

“You didn’t ask!” he argues. “You’re not a very good businesswoman.”

“What can I say?” you ask. “I can’t think straight around you.”

“Seems dangerous. Are you okay? Did any of that glass hit you?”

You roll your eyes and retrieve a cup. “The usual, with a brownie?”

Clark waits for an answer to his question about you getting hurt, then sighs when he realizes you aren’t going to tell him either way. “Please,” he answers. “I told my mom about your brownies, and she told me to ask for the recipe. Insisted I try after I told her it’s probably a company secret.”

You slow behind the counter, processing Clark’s words. “You told your mom about my brownies?”

“It came up,” Clark replies. “I, uh, I was talking about you, and she asked how we met and… brownies.”

Nodding, you work on finishing Clark’s drink. He gets a message that makes him purse his lips, and you know he has to get back to work.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you ask, holding his cup in both hands.

“I promise,” Clark assures you, smiling when you release his cup to him.

As he leaves, you realize you should have written your number on the cup just in case.

You’re locking your front door when your phone chimes. The text is from a number not saved to your phone.

Hi. This is Clark. Just wanted to remind you that I’m not going to leave because you flirt too hard. - CK :)

Smiling widely, you drop your bag and save his number. As you type out a reply, you laugh to yourself.

Hey, Clark. I guess I’ll have to try harder now. And print the brownie recipe for Mrs. Kent.

Clark doesn’t reply right away, and you watch a video about Superman while you have a glass of tea before bed.

She’ll like that. Good night.

You like the message, then realize something. Clark shouldn’t have your number. He sends another message quickly: a picture of a coffee cup on which you wrote your number. It was the first week after you met, you realize. The picture was taken at his desk, and he kept it.

You’re so in love with me, it makes me look normal, you reply.

Maybe we’re both a little super when it comes to love, Clark answers.

Clark Kent wasn’t used to wanting things just for himself.

He’d been raised to think about others first; to look out for the people around him, to listen more than he spoke. “There’s strength in stillness, son,” Pa used to tell him, “and sometimes love looks more like listening than talking.”

It was the kind of simple, steady wisdom that shaped every part of him.

But since you moved in next door, stillness had become something of a losing battle.

You were younger, twenty-five, and there was something about you that didn’t quite fit the rhythm of the city- too bright, too unguarded, too alive. You were loud but not crass, confident without the cocky.

He’d first met you in the hallway, wrestling with three boxes stacked precariously in your arms. One slipped just as he turned the corner, and he caught it without thinking.

You looked up, startled, eyes wide and a laugh bubbling out as you exhaled, “Oh my- thank you! That was so quick. You’re like a superhero, my god.”

He’d smiled at that- quiet, almost shy. “No, no superhero. Just your neighbour,” he’d said, and something in the way you grinned back made his heart skip in a way it hadn’t for years.

You smiled at him wide, offering him your name and the number of your apartment that was coincidentally right next to his.

"I'm Clark- Kent. I'm Clark Kent," he'd said bashfully.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Clark Kent."

From then on, he started noticing you everywhere.

He noticed the way your laughter carried through the hallway, the faint hum of your music through the walls, the smell of your morning coffee drifting out when you opened your door.

He noticed that you always ran late but never seemed flustered for long, that you talked to your cat as if he could understand full sentences, and that every time you smiled at him in the lobby, something in his chest warmed painfully, like sunlight through stained glass.

Clark had lived most of his life keeping a careful distance from people, afraid of what might happen if he got too close. But you were different. Undoubtedly. You had this quiet magnetism, a personal pull if yours that made it impossible not to be drawn in.

You didn’t even try to, and he knew that. You just were.

Of course, Clark tried- in small ways- to earn your attention.

He carried your mail up when it landed in his box. Fixed the light outside your door when it started to flicker. Left an extra cup of coffee at your door on mornings when he knew you’d overslept, piping hot so that it'd be the perfect temperature by the time you got around to it.

You always thanked him with that same soft brightness, a quick hug or two, maybe even a blown kiss- but you never lingered.

He told himself he didn’t mind. You were a busy body; always out, never home for too long. You worked hard and quite literally partied harder, often stumbling through the lobby with your heels in your hand as he tried extra hard to get rid of the worried-sick feeling he'd had all evening.

Still, Clark found himself looking for you more and more.

Then came the morning in the lobby.

He’d just stepped out of the elevator, reading the front page of the Daily Planet- when you rounded the corner too quickly, coffee in hand, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear.

You collided squarely into his chest, the cup tilting dangerously. He caught it before it spilled all over you.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry-" you gasped, eyes wide.

“It’s alright,” Clark said, steadying you with one hand at your elbow. With a crooked, sheepish smile, he joked, “Third time this month, I think.”

Your laugh burst out then, surprised and musical. “Yeah, I know. I'm awful. At least I’m consistent?”

"Very much so." with a quick glance at the stack of folders under your arm, he then asked, "Need a hand?”

“Only if you’re offering, ClarkKentI'mClarkKent.”

His cheeks reddened at the way you recounted your first ever meeting. You spoke easy, tone teasing. “I must have been acting really weird that day for you to remember that.”

“You’re hard to forget,” you said before realising how it sounded. You looked away quickly, flustered. “You, uh- it was just sweet. How you said it.”

“Right,” he said softly, fighting back a grin. “Well, let’s head up. Four flights is a lot more than you think.”

Regardless, the climb up the stairs passed too quickly. You talked about work, your cat, the chaos of city life, and the small triumphs that made your days bearable.

Clark listened, exactly like his mother taught him to. He kept his eyes steady, his replies coming out soft and gentle, encouraging you to go on. “Eyes on them, honey. That’s how people know you care,” Ma had always said.

He always knew to trust her, even back then as a little boy with no real grasp on the importance of making other people feel understood. But he could see it in the way Ma moved with other people; how they made space for her, how she was quick to turn the most reluctant stranger into a friend.

It was a trait Clark wanted to have for himself one day, something innate that he craved.

By the time you reached your door, your breath had evened out but your smile hadn’t faded. “You really are the best neighbour ever,” you said, still half-teasing but warm all the same.

Clark smiled. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“Well, helpful and modest. That’s a dangerous combination, Mr. Kent.”

He wanted to tell you that kindness wasn’t dangerous- that it was the only thing that ever made sense to him- but he only said, “Guess I’ll have to keep it up, then.”

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment longer than before. “You always do.”

When your door closed, the silence that followed was louder than it should’ve been.

He stood there for a moment, fingers brushing the rail where your hand had been, before heading back to his apartment.

That night, he sat at his desk with the city lights flickering through the window and thought about you. About how natural it felt to talk to you, how easily you laughed, how you made the dimly lit hallways of your apartment building a little less dark just by waltzing your way through it.

He wondered what his parents would’ve said if they could see him like this- a man with superhuman strength and senses, undone completely by the sound of a woman laughing in the hallway.

Clark could almost hear his mother’s voice, fond and amused, while his father chuckled to himself and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder, “You can’t rush love, son. It’ll come when you’re steady enough to hold it.”

He wasn’t sure if he was steady, but he was certain of the pull in his chest.

A few days later, a knock sounded on his door. When he opened it, you stood there, balancing a plastic container and smiling brightly. “Apology Cake,” you announced.

“Apology Cake?”

"Apology Cake," you repeated once more, as if that was the answer and nothing more. "I've come to apologise,"

"For?" Clark asked in amusement, though he had already taken a step to the side to let you into his apartment.

“For all the coffee-related injuries I’ve caused,” you said. “It's banana bread. I bake when I’m stressed. Or bored. Or, you know, alive.”

He chuckled, following you inside and letting the door close, “That sounds like a good habit to have.”

“It’s really not,” you said, walking past him. “Last time I tried, I forgot the sugar and I had to borrow some from Dorothy downstairs. This time I think I nailed it though. I had sugar and butter.”

He smiled, setting the container down. “I’m sure you did.”

“You can’t say that before tasting it,” you noted, amused.

He took a bite. It was soft and imperfect and warm, like something made with heart instead of precision. He was 89% sure you took the saying 'measure with your heart' literally, and 11% sure you'd taken it out of the oven ten minutes prematurely.

“It’s good,” he said honestly.

“You’re just being polite.”

“Maybe,” Clark smiled faintly, “but it’s still good.”

You leaned against his counter, looking at him curiously. Your eyes narrowed as you watched him, your stare precise and intent.

After a while, you spoke.

“You’re just always like this, huh?"

He looked at you over the frames of his glasses, eyebrows slightly raised. "Like what?"

"You're always so gentle."

"Gentle," Clark echoed.

"You're just..." you gave a slight shrug, "Super kind. All the time. Like, this is just you- always,"

Clark paused, your question pulling him somewhere quieter inside himself.

A small silence settled between you both and for a split second, you wondered whether you made it awkward or not.

“My folks raised me that way,” he said finally, allowing your shoulders to relax.

“They taught me to be... kind. You know, the stuff all parents teach their kids. But, they'd always say, being nice isn't something you switch on or off. There's no conditions to it. You just do it, and that's how it has to be. No matter who it is or where you are. How you have to move through the world."

Your expression softened as he spoke. "And I know it's easier said than done. Stuff happens, you know? Bad days, worse days, I get that. But Ma always says, where there's room for anger, there's twice as much room for understanding."

You found yourself staring at him a little longer than necessary. It wasn’t just the words, though it was nice hearing them all the same.

It was the way he said them, like he’d lived by them his whole life and truly believed them.

Clark was always lovely, of course he was- everybody in the whole entire building loved him. Because he wasn't ever performative, or awkward, never a mask that you were waiting to let slip and expose; Clark's kindness was steady, real.

You knew it to be true because of all the little things. The way he held the elevator door for you even when he was late. The way he carried your groceries up the stairs without complaint.

The way he paused to notice if you were smiling, or tired, or needed a minute or so of silence before proceeding with the day ahead.

You could see it in his quiet gestures, rooted in something deeper than politeness. A good upbringing, raised on fresh farm air and pure, unfiltered love from two very kind-hearted people.

“They're right,” you said softly, words truthful. "I think that sort of thinking's rare nowadays. But I like it coming from you. It's nice,"

“Maybe you’re just not looking in the right places,” he said, meeting your eyes.

Something in the air shifted, a subtle but sure blanket covering you both. You smiled, slow and knowing.

“Guess I’ll have to start looking next door.”

Clark felt the words settle in his chest like a heartbeat.

After you left that evening, he stood at his window again, watching the city. He could envision your apartment light being on, warm and golden, like all the times he caught glimpses of it on his restless evening patrols as Superman.

He could imagine your shadow moving through the curtains, your silhouette reaching for something on a shelf, the little unguarded gestures of an ordinary life.

And somehow, that was what made him fall.

Not the dramatic moments, like your laughter echoing down the hallway or the way you brought him random gifts after not seeing him for a while- but the quiet parts.

The way you hummed under your breath when you thought no one could hear, the same old Billy Joel song you'd play every Sunday morning when he knew you were feeling overwhelmed.

The way you always offered a smile, even on days when you looked tired, especially on days when it would have been ten times easier to duck your head down in defeat and keep walking.

The way you noticed him, really noticed him, like he wasn’t just another face in the crowd.

Clark had known love in theory- he’d seen it, admired it, tried to understand it from a distance. But this… this was different. This was wanting to make someone’s morning easier. Wanting to hear the sound of their laugh again just to know they were okay.

It was soft, human, and so terrifyingly simple.

He thought of something his father once said, years ago, as they’d watched a summer storm roll in over the fields. They'd just had dinner, and Clark noticed his parents being extra attentive to each other during the meal; a sure sign that a minor disagreement had taken place prior.

“Real love isn’t about the lightning, son. It’s about the quiet after. The part where you stay.”

And as Clark imagined you, nimble fingers thumbing through the pages of a well loved book he'd have to ask you about one day, cross legged on your sofa with the radio on and your cat purring quietly on your lap- he realized that maybe, without even meaning to, you’d become that quiet for him.

He didn’t need to move mountains or save the world that night.

He just needed to know you were there; right next door, laughing softly at something he couldn’t hear, and making the whole world feel a little more like home.

stepping into the blaring music, blinding lights, and what looked like hundreds of people in their costumes, the two of you spotted rafe immediately.

his chef jacket was unbuttoned, sweat dripping down his face, and a beer swinging in the air as he hollered, "hey, where's my damn mouse?"

"mousie, mousie, mousie!" he squinted, seeming to be genuinely searching for you.

someone near the bar snorted, “man, cameron’s gone,” and a few others burst out laughing as he kept snapping his head around, calling your name.

"oh. my. gosh," you groaned, shaking your head and stifling giggles.

you strutted over like a concerned mother. "rafe! get down!"

"MY MOUSE!" he shouted, nearly slipping off the bar when he crouched to hop down.

"not a mouse, i'm remy the rat."

"mouse is better!" he shouted, cupping his hand beside your face like he needed to make sure you heard him.

"ray, how much did you have to drink, hm?" you rolled your eyes, holding him in place as he frat flicked with the rhythm of the song.

part of you was still unsure if he did it unironically or not...

"i’m the damn chef, sweetheart. i was cooking up some good drinks!" rafe winked, pulling you flush against him.

your hands found his arms, which were practically fighting to escape the chef jacket.

oh, how difficult it was to stay mad at him when he pulled off this stupid chef linguini costume so well.

you wondered if it was a blessing or a curse that your boyfriend was way too built and muscular for a chef’s jacket.

"you're ridiculous, rafe!" you shouted over the music, laughing up at him.

he let out a breathy laugh, shrugged, and rocked side to side with you.

"lookin' absolutely breathtaking, baby. the prettiest fucking mouse to exist, like damn." he smiled against your head, dancing backward to give you more room.

"you don’t look too bad yourself, handsome." you bit back a smile, letting him take your hand and spin you around.

"just look at you," he murmured, voice warm and slurred, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were his.

your friends looked on with smiles, people muttered jealously, but none of it reached you— not when the music softened and the world shrunk down to just the two of you.

"let tonight's puke fest be a reminder for next time you want to host a party, alright?"

"shhh, live in the now, princess. me, the chef, and you, the mouse!"

"i'm remy the rat!" you snapped, hitting his chest playfully.

he laughed, "i’m sorry, totally my fault. you’re not a rat, you’re my girl."

"cornball," you muttered, now dancing with your behind to his front, his hands covering your torso.

"whatever…" he went quiet for a moment. then, grinning, he added, "hey, let’s put you on my shoulders and get sarah to record you tugging at my hair like the fuckin’ rat does!"

his palms settled on your hips as he started counting down, shouting at sarah at the same time.

"rafe— i’m in a skirt! put me down!" you yelled, squirming and laughing.

he just chuckled, giving one last tug that made you squeal before carefully lowering you.

"fine, fine… maybe later?" he whispers against your hair.

you scowled, spinning your back to him to dance again.

"admit it— you looked amazing up there," he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

"you had a great view, you weirdo."

"i sure did," rafe smirked, and you rolled your eyes, laughing, but couldn’t help leaning into him, caught between teasing and affection.

you swayed slightly, caught between laughing and leaning into him, your pulse fast and a little messy from the way he looked at you like he owned every part of you.

You used to hate the Tuesday night shift. At five in the evening exactly, most of the library staff clocked out and made their way home to their families while you were stuck at the main circulation desk with the grumpy reference librarian for an extra four hours. When you first started, the only thing that got you through those days was the sugary iced chai you ran to get on your dinner break, counting on the tiny bit of caffeine to power you through until 9 p.m.

Lately, however, your Tuesday nights have been spent in anticipation, with a giddy eye on the clock, wondering if he’ll walk through the doors. Sightings are rare, but when the cute journalist from the Daily Planet does show up, it’s always on a Tuesday evening--and it always transforms the worst day of your week into the best day of your week.

It’s almost 7:30 when you hear the mechanical rush of the automatic doors sliding open, and you see him clumsily sidestep a grouchy old woman with a tote full of mass market paperbacks on his way up to the counter. Your heart leaps in your chest, and you almost choke on your chai latte when Clark Kent meets your eyes, the corner of his lips quirked into a tiny smile. As always, his hair looked wind-blown, his suit jacket endearingly crumpled, and you can’t help but take a moment to admire how handsome he is.

His tote bags are filled to the brim, and though you know they must weigh a ton, he lifts them up to the counter with apparently no effort at all. God, what kind of muscles is he hiding under his slightly-too-big suit jacket? His sheepish smile makes you grin as you reach into his bags and start scanning his book returns--a massive pile of fantasy and science fiction.

“Late again, Clark? I have to say, you’re singehandedly keeping the Metropolis library funded with your overdue fees at this point,” you joke. The man almost never brings his books back on time. You wouldn’t mind it except for the fact that returning his books on the actual due date would mean he was here more often. Actually, he could keep the books, for all you cared, as long as he stopped by every week to break up the monotony of the night shift. And smiled at you in that way that made you feel all warm inside.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Clark says. He blushes just a little bit, a spot of color on his cheeks that makes you want to swoon. You feel a flush creeping up your own cheeks at the embarrassing thought. “How much do I owe you?”

“You know I’m just teasing,” you say softly. You lean in close, speaking low so the reference librarian can’t hear you from her work station nearby. “You don’t owe me anything. I’ve been discharging these fine-free.” But he’s already got his wallet out, dropping a twenty on the counter and pushing it toward you. 

“Consider it a donation, then. For all the great work you guys do at the library. And a thank-you for the incredible book recommendations.”

“You liked it?” you ask, delighted, pulling the book in question out of his tote bag. It’s a wholesome and cozy fantasy book that was one of your favorite releases last year. It had been a refreshing request - in a sea of men asking for action-packed, angsty adventure stories or the unfortunate genre you liked to call dudebro nonfiction, Clark Kent had averted your expectations.

“It was exactly what I was looking for. Sometimes I need a break from the heavy stuff. Something feel-good, and hopeful, ya know?”

“I do.” You take his money and stick it in the cash drawer. “We could all use some escapism from the news these days. Especially those of you who write it. And you’re right smack in the middle of it all, with all those Superman interviews.”

Clark falls silent for a moment, and you realize he’s flustered. You fear for a moment that you’ve overstepped, before he stutters, “You, uh - you read my articles?”

“Of course I do. I’m an information professional,” you tease. “And I happen to be the one who catalogs all the newspapers when they come in every morning. You’re a talented writer.”

He seems almost shy about it. “Gosh, uh, thank you. That means a lot.”

“You’re welcome, Clark.”

“Say, do you think you could give me another book recommendation?” he asks. Your smile brightens.

“My favorite part of the job. What are you in the mood for this time? More cozy fantasy?”

“That would be great,” he says, and you turn to your monitor to reference the book catalog and write down a few titles for him. As you jot down some options he might enjoy, he adds, “Also, uh…I was wondering if you had this book?” He rattles off a title and your eyebrows raise when you recognize it.

“Romance, huh? Trying something new?” 

You brace yourself for the moment he tells you, It’s for my girlfriend, actually, but what actually comes out of his mouth is almost worse, because it makes your debilitating crush intensify tenfold.

“I haven’t been able to go home and visit my parents as much as I’d like to,” he explains. “I promised my Ma I would start reading along with her book club, so we’ve got something to talk about every week.”

You think, desperately, God, this man can’t be any more perfect.

“That’s really sweet of you. Maybe you’ll even enjoy it–I certainly liked that one. Let me go grab it off the shelf for you.” You set your pen down and hand over your sticky note of recommendations. 

“Oh, no, don’t worry, I can find it. I’m sure you’ve got other work to do.”

“Speaking of book clubs,” you start, working up the courage. “I’m gonna be starting one here at the library, if you want to join. The second Tuesday of every month at 6 p.m., so the first meeting will be next week.” You tell him the title you’re reading and his eyes light up. 

“I loved that one!”

“I know you did,” you laugh, but you’re still feeling shy. “That’s why I thought you might like to come.”

“I would love to,” he says. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll put it in my calendar now.” He takes out his phone and taps away for a few moments before grabbing the sticky note you left on the counter for him. “Thank you so much for your help, as always.” 

“No problem, Clark.”

You’re already helping someone else when he comes up to check out, so he heads to another monitor to be helped by someone else. Just as you’re about to swallow your disappointment, he flashes his bright smile at you. 

“Thanks again! See you in a couple weeks, at book club?” he says. You beam at him, thrilled that you’ll finally have a chance to really get to know him. He holds up his bag of checked out books. “Maybe I’ll actually bring this batch back on time.”

“Miracles do happen,” you reply with a laugh. “I’ll see you then, Clark.”

---

You don’t usually work the reference desk, but when you do, you always get the tough questions. This time, the call comes from a Miss Lois Lane from the Daily Planet, who urgently needs access to the city archives for a piece she’s working on - archives that are housed in the library basement. Within the hour, you find yourself elbow-deep in old school newspapers and dusty records, trying not to sneeze. 

“Thank you for bringing me down here on such short notice,” Lois says, digging in another filing cabinet a few feet away. She had briefed you on what she was looking for, and you’d elected to join her in her search instead of returning to the reference desk upstairs. It was kind of nice hiding away in the basement, feeling like you were on an important mission, instead of showing someone’s grandma how to print out an email for the twentieth time that day.

“Oh, it’s not a problem. A welcome departure from the reference requests we usually get, honestly,” you admit. “Besides, I really respect the work you guys do at the Daily Planet. I’ll gladly make time for you any day.”

“Glad I could spice up your day, at least,” Lois smiles. She looks at you sideways, weighing her next question before she says it aloud. “You know, one of my coworkers is a regular here. He’s always reading on his lunch break. Clark Kent. I think you know him?”

You hope the dim light of the library basement hides the violent blush on your cheeks. 

“I’ve met Clark,” you say, trying for nonchalance. “He’s, uh, really lovely. Great taste in books. Is he…is he also working on this article with you?”

It’s not nearly as subtle as you’d hoped. You don’t see the smirk on her face because you’re too busy (unsuccessfully) avoiding her gaze. But you can feel the look she levels at you, hear the scheming gears turning in her head.

“Not this time around,” she says. Her eyes scan your face, gauging your reaction. “But maybe I’ll bring him along next time if we don’t find what we’re looking for today. Another pair of eyes is always helpful.”

“That’s definitely true,” you say, trying too hard to sound casual. Lois seems to find whatever sign she was looking for in your expression, because after a beat, she speaks again.

“He talks about you a lot.” You freeze in place and finally lift your eyes to meet hers, which are still watching you carefully. 

“He…he does?”

“He does,” she says softly, a hint of a grin on her face. You absorb the information quietly, failing to hide your smile in the pile of newspapers in front of you.

Thankfully, she doesn’t pry any deeper than that, and you return to your work.

Lois’s phone rings an hour or two later, startling in the silence. She’s called away to help cover another more urgent story, and you promise to keep looking on your own and contact her with anything you find. You exchange phone numbers quickly before she rushes off.

You only notice later, when you’ve gone home for the evening, that she hasn’t just slipped you her own business card - she’s given you Clark’s as well, his phone number on the bottom-right corner in tiny Arial font. You swear you can feel it burning a hole in your pocket on your way home.

---

You were starting to understand the appeal of the archives. History was never a subject that interested you much, so archival and museum work wasn’t exactly your favorite part of the job. The one mandatory course you had taken when getting your master’s degree made the work seem dull and dusty. It was definitely dusty, but when you finally came across an old school newspaper article from the early aughts that held the answers you and Lois had been looking for, your adrenaline spiked, and you thought, I need to show this to her right now. 

Maybe you could have just emailed it to her. But you could also walk a few blocks over to the Daily Planet office to deliver it in person. And if you were maybe a bit motivated by the possibility of seeing Clark Kent on a Thursday morning instead of a Tuesday night, well, who could blame you? So you texted Lois to let her know you were on your way, told your manager you were taking your lunch break early, and set off.

The library wasn’t quiet by any means, tables constantly taken up by everything from senior book clubs during the day to students being tutored after school, but the hustle and bustle of the Daily Planet bullpen made the library’s brand of chaos look almost peaceful. When you enter the room with the bright yellow visitor’s badge pinned to your cardigan, Lois is deep in conversation with a younger man in a tan jacket - Jimmy, his badge says. You think Clark has mentioned him once or twice.

But your eyes are drawn across the aisle, where Clark sits at his desk, facing away from you and absorbed deep in his computer screen. Your heart beats just a bit faster.

Clark straightens suddenly, startled by something that you can’t see, and his coffee tumbles over sideways, spilling across his desk. He barely notices. He spins around in his chair and looks right at you, like he knew you would be there, and his mouth drops open. Then he says your name, all soft, elated surprise, and it makes you want to melt. And he smiles at you, and stands up, and your pulse flutters, and you forget how to breathe, and you really think that this stupid crush might be the death of you.

“Hi, Clark,” you manage, smiling like an idiot.

Lois watches the exchange with a wicked kind of glee, and Jimmy looks absolutely delighted by the events unfolding before him. 

A beat passes. You stare at Clark, Clark stares at you, and Jimmy says, “Hey Clark, you might want to clean up that coffee spill before it gets all over your keyboard,” and the moment is broken.

“Shoot,” Clark says, grabbing at tissues. You grin as you watch him fumble and dab at the puddle. God, he’s even cuter when he’s flustered. Even as he tries (and fails) to save the soaking papers on his desk, he can’t stop looking back up at you. “I - what are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you! I’m just, uh, surprised!” 

He’s got a book on his desk that he quickly picks up before it gets wet - a worn, well-read copy of a book you recognize. It’s a hefty book, but it looks almost small in Clark’s huge hand. You smile. 

“Rereading for book club?” you ask, gesturing at it.

“I am,” Clark says, pleased with the look of approval you give him. 

The two of you stare at each other for a beat before Lois takes the moment to finally interrupt, eyes wide and eager. “Did you find it?” she asks you over the noisy chatter of the room.

“I found it,” you confirm, holding out the photocopies in her direction, but you’re still looking at Clark. 

“Found what?” Jimmy asks.

“She’s been helping me do some research on that corrupt senator who’s doing Lex Luthor’s bidding. A source told me that they’ve got a preexisting relationship dating back to their high school years, but they couldn’t provide any proof. I thought I could dig around in the archives at the library,” Lois explains. “What did you find?”

“We spent so much time the other day going through the school paper and coming up short. So I thought I’d try the yearbooks instead. Take a look.” You finally drag your eyes away from Clark to gesture to the folder you handed her. She opens it up and flips through.

“You’re kidding. They were in a chess club together?”

“Not just that. They were president and vice president of the chess club,” you say, pointing to the club roster on the side of the page. “So they’ve definitely worked closely together in the past. Not sure if it’s enough to prove friendship, but it’s somewhere to start asking more questions, and photographic evidence to back up the statement from your source.”

“You have no idea what an incredible help this is,” Lois says. “Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure.”

Clark sweeps the pile of coffee-stained tissues into a nearby garbage can, sets down his book on the freshly dry surface, then stops to look at you. 

“I’m not surprised. Magical book recommender, master of research. Is there anything you can’t do?"

You’re blushing furiously again, and Clark looks almost like he’s surprised himself with his own ability to string together a full sentence, and a flirty one at that. Not an easy feat when you’re standing in front of him looking so proud and pretty. 

“Oh my god,” Jimmy says. His eyes bounce between you and Clark. “This is the librarian? The one who you’re in lo-”

Lois takes pity - either on you or Clark - and interrupts him. “Really, thank you,” she says again. “You didn’t have to bring it all the way over here, that was kind of you.” But she’s looking at you like she knows the real reason you walked four blocks out of your way on your lunch break.

“It’s not a problem. It’s nice to get out of the office on my lunch break anyway. And I like to be useful.”

Lois gives Clark a look. His brows furrow. She rolls her eyes at him. 

“Clark, weren’t you about to take your lunch break too?” she asks pointedly, with the subtlety of a rock crashing through a glass window.

“Oh!” Clark says. “Um, yes. I was. And I could use another coffee. If, um, you wouldn’t mind if I walked you out? There’s a great little cafe on the corner of the block.” He looks so nervous that you might turn him down that it makes you want to lift your hand and smooth over the anxious lines on his forehead.

“That would be really nice,” you say, and the way his eyes light up makes you feel golden.

---

You feel like you’re living a dream. The most charming man you’ve ever known is joining you for lunch. He’s held every door from the Daily Planet office to the cafe. He’s made sure you’re the one walking on the inside of the sidewalk. And when you’re standing in line to order, he says, “Chai latte, right?” and you’re taken aback because you know you’ve never discussed your preferred drink order with him. 

“How in the world did you know that?”

“You’ve always got one on Tuesday nights,” he says, like it’s not a big deal at all that he’s noticed that tiny detail about you. Suddenly, your tiny little crush is starting to feel more like honest-to-god love. Especially when he insists on paying for the both of you and pulls out your chair for you at the cafe table. The chivalrous attention is starting to overwhelm you, so you decide to refocus some attention on him. 

“So, I know what Lois is up to. What kind of article are you working on?” you ask once he’s settled across the table from you, looking far too large in the tiny wooden chair. You’ve never talked much about his work before.

“I’ve got a Superman interview in the works. I spoke to him after the alien attack in the park late last night. Some android from space wreaking havoc at the music festival.”

“That’s so cool. I love Superman,” you tell him, and he nearly drowns himself in coffee when he chokes on it mid-sip. He takes a moment to recover.

“Oh, yeah?” he says, voice strained. 

“I think he’s great. People complain about the property damage all the time, but I don’t think they realize that he spends so much time trying to minimize loss of life and injury. A library patron told me they saw him save a squirrel one time. How sweet is that?”

Clark just hums. “He’s a good guy.”

“And the kids at the library just love him.”

“They do?” He seems genuinely surprised by this.

“They keep asking me to order superhero books. I’ve got dozens already, but I can’t keep them on the shelves, and the hold lists are miles long. If he had a media team I would contact them and ask him to come in and do a storytime. He’s probably far too busy for that kind of thing, anyway.” 

“Well. Maybe I could contact him for you?” Clark offers. 

“Wait, really?” you ask, eyes wide. “You can do that? That would - that would be amazing, Clark. God, the kids would be so excited.”

“You think so?”

“I know it. Even the reluctant readers. If they saw Superman picking up a book they might want to start reading more too.”

“I’ll reach out to him, then,” Clark says. "He likes kids, I know he does." He opens his mouth to continue, but your phone alarm interrupts him. 

“Shoot,” you say, glancing at the time. “I have to get back to work. I’ve got a desk shift starting in fifteen minutes.”

“Let me walk you back to the library.” Clark stands to help you gather your things. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you protest.

“Maybe I don’t have to, but I want to.” His words warm you from the inside out. 

The walk back to the library ends too quickly, stopping on the sidewalk just outside. You turn to face Clark, craning your neck to look up at him. 

“Thank you for lunch. And for walking me back.” 

“It was my pleasure,” he says, and you can tell that he means it. “I’m almost finished rereading the book club book. I’m loving it just as much the second time.”

“So I’ll see you next Tuesday?” Your tone is hopeful. 

“You will.”

“I look forward to it,” you tell him, and before you lose your nerve, you hop up onto the tip of your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Goodbye, Clark.”

You don’t see the way he watches you with longing eyes as you walk back into the building. When you settle behind the circulation desk, overflowing with joy, not even the nasty patron complaining about the queer romance book display can get you down.

Lois’s article is published a couple days later, not on the first page, but the second. A scanned copy of the yearbook photo you’d found accompanies the text, with a tiny caption that says Photo courtesy of the Metropolis Library Archives. You feel a surge of pride as you catalog the newspaper for the library collection, and you ride that high for the rest of a day that’s otherwise dry and uneventful. 

---

You’re practically vibrating with excitement when Tuesday night rolls around, trying not to let the nerves get to you. It’s the first book club meeting, and you can’t help the anxiety that it might not go well. You’re not worried about attendance - you know there are at least half a dozen library regulars who are definitely going to show up - but it’s a new program and you want to prove to the director that you’re doing your job well.

People trickle in as the clock ticks closer to six, and you welcome everyone with a bright smile and offer refreshments as they arrive, taking seats at the chairs you set up in a circle. You keep watching the door, and you tell yourself you’re not waiting for him, but you say to the group, “We’ll just give it an extra five minutes in case we have some stragglers.”

There are two more latecomers that wander in at 6:05, but neither of them are the one you were hoping for.

Your throat feels suddenly tight, and you have to fight to swallow down your disappointment. You feel like crying, but you blink back the tears, put on a smile, and turn to the members of your new book club.

“This book is one of my favorites,” you start. “What did you all think?”

The meeting goes by quickly, passing in a blur of book commentary, questions, and recommendations. You almost forget your disappointment until the room empties out and you’re left alone to stack up folding chairs and put away the extra cookies in the staff snack cabinet. In the silence, the feeling sets in. You’re sad - why didn’t he come? Then you’re mad - why didn’t he come? Then you’re worried - did something happen to him?

Even the grumpy reference librarian can tell you’re feeling upset, and she tells you to take the rest of the night off. You thank her, grab your things, and leave an hour and a half early, wrapping a cardigan around your shoulders and bracing yourself as you step out of the library into the cool night air. 

As you get further from the library and closer to your apartment, you notice…not chaos, but maybe the aftermath of it. Something happened tonight. You can see it in the cracked buildings, in the worried faces of the pedestrians around you. You start to worry that you won’t have a functional apartment to return to. It would be the icing on the cake of your shitty evening.

You see a familiar face as you turn the next corner - Jimmy Olsen, armed with his camera, taking snapshots of the damage and the crowds. He notices you, too, waving you over. 

“Hey, Jimmy,” you say, jogging toward him, avoiding a chunk of concrete in the middle of the street. “Do you know what happened? I just got off work.”

“I’m not totally sure. I took a picture of whatever it was - aliens? Some kind of dimensional imps? There was a swarm of them wreaking havoc down here. I think Superman and the Justice Gang are doing a final sweep of the area to make sure it’s clear, but it was pretty hectic for a while.”

“Great,” you mutter, looking up at the shattered window of the nearest building.

Jimmy follows your line of sight and winces. “You live in the area?”

“A couple blocks that way.” You gesture in the general direction of your apartment. 

“If it’s any consolation, I think the majority of the damage is confined to this block,” he says. “But they still haven’t given the all-clear, technically. Can I walk you the rest of the way home?”

“Sure,” you agree, “thank you.” 

You haven’t made it even a dozen steps before an alien creature is leaping out at you from behind a pile of rubble. It’s about the size of a large dog, growling at you and Jimmy, and you let out a high-pitched shriek. You’ve lived in Metropolis for years - you’d think you would be used to the extraterrestrial nonsense by now - but it never gets easier, or less scary. It’s not like the taser buried in your purse would even do much against your average kaiju. 

Jimmy grabs your hand and pulls you away, sprinting toward the nearest building that looks structurally sound. “We need to find someplace to hide!” he shouts. You can hear the claws of the creature hit the pavement behind you, your own breath coming quick as you sprint as fast as you can, until - 

You feel the breeze behind you before you turn over your shoulder and see the flash of red and blue, crashing into the alien that’s chasing you and herding it into a glowing green cage. The Green Lantern floats down to the ground, winking at you.

“That was the last one. Don’t you worry, hot stuff, we’ve got it under control,” he says, and you make a face at him. 

“Hot stuff?” you repeat. Even Jimmy’s nose scrunches up.

“Are you alright, miss?”

You’re startled by the deep voice that suddenly comes from right beside you, taking a step back and nearly tripping over your own feet. Your arms flail out to catch yourself, but you never hit the ground - there’s a strong pair of arms around you, a reassuring voice in your ear as you gasp air back into your lungs. 

When you look up, Superman is staring at you with his full attention, scanning you up and down with worried eyes like he’s looking for injuries. You’ve seen him on the news, and in photos online, but having the real thing in front of you is - 

“I - uh -”

“I’ve got you,” he says, and your jaw drops, unsure if this is really happening because Superman has his arms around you.

“I - what? Oh, my god. Um. Hi, Superman?”

He smiles at you, and a sense of familiarity washes over you. “Are you okay, miss?” he asks, ever so politely, and you blink at him. Because as the initial starstruck haze fades, you recognize that voice. You’ve spent weeks waiting to hear it every Tuesday night. You glance at Jimmy. Does he know?

You swallow, your eyes darting back to meet Superman’s intense gaze, and your voice drops to a whisper. “Clark?”

His eyes widen just for a moment before he schools his expression. It’s not confirmation, not yet. But he straightens up, sets his shoulders back, and over his shoulder.

“Guy, I think you can handle the rest of the cleanup while I get this lovely woman home safely?” he says. In a moment, his arms are tightening around you and your feet are lifting off the ground. You let out an unladylike, startled yelp, your arms flying around his neck as you rise higher in the air.

You hear Green Lantern shout an annoyed protest below you, and you laugh.

“But - Jimmy -”

You feel the rumble of him speaking more than you hear it, the wind rushing in your ears. “Jimmy will be fine.”

He flies you for a block or two - it’s colder, up in the sky, and you hide your face in his neck, curling into his warmth. He touches down carefully on the roof of a nearby building, loosening his hold almost reluctantly to set you gently on your feet.

You stare up at him, but he won’t meet your eyes.

“Clark?” Your voice is hesitant when you speak. You’re pretty sure. But he still hasn’t confirmed it, not really.

Then he says, “I’m sorry I missed book club,” looking absolutely devastated, and you can’t help it. You laugh in his face. Clark looks absolutely bewildered.

“Are you…are you not mad at me?” he asks as you start to calm down, overwhelmed tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes. His hands come up to your face to brush them away.

“I was going to be,” you tell him. “But that wouldn’t really be fair of me, would it? When the reason you missed book club was because you were busy stopping an alien invasion. Jesus, Clark.”

“I wanted to be there,” he insists.

“I know you did.”

The two of you are silent for a moment, basking in the aftermath of his revelation. He looks down at you, apologetic and concerned, and your hands come up to rest over his own, still gentle on your cheeks.

“I can think of a few ways for you to make it up to me,” you say after a beat. He finally smiles, hesitant and hopeful.

“Yeah?”

You lean in close, an invitation. He brings his mouth down to meet yours, reverent and warm and soft, just like you imagined. He cradles you like something precious. You press into him with a pleased hum, hands skating up his shoulders and into his hair.

It’s chaste and tender, a press of the lips that ends too soon before he’s pulling back to look at you with the widest smile you’ve ever seen. You feel your own expression mirror his and stand on your tiptoes for another peck, less a kiss and more smile meeting smile. 

“Forgive me?” he asks, and you can tell he’s still afraid that you’re upset.

“I think if Superman comes in for storytime next Sunday, we might be able to call it even,” you tell him, driving your pointing finger into the symbol on his chest. “Pending any further alien threats, of course.”

It was a strange, almost beautiful thing, to be obsessed with something.

Most people knew how to keep it contained. Being obsessed with sports just meant spending a few extra hours at the gym. Being obsessed with shopping meant your paycheck vanished the moment it hit your account. Being obsessed with food meant chasing Michelin stars and taking photos before every bite. Harmless little fixations, all of them.

And then there was you.

Your obsession wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. It was supposed to be harmless, ordinary, even. Just a crush. People had those all the time. But it wasn’t just someone, was it? Not to you. And not to the world.

The man your heart had chosen was Superman.

An easy choice, given how charismatic, kind, trustworthy, and yes, impossibly handsome, he was. The first time you saw him on TV, you were barely out of high school, and already he seemed like the perfect man. The perfect boyfriend. The perfect husband.

No one could compare. He was all you could see. No matter how many guys or girls tried to get your attention in college, you couldn’t care less. The only men you ever indulged your physical needs with all looked strangely similar to the metahuman.

The first was Ben Tynion, a gym bro and an absolute jerk of a human being, but he had those same piercing blue eyes as Superman, the same dark hair. He was strong enough to hoist your chubby self over his shoulder and manhandle you like it was nothing. That fling lasted about two months before you decided you could do better and walked away.

The second was your favourite for a while: Jonathan Risso, a cute nerd in your classes who, oddly enough, was surprisingly muscular. He was sweet and gentle, just like Superman, but lacked the sharp intellect. The guy was all body and no brain. And while the sex had been great, you couldn’t ignore the fact that Superman was also a man of remarkable intelligence.

The third and fourth didn’t matter much. You’d been desperate, and they only bore the faintest resemblance to your favourite man. One had that same little curl falling onto his forehead, and the other was just very tall.

But the one who really mattered, the one you wanted to make number five, was the charming journalist at the Daily Planet, the very place where you were interning. Clark Kent.

He was significantly older than you, by about ten years, but that didn’t matter. Superman was older too, after all. And Clark Kent was perfect. Kind, gentle, funny, nerdy, strong, intelligent, everything you’d ever dreamed of. He was the closest you could possibly get to having Superman by your side.

His only flaw: Lois Lane.

Every time you spoke with him and she arrived, it was like the air shifted, as if you stopped existing. He’d look at her, and everything else just faded. Of course, Clark being Clark, he always apologized, always turned back to you with that warm smile and gentle voice, making sure to answer your question. He was so considerate, so kind. You knew he didn’t mean to make you feel invisible. He just didn’t understand yet. He didn’t see you the way you saw him. Not yet.

Deep down, you knew he only thought of you as the sweet, eager intern — the one who always had too many questions, only for him. But that was fine. You could be patient. People fall in love slowly sometimes. And in your head, there was no doubt: he would be your boyfriend.

You weren’t crazy. You weren’t one of those delusional fangirls dreaming about superheroes. You knew Superman was beyond reach. But Clark Kent? He was real. He was attainable. You didn’t need a god, you just needed someone like him. Someone perfect. And Clark Kent was as close to perfect as anyone could ever get.

But, of course, there had to be an obstacle. There always is. And hers was a name you hated to even think, Lois Lane.

You despised her. Every single thing about her. The way she walked around like she owned the place. The way she talked to people, sharp, impatient, dismissive. Always acting like she was better than everyone else. Especially you.

You told yourself she never gave interns the time of day. You were too focused on Clark—on the way he moved, the way he smiled, the way his tie never quite sat straight—to notice how often Lois stayed late helping the others. You didn’t see her laughter lighting up the newsroom, or the way she quietly supported her colleagues. You refused to.

In your eyes, she was nothing but a bitter, petty woman who couldn’t stand seeing someone else succeed. But beneath it all, you knew the truth. You could feel it like a pulse beneath your skin.

Something was going on between them. That was the real reason you hated her. But you’d never admit that, not even to yourself.

She was a problem, and like all problem you just had to find a solution.

At first, you’d tried to get her suspended. Or fired. Whichever came first.

Whenever no one was around, during lunch breaks, or those long meetings where the whole floor went quiet, you’d slip away to her desk. Quiet as a shadow. You’d unplug her computer for just a few seconds, enough to make it look like a glitch. You’d delete pieces of her articles that Perry had already approved, so the final drafts came out fragmented, confused. Once, you even “accidentally” spilled coffee across her desk—a sweet gesture gone wrong, you told her, all apologies and nervous smiles.

But the sabotage did nothing. She always recovered. Always managed to fix “her mistakes” before the deadline, sometimes even turning them into something better. Front-page better. It didn’t help that Perry adored her, forgave her every slip-up, praised her every success.

It was infuriating. Like the universe itself was conspiring to protect her.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

No matter what you did, she came out shining. Every time you tried to trip her up, she just landed on her feet, smiling, laughing, forgiving you easily. It made your skin crawl. The way she carried herself, so confident, so untouchable. Like she knew something you didn’t. Like she had him.

Clark still talked to you the same, warm, polite, his smile soft enough to melt through concrete. It always made your heart skip a few beat. But every time she entered the room, his eyes shifted. You saw it. That spark. That little flicker that wasn’t there when he looked at anyone else, the small smile playing on his lips for just a few seconds.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. You were better for him, sweeter, younger, more genuine, someone who understood him. They were nothing alike. You couldn’t even begin to understand how someone as bright, as kind, as endlessly perfect as Clark could be drawn to someone like her. Grim. Bitter. Always frowning, always doubting. She drained the light out of every room she entered, his light.

At night, you’d lie awake, replaying every word he said to you. Every smile. Every accidental brush of his hand. You’d imagine him thinking of you when he smiled like that. You’d imagine Lois fading, just gone, erased, leaving only you and him, side by side at your desks, laughing over coffee, maybe brushing hands again, maybe not.

The fantasies started to feel real after a while. They always do when you want something badly enough. When you need it.

You started dressing differently. Darker colours, the way she dressed. You began using the same perfume she wore, so when you walked past his desk, the scent would linger, familiar, comforting. You told yourself he noticed. You knew he did.

He just needed time to realize it. He just needed her out of the way.

You told yourself the word over and over until it loses meaning : disappear. Lois Lane had to disappear.

Not dead. Not violent. Just gone. Like a misprint corrected. You imagined the newsroom without her laugh cutting across it, without that precise, blade-like way she owned a conversation. You imagined Clark looking up and seeing you there instead, as if a light had shifted to finally fall where it belonged.

At first it was daydreaming, the sort of private wish you tuck into the back of your head and pretend isn’t real. But daydreams grow teeth. They begin to pull at the edges of your waking moments. You imagines how sweet her absence would be, where her mug would sit untouched, the quiet you would feel when her voice no longer threaded through the office. You tested those silences in your mind and found them sweet.

You didn't picture harm. You pictured erasure, Lois as a smudge on glass, a smear you can wipe clean.

It comforted you to think of it as something tidy, bureaucratic, almost harmless, like an accidental transfer or a job offer on the other side of the world. Anything that removed her from his orbit felt plausible when you hold it long enough in your head. The imagination was a clever trick, it drew you a perfect world where she had never existed.

Sometimes the fantasy turned cinematic : you watched from the coffee station as she folded into herself and leaves, because of a scandal, because of a promotion, because of “a better opportunity.” Other times it was quieter and meaner, Lois simply never coming in again, a seat forever empty and a nameplate that nobody changed.

You told yourself you wouldn’t hurt her. You wouldn’t need to. The world would do it for you, if you could only nudge it, if only fate could be persuaded to look the other way.

The more you told yourself these things, the less they felt like fantasies and the more they felt like blueprints for inevitability. You rehearsed conversations that never happened, rewrote the past until every scene ended with her leaving and you taking the extra breath of victory. It was a small cruelty that required no hands, only patience and a slow, relentless unmaking of what was true.

And still, most nights, you watched them leave together. Not holding hands. Not touching. Nothing obvious. But there was something beneath it, a thread you could feel more than see. The way they moved in sync, the way their silences matched. They had a grip on each other, invisible but unbreakable, and no matter how hard you tried, there was no space for you to slither between it.

No way to break it, and it drove you mad. Madder than you already were.

All your peaceful daydreams shattered one evening. One mistake. A single, tiny mistake on their part, something no one else was ever supposed to see.

As you entered the subway station, you reached for your headphones, ready to put them on while parting ways with another intern from the Daily, the one who never stopped asking you out. Only, the headphones weren’t in your bag. You must have left them at your desk that morning.

Quickly bidding goodbye to… whatever his name was, you started making your way back to the Daily, hoping no one had taken them. As an intern in Metropolis, you definitely didn’t have the money to buy new ones.

Nino at the door let you in without much trouble, even though interns weren’t supposed to be in the building past a certain hour. He liked you enough to look the other way, but not without a small threat : if he didn’t see you out in ten minutes, there would be consequences.

Now, anxiously watching the numbers tick up in the elevator, you prayed the headphones were still lying on the large desk all the interns shared, exactly where you had left them.

Once the doors opened, you were surprised at how empty the building was. Reporters usually stayed long after the interns left, but you guessed it was Friday for everyone. As you made your way toward the intern area, you passed by Clark’s desk.

Strangely, he wasn’t sitting there, yet his jacket was draped over the chair, his tie folded neatly across it, and his glasses lay on the desk. Odd. You knew he couldn’t see a thing without them, he had told you that himself once.

Sliding his tie into your bag, you scanned the room, desperate to find him. Your headphones, once so important, were forgotten. Only he mattered. You snatched up his glasses and prowled the open space, heart hammering. Maybe he had a problem. Maybe he was in trouble.

You didn’t even notice Lois’ bag and vest still abandoned at her desk.

Pushing the meeting room door open just a crack, your stomach twisted. There they were. Clark and her, shameless and intimate. He faced the door, completely unaware of you, while she straddled the edge of the desk, skirt riding provocatively. His hair was tousled, his shirt undone. The sight made your pulse spike, not with anger alone, but with possession. He belonged to you.

Every sound he made, whines, moans, groans, struck you like a knife. They were for her, for that insufferable girl, and it burned you alive. Your jaw tightened, hands trembling as you pressed closer, craving every stolen moment.

You lingered at the crack of the door, frozen, every nerve alive. You didn’t want them to stop. You needed to hear him, every sigh, every shiver, every soft moan, as if collecting them could somehow make him yours.

And then, finally, his face came into full view. You gasped softly, the glasses slipping from your hand. Clark Kent. Superman. The face you had memorized, traced, even worshipped in secret posters on your dorm walls, now alive, inches away. Every detail was perfect, hair, eyes, nose, lips, identical to the image that had haunted your dreams for years.

How had you not realized before? How had you ever doubted it?

The revelation was dizzying. It wasn’t just admiration anymore. It was destiny, written in every line of his face, in every impossible detail. He had always been meant for you. The pull you’d felt around him, the strange thrill when his image appeared on your screen, the quiet obsession that had driven you to collect and study every trace of him, it all clicked into place.

And then her laugh. Light, careless, bright. Lois Lane. She didn’t just exist in the room, she intruded, invading the world that had always been yours. Every fibre of you recoiled. The warmth that had bloomed with his nearness curdled into something sharper, possessive, all-consuming.

You pressed closer to the door, eyes wide, heart hammering. You didn’t just want him, you needed him, and she was an interruption, a shadow over everything you had imagined. The world felt fragile, as if one wrong moment could shatter it, and you could not let her stay in the picture.

Your mind whirled with possibilities, each more elaborate than the last. She had to be gone.

She had to disappear from the edges of his life entirely, like a bad dream. You would become the constant, the only one he would noticed, the one who mattered. Every thought tightened around that certainty, a spiral you couldn’t escape.

The room, the sounds, the sight of him,it all blurred together into one single truth: he was yours. And nothing, not even her, could exist between you and him.

The entire way home, you couldn’t get his noises out of your head. The way he gasped, the low groans that rolled from his throat, they were driving you insane. Your thighs pressed together constantly, aching with a need that always bubbled up around Clark, but now it was impossible to ignore.

The moment you finally arrived home, hot and bothered, you undressed completely, collapsing onto your bed with Clark’s tie clutched in your hands. A loud moan escaped your lips as you pressed it to your nose, inhaling his unmistakable scent.

Instinctively, your other hand slid between your legs, immediately meeting the wetness that had been there since hearing his sounds of pleasure. You rubbed yourself, your mind unwilling—and refusing—to stop imagining his large, warm, masculine hand where yours was. You pictured it perfectly, covering you entirely, the fit just right.

At the thought, you clenched your thighs, moaning again. He was so perfect. He would handle you with precision, in any position he desired. The strongest man on the planet, he wouldn’t be bothered by a few extra kilos, you would be entirely his.

His scent overwhelmed every other thought in your mind. All you could see was Clark Kent—Superman, it didn’t matter anymore; they were one and the same. You ached for his body to press down against yours, for his hands to roam your skin, to grip your hips as he moved within you.

You hand grew quicker, faster circles around your clit making your pleasure built up in your lower stomach. The other hand was still clutching your tie to your nose, filling you with his scent. Your entire mind was filled with flashes of Clark: his smile, his gentle eyes, his strong frame, the resonance of his voice.

It was everything you had ever wanted to see, everything you had ever wanted to feel, carried through every quiet moment of your life. You remembered the way he had reacted when Lois had refused him a kiss, a small, frustrated gesture that had burned itself into your memory. Just this simple memory of his whine was enough to push you over the edge.

Those orgasms were always the sharpest, the most vivid, the rest of them felt pale and tasteless in comparison. You couldn't wait to experience what it would be when he would be the one given you those pleasuring moments.

Soon, you could feel it.

It was an unusually quiet day at the Daily Planet. Lois Lane wasn’t there, and she hadn’t been for several days. At first, it was just sick days, but after a couple of days with no word from her, Perry began to grow concerned.

It was strange, coming from the department’s star reporter and his most reliable journalist. Everyone knew it must be serious, Lois Lane never stopped working. Not ever.

What had been stranger was Clark. He came to work every day, just like normal, but there was something off, he seemed weak, even sick. And that was impossible. Clark Kent was never sick. Something was happening, but no one could figure out what.

No one, that is, except you.

For the past two weeks, you had watched them both. Watched her health crumble, watched how it began to gnaw at Clark. It was ingenious, really, a little scheme inspired by a particular metahuman from the Justice Gang. And now, you were seeing it unfold.

Kryptonite, with a tiny bit of arsenic for Lois, The plan was perfect: get rid of her while conditioning Clark’s mind into believing she was the one making him sick. Every day, you brought her coffee, loaded with sugar just the way she liked with a big gentle smile on your lips. Only, hidden in each cup were tiny doses of poison, enough to weaken her days after days, and subtly affect him too.

You were careful. The dose could never be fatal for him. Never for Clark. But let just say you weren't being cheap on the arsenic.

Day after day, you watched from your desk as she sipped her coffee. Day after day, you watched the colour drain from her face, the bags under her eyes grow heavier, her clothes hang looser. It was… satisfying.

Even more gratifying was watching Clark unconsciously pull away from her, avoiding her without ever realizing why. His body was fighting an infection, and the source was Lois, so naturally, he recoiled. All without him knowing.

Lois noticed. You saw the hurt and despair in her eyes. Every time she approached Clark, he would politely say he was needed elsewhere. When she waited for him at the end of the day, he was already gone the moment the clock struck off.

You gloated. She deserved it, all of it. Truth be told, she deserved worse, but you lacked the means. Buying the Kryptonite on the black market had already forced you to skip meals; there were no funds left for greater cruelty. You were not Lex Luthor.

You perfected the act of innocence. A smile here, a helpful gesture there, all while the poison worked silently. She didn’t suspect you. Clark didn’t suspect you. No one suspected you. And that was the beauty of it. They were so blind.

Some days, you imagined what it would feel like when it finally ended, when she collapsed in exhaustion, when Clark’s mind finally twisted the truth enough to hate her, to fear her. And you would be there, calm, untouchable, the invisible hand guiding everything.

Patience had been your greatest ally. Every drop of coffee, every careful measure, every unnoticeable sidestep Clark took, it all added up. Soon, very soon, the pieces would fall into place. And when they did… no one would ever know how carefully you had orchestrated it.

He would finally be all yours, ready to be comforted, ready to be cherished, ready to be loved the way he truly deserved. And this time, there would be no interference. No Lois, no doubts, no distractions. Only you, the one who had quietly shaped him, the one who had guided him without his knowing.

He would never question it. He would never leave.

"That's why you did it?" The question echoed through the empty room. "For love?"

You snorted, rolling your eyes at the stupidity of it. "Why else would I do it?"

Across from you stood Doctor Quinzel, your assigned psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. One session a week, meant to probe your mind, to untangle the why behind your actions. Why you had killed Lois Lane.

Your plan had worked… but you had flown too close to the sun. You had been greedy, impatient. You had underestimated Clark’s grief, his need for answers. Everything had come crashing down. And yet… you had no regrets. You had been labelled mentally ill, condemned, even when you didn’t feel a shred of guilt.

"What are you willing to do for love, Doctor Quinzel?" you asked, your eyes locking onto hers. The smirk on your lips widened, sharp and predatory.

The room went still. Even the distant hum of Arkham’s fluorescent lights seemed to pause. Quinzel forced herself to meet your gaze. She knew one thing for certain: you weren’t feeling any guilt. You would do it again if given the chance.

©fromsil 2025

Rule three was mandated after Jimmy had convinced Clark that the only way to get a girl was to walk around drenched in Lynx Africa. After that Clark had sworn he would never ever take advice from Jimmy Olsen on any subject matter ever again.

“You’re doing it again.”

Clark jumped in his chair, his glasses knocked askew at the action. He swivelled around to find Jimmy peering down at him, his chin resting on his forearms that were leant against the divider of Clark’s work cubicle.

“What?”

“You’re doing the thing again.” Jimmy repeated.

"What thing?"

Jimmy smirked. “The thing where you count how many sips of coffee she's had so you can perfectly time your trip to the coffee machine and casually offer to get her a refill."

Clark dared a glance over to your desk. Brow furrowed, face pinched, a ballpoint pen clenched between your teeth. Breathtakingly beautiful as always, and most importantly, blissfully unaware of the two sets of eyes currently on you.

“If you weren’t you it might be considered creepy.”

“I’m just trying to be a friendly work colleague.” Clark defended.

“You don’t do that for me.” Jimmy shot back. “You also don’t stare at me longingly across the bullpen like I’ve hung the moon and stars.”

Clark’s face flushed. Subtly had never been in his wheelhouse, but he thought he’d at least being doing an ok job at hiding his infatuation.

Truth be told, he was in much deeper than Jimmy realised.

Jimmy didn’t know that he’d memorised your coffee and sandwich order within a week of you starting so that he could make sure you ate lunch when you handcuffed yourself to your desk and inevitably forgot to eat.

Jimmy didn’t know that he always kept an extra raincoat and umbrella under his desk just in case you forgot yours when the clouds of Metropolis inevitably split open and caught you by surprise.

Jimmy didn’t know that he’d started taking the bus of all things to get home because it meant he had an excuse to walk an extra ten minutes with you before your commute paths diverted, despite it adding an additional 40 minutes to his trip home.

Jimmy didn’t know that whenever he wasn’t thinking about saving the planet as Superman, he was entirely consumed by thoughts of you.

“You don’t bring in freshly baked goods for me every week.” To further emphasise his point, Clark held up a plate in front of him containing only the remnants of a chocolate chip cookie, which may or may not have been one of the best things he’s eaten in his entire life.

You’d recently picked up baking on the weekends, having told Clark that you needed something to distract you from your work. This meant the entire office was now spoilt with a new baked good every Friday, so much so that Cat had started complaining about her waistline.

Jimmy’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “Whatever you say buddy.” He rapped his knuckles on the divider before sauntering back to his desk.

Clark slumped in his chair, which felt like a vortex - slowly pulling him down further into an all familiar spiral. He would have preferred Jimmy to stand there and argue with him. He knew Jimmy was probably trying to be nice, but that made it so much worse because that meant Jimmy pitied him, like he was a puppy abandoned on the side of the road waiting for someone to show him a shred of kindness.

Maybe it was finally time for him to pluck up the courage and ask you out. He'd been dancing around it since you'd first started at the Planet all those months ago. He could do it. He was Superman gosh darn it. He'd tackled world eating monsters, asking you out to dinner should be a cake walk.

"Any feedback on this week's batch for me?"

Your sweet voice cut through Clark's internal dialogue, acting like a shining light that guided him back to reality.

He looked up at you through his glasses. You were standing in the spot where Jimmy had been only moments ago. Your eyes darted to the plate still lying on his desk before you looked at him expectantly.

"Oh-" Clark started, straightening up in his seat as he adjusted his glasses. "They're um- yeah they're really good. Did you do something a little different with the batter this time?"

Your smile widened. "Yeah I tried using brown sugar, I think it adds a nice twist to it."

"That's what it is. The brown sugar." Clark nodded. "Really delicious."

"Very glad to hear it." You smiled down at him, tilting your head ever so slightly. "You coming tonight by the way?"

"Tonight...." Clark trailed off. You rested your chin on the palm of your hand as you shook your head and tisked.

"Don't tell me you forgot." You teased.

Clark felt his cheeks redden under your stare as he desperately racked his brain. He was hopeless. One look from you and all thoughts flew out of his head like they were fleeing an approaching storm.

"Uh-" Then it hit him. "Oh right. End of financial year party, how could I forget."

"Duh, and it's at good old Duke's. Going to be the party of the year."

Your eyes narrowed when you noticed his expression falter. "You're not thinking of ditching are you Kent?"

"Well-" Clark stammered as he stole a glance at his computer screen. "It's just there's this story that Perry really wants to get out and-"

"-No no no." You cut him off. "I'm up to my ears in this never ending corruption scandal and even I'm finding the time to come. Besides, you work your ass off and deserve some fun. If Perry has a problem with that he can go through me."

In Clark's eyes, you might as well be classified as an angel on earth. You seemed to have a permanent glow, radiating your perfect features. And when you got fired up, that glow burned even brighter.

You could see that he was still wavering. "Please." You pursed your lips. "It won't be the same without you there."

Clark couldn't believe it. You were pouting. Literally pouting those perfect lips and batting those long eyelashes at him. How was he supposed to say anything other than yes? You were his kryptonite, more so than actual kryptonite.

"Ok." He nodded. "I'll be there."

You shot him a radiant smile, enough to make the possibility of pissing Perry off worth it a thousand times over.

"Good." You pushed yourself off the cubicle divider, "hope you're ready for me to drink you under the table Kent."

A bemused smirk twitched up on his lips. "We'll see about that."

Who was he kidding, there was no way he was ever going to get up the courage to ask you out.

You smiled to yourself as you turned away and felt Clark's eyes following you all the way back to your desk.

You knew Clark had a crush on you. It was so obvious even the cleaning lady could probably tell. It made coming to work just that little bit more exciting. Whether it was wearing a new slightly too short for work skirt or brushing your hand seemingly innocently against his when you went to hand him a pen, knowing it would make the apples of his cheeks go red and the sentence he was uttering fall apart on his tongue.

If you were being honest, the feelings were definitely not one sided. How could it be when Clark was well, Clark. But that's all it was. A harmless, fun, not debilitating in the slightest, crush.

You finally let yourself glance up at the clock. Half an hour until drinks. The day had been dragging on excruciatingly slow, like time had fallen asleep at the wheel.

It seemed that everyone else felt the same way. The usual thriving hum of the newsroom had quietened to a dull roar, unenthusiastic keyboard taps and monosyllabic exchanges. Motivated by the optimistic idea that making a coffee might kill time, you forced yourself up and onto your feet.

You shoved a mug under the spout and pressed the button that grumbled the machine to life. You tapped your foot as you waited for the life giving elixir that was espresso to pour out. It seemed even the coffee machine had taken an early mark.

"You're going to give that boy a heart attack one day."

Cat appeared beside you, reaching up in her stiletos to grab a mug.

"You're going to have to be more specific."

Cat looked at you deadpan. “Really?”

You shrugged.

She pouted out her bottom lip and dramatically batted her eyelashes.

"It won't be the same without you."

You couldn’t hide the grin that spreads across your lips as you roll your eyes playfully.

“It’s true.”

“Uh huh.” Cat smirked as you moved over to let her use the machine. “You have that poor boy wrapped around your finger and you know it.”

You stole a glance over your shoulder to make sure Clark was no where to be seen before taking a sip of your coffee. Your nose involuntarily wrinkled as the burnt roast singed your nose hairs.

“So I may like to get him a little flustered… what’s the big deal?”

“Oh, I like nothing better than making a man squirm believe me.” Cat wriggled her eyebrows. “But there is the slight complication that he’s completely in love with you. And he's your coworker."

You felt a pang of guilt course through you. You couldn’t lie, half the fun was the way Clark doted on you. He was always noticing when you got your hair done or bought a new dress. He was the first to compliment you on your articles, but he'd also give you honest feedback if you asked for it. If you were ever off sick he'd call and check in on you, always offering to bring you soup or medicine.

He’d even trusted you with the biggest secret a person could harbour. His secret identity.

It was selfish, but you liked the fact that you could get the self esteem boost without the commitment. You flirted but never took it too far, never let him in through the solid walls you’d built up around yourself. Because if you kept him at arms length, there was no risk of him dismantling them.

Was that leading him on? You supposed it was. You winced at the thought of his adoring smile as he offered his shoes when you wore painfully high stilettos that you hadn’t broken in yet, or his umbrella when he didn't have a spare, leaving him standing out in the rain.

“Am I terrible person?”

“Oh god honey no.” Cat shook her head. “That’s not what I meant to imply I’m sorry.”

You frowned, deep in thought as you took a sip of your coffee. Your lips curled in disgust. Why did you think it would be better on the second sip?

“Forget I said anything ok?” She said hastily. “I more just meant… well...what are you going to do if he finally finds the courage to ask you out?”

You froze. You’d never thought about it, never even imagined the possibility that sweet, nervous Clark would actually take the next step.

Cat patted your arm sympathetically when she noticed the frazzled look on your face. “Aren’t you glad we’ve got drinks tonight?”

The Duke was a hive of activity. Corporate suits all suddenly brought to life by the promise of the weekend. It was packed wall to wall with patrons eagerly downing their drinks, excited to celebrate the work week coming to a close.

You were two white wines in and feeling much more relaxed, your corruption investigation now only a gentle hum in the forefront of your subconscious.

You were crammed into a booth, strategically sandwiching Clark between you and the wall. Your skirt had ridden up so the flesh of your thigh was pressed against Clark's under the table. The warmth of his body radiated into yours and the music pulsed through you as you fought to be heard over the din of the bar.

"You've finished your drink."

You looked over at Clark amusingly, "very observant of you Mr Kent."

His brow pinched, his lips pursed ever so slightly in response to your teasing. But the way his eyes brightened gave away his true emotions.

He leant in ever so slightly, his mouth angling towards your ear as he spoke. "Careful, I might have to rescind my offer to buy you your next round." You fought off a shiver as his voice reverberated up through your spine.

You tilted your chin up slightly so you could look up at him through your lashes. "Well luckily I would have rejected your offer anyway. You bought my last two drinks."

His brows jerked up, a casual smile hanging from his lips. "Here I was thinking you appreciated my generosity."

You laughed, leaning in closer just a fraction. "Of course I do, I just think it's time I repay that generosity by buying the next round."

With that you twisted around to sidle out of the booth. This was where the strategy came into play. You'd learnt from previous nights out that if you were against the wall, Clark would never let you past to buy yourself a drink.

You felt a large hand gently envelope your wrist. You turned around on the seat to see him frowning at you.

"You don't need to buy me a drink."

You giggled at the seriousness on his features. "I don't need to, but I want to." You tapped his forearm teasingly. "And I'n not taking no for an answer." Your tone was stern, but lacked any real bite.

He studied you and for a brief moment, the roar of the bar and the chatter of your friends faded into the background, making it feel like it was only the two of you in the room. Your skin encircled by his grip felt like it was on fire.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope." You smacked your lips obnoxiously. He tried to maintain a serious expression but failed, his mouth twisted up into a smirk as he shook his head in defeat.

"Fine. But I'm coming with you."

You felt triumphant in your defeat. "Your company is welcome."

You slid out of the booth towards the bar, Clark hot on your heels. You couldn't control your giddy smile as you felt his hand gently brush over your lower back. It wasn't in a controlling way, it never was, but more of a quiet reassurance that he was there with you.

You loved when he got like this. Slightly more relaxed and touchy, even more clingy.

“What can I get you?” The bartender asked.

“Can I get two lychee martinis please.”

You felt Clark shift to stand beside you, his fingertips grazing across your back as he moved.

“Lychee martini’s huh?”

You looked up at him, your features twisting in bemusement. “You act like you love beer in front of Jimmy, but I’ve seen your eyes light up when us girls order our fruity cocktails.”

“Master of deduction all of a sudden are we?”

“No.” You looked up at him innocently. “I just know what you like.”

Even in the dingy lighting you could see the apples of his cheeks grow pink. “Really?” His voice faltered ever so slightly, revealing his nerves.

“What else do I like then?”

He was looking at you so intently, like he was waiting with bated breath to hear your response. This time it was you turn for your cheeks to flush. You suddenly became very aware that his hand was still on your lower back.

Shit. Maybe your liquid courage had made you overshoot this. You were wading on the edge of uncharted waters here, tiptoeing the line between harmless office flirting and something much more real.

What scared you the most was that a part of you wanted to dive in head first.

“There you are!”

Lois’ voice was like cold water over a hot flame, pulling the two of you apart and extinguishing any moment that might have been.

“Do you know what time it is?” Lois’ eyes were wide as she glared at you, it was like Clark didn’t even exist. You forgot how scary she was when she was mad.

“Uh…” You hastily check the time on your phone. “8:37?”

“Oh my god.” Lois muttered. “You don’t remember what I organised for you tonight, do you?”

You stared at her helplessly, desperately racking your brain for a hint of what she might be talking about.

“Oh.” It hit you like a train. “Oh fuck.”

“Oh fuck is right.”

“What is happening right now?” Clark asked, his eyes darting between the two of you.

“Lois organised a blind date for me and I completely forgot.” You inwardly cursed yourself as you fished your lipgloss out of your bag.

She was never going to forgive you for this.

“A date?”

“The restaurant is just on the next block over isn’t it?” Clark’s query got drowned out by you and Lois.

“Yes. He’s been sitting there for like 40 minutes you know.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” You hastily reapplied your gloss before throwing it back into your bag.

You finally turned your attention to Clark. “I’m so sorry, I promise I’ll be back.” You looked over sheepishly at Lois. “On the bright side, you now get a free lychee martini.”

You were so frazzled that you missed the clench of his jaw and the grimace set on his features. Unfortunately for Clark, Lois did not.

“Ok bye!” Not wanting to have to see Lois’ judgmental glare again, you turned on your heel and made a beeline for the door.

Lois shook her head and mumbled something under her breath as she pulled out her phone. "I better go call him to make sure he doesn't leave before she gets there."

She looked up at Clark. "You ok?"

Clark flinched at the way her tone softened, it was as gentle as Lois got, like she was worried he might break. "Why wouldn't I be?" The question came out harsher than he'd intended.

Lois raised a brow but didn't say another word as she pressed her phone to her ear and moved to find a quieter pocket of the bar.

His shoulders slumped as he felt his good mood deflate like a popped balloon.

"Here you go." The bartender plonked the two lychee martinis in front of him. He stared down at them. It felt like they were mocking him, reminding him that the cloud nine he had been floating on had been snatched from him so quickly.

"Yo, did you order these? Wait let me guess, they're for Y/N." Just to dig the knife in further, the universe had sent him a tipsy Jimmy Olsen.

"She ordered them for us but she left."

Jimmy's brow knitted together. "Where'd she go?"

"On a blind date that Lois organised for her."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Clark didn't care to mellow the bitterness on his tongue as he picked up one of the glasses and took a deep sip.

"I'm sorry man."

There it was again - the pity. Jimmy Olsen didn't do pity, which could mean only one thing. Clark was well and truly screwed.

He glanced over at Jimmy to see him surveying the bar, his eyes glassy and his balance slightly off kilter. Jimmy never had any problems with women. In fact, he seemed to have problems with getting them to stay away from him.

He felt himself waver. Rule three was the only one of his rules still unbroken and that was for a reason. Was he really about to stoop this low? Destroy whatever dignity he had left?

The memory of the heat of your leg against his and your wine flushed cheeks invaded his thoughts, compromising his senses. He could never think logically when it came to you.

"Jimmy I-" He stopped himself. The words were thick and heavy on his tongue, like they were desperately trying to claw their way back down his throat. He was going to have to force them out.

"Yeah?"

"I need your help."

Jimmy looked like he'd hit the powerball in that moment, but was quick to throw on a mask of indifference as he leant casually against the bar.

"With?" Jimmy knew what. He just wanted to hear him say it.

Clark sighed in defeat, "with Y/N. I don't know what to do."

"Buddy, I have been waiting for you to ask me for Jimmy's help." His grin was almost impish as he clapped a hand onto Clark's shoulders. "And luckily for you, I have already thought of a solution."

"Which is?"

"Simple." Jimmy shrugged. "Just act like you're not interested." Before Clark could protest he lurched forward and snatched the second martini off the bar.

"Act like I'm not.... interested?" Clark watched as Jimmy downed half the liquid in one gulp.

"Yeah."

Clark blinked, "uh-" He cocked his head slightly. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means no more planned coffee refills or lunch deliveries or detoured commutes which yes-" He held up a hand to stop Clark from interrupting. "- I know all about, because I know everything about everyone. The point is, you can still be your nice Smallville self but strictly no boyfriend activities."

"But I'm not her boyfriend."

Jimmy nodding enthusiastically. "Exactly. She doesn't get to redeem boyfriend privileges on a friendship membership."

Clark just felt more and more confused the longer Jimmy kept talking. "Right, ok." He nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he tried to decipher Jimmy Olsen code.

"How will I know if it's working?"

"Trust me. You'll know."

"I just-"

Images of you invaded his thoughts again. Heat coursed through him at the thought of the look you gave him as he slid his hand down the small of your back or when he complimented your baking or writing.

"I don't know if I can."

"Clark." Jimmy clasped onto his shoulder dramatically. "You have the drive to break some of the biggest stories in Metropolis, you have the discipline to ask the right questions at the right time and the patience to wait out a witness or a source, the dedication to craft a story so it practically jumps off the page."

Clark was mesmerised, tipsy Jimmy was never usually this prophetic.

"Take a dose of self-restraint and harness the willpower I know you've got in you."

He nodded, totally absorbed by Jimmy's emphatic display. "Ok, I will."

"That's my boy." Jimmy clapped his back. "Oh and-" He hiccuped. "Best we don't mention this conversation to the others, Cat and Lois will run straight to her. Girl code and all that."

"Good point."

"Hey jackass! Did you drink my martini? Y/N promised it to me." Lois appeared between them, her arms crossed as she glared at the empty glass in Jimmy's hand.

Clark tuned out as they began to argue, the cogs of his mind spinning at how he was somehow going to muster up the strength to resist being at your beck and call for everything and anything. He was Superman, surely this couldn't be too hard - could it?

"Clark Kent on willpower.... got it." He muttered to himself.

You'd woken up on Saturday with a dull pounding in between your ears and sharp sleep in your eyes. Monday had rolled around way too soon after a weekend of bed rotting, but at least you were feeling back to your usual self.

You strolled into the chaos of the bullpen that always greeted you, coffee in hand and handbag jolting against your hip. Cat and Lois were already at their desks. Surprisingly, so was Clark.

"Morning."

"Morning sunshine." Lois greeted, not looking up from her computer.

"How was your hot date on Friday night?" Cat wiggled her eyebrows as she twisted around in her desk chair to face you.

"Not so hot." You answered, dumping your bag underneath your desk. "He was lovely but it was just..." You trailed off as you tried to find the right word.

"Boring?" Cat suggested as you sat down in your chair.

"He's Lois' friend, impossible for him to be boring."

Lois' mouth quirking up slightly was the only sign that she was indeed listening, and agreed.

"No it was just, I don't know, more of a friend vibe. I don't think he really felt the connection either."

"Oh no he was into you." Lois chimed in. You swirled around to look at her in disbelief. "Was never going to admit it when you ended the date with 'so.... friends?' though."

"Ouch." Cat laughed.

"Why'd you have to tell me that?" You whined.

"Just keeping it real."

You groaned as you turned around to face your computer, deciding that it was better to do some work then continue on this conversation any longer.

Cat tutted from her desk, "you should know better than that honey, girls that look like you don't get friendzoned."

You couldn't help but steal a glance over at Clark. He was staring intently at his computer screen, barely even blinking, like he was trying too hard to act like he wasn't hanging on to every single word.

You didn't notice it at first, the subtle shift in the Daily Planet continuum.

You were so caught up in your work that you didn't clock that it had gotten to mid morning and your coffee cup hadn't been refilled, or that after lunch a sandwich hadn't magically appeared on your desk.

In the mid-afternoon you finally got a chance to talk to Clark when the pair of you reached the coffee machine at the same time. The two of you were so busy it wasn't unusual that you'd barely speak some days.

"I didn't see you at Duke's when I came back." You opened the cupboard and reached up on your tippy toes to grab one of your favourite mugs.

"Oh yeah I decided to head home, needed to do some things early on Saturday morning." Clark reached up and grabbed the mug for you with ease.

You went to take the mug from him, but he placed it on the counter before you could.

"Thanks." You smiled. "Well you made the right decision, I should have gone home about four hours before I actually did."

Clark let out a short, polite laugh before picking up his mug and heading back to his desk. You didn't think anything of it, sometimes when Clark got deep into a story he ventured into nonverbal territory.

At the end of the day you habitually looked over at Clark's desk to see if he was ready to leave so the two of you could walk part of your commute together, but he was already gone.

By Wednesday, you were starting to notice something was off.

You realised that Clark had started taking a different route to the kitchen, bypassing your desk entirely. It was the shorter route, so you initially figured that maybe he was trying to be more time efficient. But on the flip side this was the same man who was consistently late and would disappear for hours at a time in the middle of the day to go superhero-ing.

When your stomach growled you looked up from your article to see him sitting and eating lunch at his desk. It was from the same place he always went to, except this time he hadn't brought back a sandwich for you.

You also realised that Clark hadn't called you on the weekend to check on your hangover, or sent you any perfectly curated instagram reels.

At the end of the day you made sure to pack up at the same time as him, so you could casually wonder over to his desk and ask, "you ready to head off?"

"Oh you shouldn’t wait for me, I've started taking a different route home. Saves me like forty minutes each way."

“Ok no problem, see you tomorrow then."

You'd tried to ignore the wave of disappointment that washed over you as you made your way towards the elevator. You really enjoyed your walks home together, catching up on everything you hadn't had time to say during the day. Talking about movies or books or office gossip. Now you just had your airpods as company.

And now that you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop noticing it.

It was like a loose thread, and now that you'd tugged on it the whole thing had begun to unravel - splitting the rift wide open.

At first you thought you were going crazy, reading too much into things.

He was still pleasant and kind, of course. But there was something missing. It was like someone had filled your connection up with cement and sealed it over. There was no depth anymore, every smile and conversation was clipped and surface level. No more inside jokes or shared glances. No more hovering at your desk for the off chance you might want to have a break and have a chat.

When you brought in a freshly baked batch of cookies on Friday you made sure to make his favourite, but all you got was a polite thank you and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

He also never handed you anything anymore. He just put it down on whatever flat surface was between you two, almost as if he was ensured that there was no chance of the two of you even slightly brushing fingers.

When you took a few days off sick all you got was a polite, some might even describe as courteous, text message checking in to make sure you were ok. No random drop by to bring you soup or daily check ins to see if you needed anything from the pharmacy.

He also hadn't touched you since the night at Duke's when his hand had brushed along your lower back. And now it was all you could think about.

You felt like waving at him and saying 'very funny Clark! The joke can be over now!'. But what could you actually say without sounding insane?

'Hi Clark, I noticed you've stopped brushing your fingers against mine when you hand me a pencil or conveniently walking past my desk when I need a refill, everything ok?'. You might as well just say ‘so, why aren't you obsessed with me anymore?'

But saying all of those things would mean that you'd have to first admit that there was something between the two of you, and then secondly that you missed whatever had been between the two of you.

You sighed and flopped down on your couch. It was a Friday and you had no plans except for a date with a glass or two of wine and chinese takeout. That was when an idea popped into your head. Maybe he was just so busy that he'd forgotten you had existed. And if that was the case, you could very much remind him.

You pulled out your phone and opened up your contacts. Clark's name stared back at you, illuminating your face in the dark of your apartment. This was such a stupid idea, but the wine had already gone to your head and before you could overthink further your thumb had pressed onto his number.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you pressed your phone to your ear. The ringing dragged on for so long that you were convinced he wasn't going to pick up. You had just moved your phone away from your ear to hang up when the ringing abruptly stopped.

"Hello?"

"Clark, hey - it's me." You internally cringed. Of course he knew it was you idiot. "Is there any chance you're still at the office?"

"Unfortunately for me, yes."

"Yeah I kind of figured you might be... hence why you were the first call." That loosened a short chuckle from him.

"The reason I was calling is because I accidentally left some reports on my desk that I was hoping to look through tonight... any chance you could drop them over? I appreciate it's a really big ask so totally fine if not."

You could practically hear him having a struggle with himself about what to say through the silence on the phone.

"Sure, I'll head over now."

You beamed, "thanks Clark. I'll pay for your taxi over."

His breathless chuckle crackled through the speaker, "you really don't have to do that. I'll be there soon."

"Ok see you soon."

The second the call disconnected you sprung up and practically sprinted into your bedroom. You rifled through your dresser until you located your cutest pyjama set in the bottom draw. A cream cami set hemmed in pink frills with matching pink hearts dotted all over it.

The second it was on you hurried into the bathroom. You ran your brush through your hair and dabbed on some blush and clear lip gloss. Just enough so you could say 'why yes Clark, I do just naturally look this rosy cheeked and glowy when I'm laying around at home.'

The doorbell ringing seemed to snap you out of your psychosis. What on earth were you thinking? This whole plan was insane. But it was too late now, he was here and you were dressed like this. Might as well make the most of it.

You ran your fingers through your hair and puckered your lips one last time before opening the door.

"Hey I wasn't sure which ones you wanted so I just brought-" Clark's eyes practically bulged out of his head when he looked up from the stack of papers in his hands.

"I- He swallowed as his eyes involuntarily darted down over your figure. "Golly sorry I just- it's been a long day."

You shot him your signature smile as you leant against the door, jutting your hip out. It was working.

"That's ok, thank you so much for bringing them over."

"Don't mention it." He muttered, his cheeks growing red as he hastily shoved the papers into your awaiting arms.

"You want to come in? I feel like I’ve barely seen you recently.”

"Sorry I can't I uh - I've got this urgent deadline." He jerked his thumb haphazardly over his shoulder as he took a step back from the doorway.

You frowned. This was not part of the plan. You thought you had him hook, line and sinker.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah it's um... urgent." You watched as he began to back away from the door towards the elevator. The chances of you reeling him in were rapidly dwindling.

“I’ve got leftover cookies and wine. My way of saying thanks.”

“No sorry it’s just- yeah I’ve really got to go.”

"Ok well, I'll see you Monday." You tried to hide the disappointment in your tone. "Thanks again."

"Anytime. Have a good weekend."

Clark waited until he was outside before he pressed his back against the brick of your apartment building and let out a shaky breath. He pressed his phone to his ear and glanced down at his feet.

"Gosh darn it." He cursed, bringing his satchel over the front of his groin to hide his growing excitement.

"Buddy, what's up?" He ground his teeth at the jovial tone of his best friend.

"Jimmy, I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this."

"Woah wait, what happened?"

"I'm going crazy." He snapped. "She just rang me asking if I could bring some documents over to her place that she forgot and of course I couldn't say no and when I answered the door she was standing there in these-" He pressed his bag firmer into his groin as memories of your pyjamas taunted him.

"-these lacy pyjamas and I nearly combusted right then and there." He hissed, glancing around to make sure no one else was in earshot.

"Lacy pyjamas?" Jimmy let out a low whistle. "Geez I didn't think she had it in her."

"Jimmy." Clark bit out.

"Sorry, but I don't know why you're freaking out. This is great."

"How is this great?"

"Because... it means our strategy is working. Think about it. Have you ever known her to just 'forget' something important that is work related?"

The receiver crackled slightly as Clark processed Jimmy's words. He had a point, you forgot a lot of things, but never anything in relation to your work. You were a gun.

"The point is she doesn't. So, she either intentionally forgot them or didn't actually need them."

"But why would she do that?"

Jimmy sighed. "Honestly Clark, your naivety is endearing but also so concerning at the same time. She wanted you to come over and see her in those pyjamas."

Clark glanced up at your apartment building, "you really think so?"

"I know so. This is her trying to remind you that she exists. To tempt you."

"Oh golly... I definitely know she exists." You were literally all he thought about.

"Yes but she doesn't know that. Trust me, it's working. Just keep doing what you're doing."

Clark sighed, "How long do I have to keep doing this?"

"Until she cracks."

"And when will I know when she cracks?"

"Oh, you'll know."

"I don't understand, he used to be literally obsessed with me."

"I'm pretty sure he still is."

You glumly look up from your coffee at Lois. "Something's changed. This is a version of Clark I don't even recognise." You pause as you lift your coffee to your lips. "I want a refund." You muttered into the liquid.

"Maybe he's playing hard to get." Cat suggested.

"This is Smallville we're talking about. Playing hard to get would be physically impossible for him." Lois remarked.

"True. Maybe he's just... going through some stuff."

You sighed and slumped into your chair. "I don't know what I did, but he hates me."

"He definitely does not hate you."

"How do you know?"

"Because, I see the way he looks at you from his desk when you're not looking." Lois raised her brows. "Trust me. It's sickening."

"Then what do I do?"

"Well." Lois leant forward over the table. "Firstly I think we need an answer as to why this is bothering you so much."

You crossed your arms over your chest. "Because Clark is my friend and he's acting weird."

Lois' eyes narrowed, her face sharpening into that interrogative look she often got when she was about to blow a story wide open.

"You're a terrible liar."

"Let's just cut to the chase. We both know you like him." Cat interjected.

Your eyes darted between them nervously. "Why do I feel like this is an interrogation?"

"It's not an interrogation if we already have the answers." Lois said smugly.

"Ok let's just say hypothetically I did have some...feelings for him." You began. "It takes me back to my initial question which is, what do I do?"

Thankfully they were both kind enough not to shout 'I told you so' in your face, but you knew they both desperately wanted to.

"Well the logical answer is to tell him how you feel but obviously you don't want to do that because that would mean you would have to admit your feelings and lower those walls you've built around yourself."

You glowered at Lois. "I don't remember asking to be psychoanalysed."

"Yeah ease up Sherlock." Cat rolled her eyes. "Although she has a point, I agree it's a big jump to outright say anything. I think he just needs a nudge, a reminder that you exist."

You winced. "What if I've already tried that?"

There was a pause as Cat and Lois blinked insync before leaning forward. "What do you mean?"

Your cheeks flushed as you recounted the pyjama incident. Even Lois' infamous poker face faltered at points. Silence enveloped the three of you once you finished as the girls digested what they'd just heard.

"Shit. This is worse than I thought." Lois finally spoke.

"See why I'm stressing! My slutty pyjamas aren't even tempting him."

"You're down bad." Cat tutted and shook her head.

You shot her a glare, "not helpful."

"There's no need to stress yet. Clark's a gentlemen and as innocent as a lamb, he might have not picked up on anything or was too flustered to react."

Cat nodded in agreement. "Clark is hopeless. It needs to be something that gives you guys a chance to spend more time together, like working on an article or going to a work event."

"There is the gala that's coming up, the one Perry invited us all too." You suggested meekly.

"Yes that's perfect."

Lois nodded at Cat's answer in agreement.

"Ask him to go with you, you don't need to suggest it as a date or anything, but even Clark's not that clueless. And if for some reason it went pear-shaped, you can just say something like 'oh I meant like a group of us all go together'."

You looked at them intently, "you two are geniuses."

"Tell us something we don't know." Cat winked.