Seraphine

“Hello.” Your world tilts so violently when you hear his voice that you can’t speak, can’t breathe for some time, so you just stand there letting the silence stretch between you. He doesn’t speak again but he doesn’t hang up either, just waits for you.

“You answered.”

“I always will. What do you need?”

You scoff, leaning against the wall. “Who says I need anything,” you slur, and cringe the moment you’re done.

“You’re drunk,” he says. No judgement, just a fact.

“Tiny bit,” you whisper, sitting down on the pavement, ignoring the way the bouncer looks at you. “Can you come get me?”

“Be there in 15.” Then he hangs up.

You can still hear the bass pumping from inside, and the alcohol-fueled part of your brain wants to go back inside and dance. There’s a bigger part of you that knows that your night is done. No friends meant no protection from weirdos trying to cop a feel. And your feet were killing you. You’d been so eager to dance you’d picked the most uncomfortable pair of heels you owned, and a good 5 hours of being on your feet had taken its toll.

And then there’s the tiny part of you that’s excited to see Michael again.

It’s been two weeks since you ended things with him, told him you needed space. Space that he was more than happy to give you by the looks of it. You hadn’t seen or heard from him since he’d dropped you off at home post-breakup (he wouldn’t let you find your own way home, citing crime stats for your neighbourhood while pushing you into his car-spaceship monstrosity) and then thumbs-up reacted to your message telling him to get home safe.

You should have been happy— a man leaving you alone when you told him to was a rare thing after all— but you weren’t. You’d only really said it to see if he’d argue back, maybe fight for what you had; which was crazy because you weren’t even sure what you guys had had. It was comfortable, safe, and the sex was really good but as time dragged on and you’d hoped he might ask you to be his girlfriend he never did. Just kept sleeping at yours and letting you leave your clothes at his. He fed your cat when you traveled with work and stocked up your groceries when your part of the fridge didn’t look full enough for his liking.

Dropped the bomb that he was Mr Terrific and then introduced you to his associates as “a close friend”.

Indignation rises in you, hot and fast. A close friend? “I have literally seen your balls. Close friend my ass,” you mutter, eyes scanning the street for him.

“Excuse me?”

You freeze, a deer in the headlights when you hear him behind you. He’s leaning down to help you up, arms strong around your waist even when you try to push him away with protests of “I can do it myself, Michael.”

“Sure you can. I didn’t say you couldn’t,” he states.

You don’t wanna look at him, so you look around instead listening.

“What are you looking for?”

“Your globes,” you say, looking to your left when he stands on your right. “How did you know where I was. I didn’t tell you.”

“My globes are called T-Spheres. Why would they be here?” He forces you to face him, a hand on each shoulder to hold you still. Against your better judgement you look at him. He’s there, all broad shoulders and stoic face, dark eyes roaming over you like they’re searching for something. He’s out of uniform, dressed in a plain white tee, biceps straining against the material even when he’s relaxed. You let your eyes wander lower, to where his jeans hug his thighs and you snap your attention back to his face when you feel that tell-tale curl of longing in your stomach. He’s still looking at you.

You wonder if he even blinked.

“How did you find me then if you weren’t tracking me with your T-Balls.”

You shake his hands off of you, and cross your arms tapping your foot. You miss his touch instantly, but you won’t let yourself go there.

“Well now I’m not gonna tell you, because you’re just being petty.” He turns and motions for you to follow him, and you do, wobbling in your heels. He leads you to an alley where his car-ship monstrosity is parked.

“Really?”

“You shouldn’t have called me if you were you gonna complain the whole time,” he says as he unlocks it. He waits for you to step in first then follows behind you, waiting for you to get seated before he straps you in. He takes longer than necessary, making sure it’s tight.

Then he leans down, unclasps your heels and takes them off, securing them underneath your seat. He comes back up, and leans in so close you can count his lashes. Or kiss him.

“Better now?”

“Yeah,” you sigh out. Relieved. You hate that he knows you well enough to consider that your feet might be aching. You hate that you miss that tenderness. The way he always knew what was wrong before you had to say it. You never had to teach him to be considerate, or talk to you nicely. The only drawback really was the fact that he had never asked you to be his girlfriend; even though you guys were pretty much in a relationship. But you knew that pretty much wasn’t a guarantee and as much as it had hurt to put that distance between you, you’d managed to convince yourself that it was for the best. This longing and endless missing was better than limbo— even if the limbo was really comfortable and good and made you feel safe.

And one night out had managed to torpedo your resolve completely. You hadn’t been prepared for him to be so nice to you. It was making you itch, the way he acted like it was perfectly normal for him to be so considerate even after you’d ended things so abruptly.

He kicks the ship into motion, and the silence stretches between you guys, vast in a way you never thought silence between two people could be.

“What’s on your mind?” He asks, after a good ten minutes of just driving (piloting? You never knew what to call what he does). He sounds genuinely interested. You think you might actually be sick.

“I’m gonna kill my friends for leaving me,” you say. You aren’t lying. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’re hatching up the perfect murder plan, body disposal and all. He just turns his head to look at you, unbelieving.

“What? I am,” you pout.

“Sure. Besides murder, how have you been? I’ve missed you.”

He takes a sharp left, and you lurch sideways. “Oh yeah. I could really tell,” you mutter, closing your eyes and holding on to the straps. You’re not prepared for this conversation. You want him to take you home and leave you there and never say he missed you again.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Haven’t seen or heard from you in two weeks, so no, Michael, I don’t believe you.” It comes out harsher than you intend, but you’re so embarrassed by the situation you don’t even begin to apologise.

Hard right. “You know that thing you asked for? Space? I was giving it to you.” You can hear the slight irritation in his voice and it throws you off for just a moment.

“Yeah but if you missed me, you would have texted me. But you didn’t text ergo you didn’t miss me.” It sounds stupid when you say it, and if it sounds stupid to you, you know it sounds stupid to him.

He’s silent, breathing deeply as the craft moves forward. You must be getting close to home because he’s slowed down.

“You wanted me to harass you then?”

“No. I don’t know what I wanted you to do, but I think anything might have been better than just missing me and not texting me. Were you gonna do that forever?”

“No. I was gonna give you three weeks, and then I was going to reach out. I’d thought about a month but that was too long without you.” He’s hovering now, eyes fixed on you.

“Roommate’s friend is staying over so there’s no street parking. You need to park in my backyard,” you say, ignoring him.

Slowly, he inches the craft over your house and into your backyard, lowering it so gently you aren’t even aware you’ve touched down. You don’t know how to handle anything he just said, so you bolt. You unbuckle your belt, grab your heels and hoof it the moment he opens the door.

“Thanks for the ride, take care of yourself Michael.”

You can hear him mutter something like “oh my god, why is this so hard,” and you know you’re being needlessly difficult. You’re complicating things; it’s what you do, and if you heard him out you might be able to get things back on track, but you’re so embarrassed by everything that you don’t care. You were gonna get inside, wash your face, change into something comfortable and sleep like this whole night had never happened. It’s warm outside, the remnants of summer clinging to the air and making it balmy. Your grass is damp and the coolness of it between your toes is needed.

“Wait,” you hear him calling, but you’re practically sprinting to the back door. You must be the slowest sprinter in Metropolis because he’s pretty much caught up before you can stop to look for your keys.

Your keys. Shit. You’d left them in your friend’s jacket for safekeeping and now they were wherever the fuck she was. You’re about to text your roommate to let you in when you watch Michael slot the spare he has into the keyhole. No fuss, no drama.

Your heart aches.

He doesn’t open the door straight away, just looks at you with his hand still gripping the handle.

“Can we talk before you go in. TV’s on. I think your roommate and his friend are still up.” His voice is low, even, but there’s something beneath it that makes you hurt. You want to say no, really, but you’re so tired and your feet hurt and he looks so fucking pained that you think it won’t hurt to at least hear him out. You slide down onto the step, and you look up at him, expectant.

“Right, well. I don’t know what happened. One moment we were together, the next you were telling me that you just needed a little space. So I gave it to you. Didn’t really want to, but I figured if I pushed, our relationship would be unsalvageable." But I missed you every single second of those two weeks you didn’t wanna speak to me, you know. I mean that. I can’t even tell you how relieved I was when you called, even if it was just for a ride.”

His sincerity makes you feel like your chest is being cracked open.

“Look. I don’t think I’m fit to have this conversation now, but if you stay the night we can talk about it tomorrow.”

He visibly relaxes. He helps you up and ushers you inside, closing and locking the door behind you. You try to ignore the heat between your legs when he puts a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the kitchen even in the dark. You try your best to make it past the living room undetected, but your flatmate seems to have the most annoying radar in the world.

“Welcome home drunkie! Do your friends know your situationship is creeping around your house with you?”

Michael scoffs, lets out a baffled “situationship?” at the same time that you correct it to “ex situationship”. “EX???” Michael almost yells, and you flinch.

“Right. You guys have a good night,” your roommate and his friend beam at you.

You were going to kill him tomorrow. Flay him. Ask Lex Luthor to re-open the dimensional rift and throw him in.

Michael’s steady hand guides you all the way to your bedroom, where he helps you untie all the little straps on your dress, avoiding the urge to look at you whe the dress pools at your feet. He busies himself with readying your skincare— setting out the makeup wipes, oil cleanser, normal cleanser, toner and night time moisturiser for you. When you step into your bathroom, you’re wearing an oversized Superman sleep shirt that still barely covers your ass and you’re yawning so wide he thinks you might swallow Metropolis. He helps you remove your makeup, your chin between his index finger and thumb as he turns your head this way and that, making sure he’s got everything. When your makeup is all off he just… stares at you, thumb brushing your cheek.

All too soon his hand is gone, and he’s in your bathroom doorway.

“Shout if you need anything, okay. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Wait. Your pyjamas are-”

“Second drawer from the top. I know,” he smiles.

And then he’s gone, scooping your cat up off the bed on his way. Just like he used to do when you two were together.

You take your time with your skincare, trying not to think about how easily he slots into your life. As if he was never gone at all.

When you come out, he’s shirtless wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, holding your cat in one arm and a plate with a toasted sandwich in the other. Your water bottle has been refilled and there’s some aspirin for you.

“Just in case,” he says.

“Thanks.” You’re trying so hard to avoid looking at him. To avoid really looking at the way his muscles flex when he bends down to put your cat back on the floor, back tight. You definitely don’t admire the definition in his abs, the way his v-line seems to tease you as it disappears into his boxers.

“It’s for you,” he says and you jump. “The sandwich. It’s for you.”

And when you catch his eye he’s almost grinning. Smug bastard.

You demolish it in maybe ten seconds flat, climbing into bed. Michael follows suit—no question—and he pretty much wraps himself around you the moment he gets comfortable, lips pressed to the back of your head, strong arm acting like a pillow.

“This doesn’t mean we’re back together.” You have to save a little face.

“I know.” You feel the vibrations in his chest where he’s got it pressed flush against your back. You feel him chuckle at you.

“I mean it,” you say, sleepy. “This isn’t anything you just dropped me off at home and I let you stay the night!”

“Yup,” he pops the p. “Just go to bed now, we’ll talk in the morning.”

You sigh. Anything you say now will just be petulant, and you’re so tired anyways. So you settle in.

And when you finally start drifting off, you swear you feel him whisper “I love you” into your hair. Or maybe you hope, you don’t know.