*hopeful romantic

Strands of hair clung to your face, sticky with sweat and the tears that refused to stop falling. You stared straight ahead, into the void that stretched far beyond the edge of the building, but in truth, you saw nothing. Your eyes were wide open, yet your mind was elsewhere—trapped in that dark place you had reached after feeling utterly alone for so long. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, as though the night chill had seeped deep into your bones; however, it wasn’t cold, it was fear. But not the kind of fear that paralyzes you; rather, it was that other kind, the one that pushes you to do things you know can never be undone.

Your feet were barely on the ledge, sensing the wind rising from the street below—that wind that seemed to call your name, whispering that everything would be so much easier if you simply stopped fighting. Your eyes were swollen from crying, red and burning, but even so, amidst all that agony, you smiled. You smiled at your own predicament because it seemed almost laughable to have reached this point, so humorous and yet so profoundly tragic all at once.

And then you wondered how you had ended up here. You didn’t know for certain—or perhaps you did—but so many things had accumulated over time that you could no longer pinpoint the exact moment. Perhaps it was that time no one listened to you, or that other instance when you felt entirely invisible in a crowd of people. The truth was, you were accustomed to feeling this way, so used to it that you had stopped noticing. Until the day came when exhaustion reached its limit—that threshold you believed you would never cross. But it arrived, and when it did, you realized the weariness was no longer merely physical, the kind you can wash away with a good night's sleep. This was different; it had become mental, and that was the absolute worst kind. Physical exhaustion allows you to rest, but mental fatigue haunts you even in your dreams, refusing to grant you a single second of peace, always lingering there, whispering cruel things and reminding you of everything that went wrong.

That very same exhaustion had stripped away your appetite. You no longer felt hunger; food had lost its flavor, and you only ate because you knew you had to, though chewing felt like a grueling chore, like something unworthy of the effort. It had also robbed you of the desire to smile; those smiles that used to surface effortlessly were gone forever, replacing a vast portion of your day with tears that welled up without warning. It screamed at you that you were useless at everything, that you were good for nothing, and that everything you touched shattered.

And the worst part was that you began to believe it, because when you hear something enough times, you eventually internalize it as truth. It made you view life in shades of gray, colorless and devoid of purpose, as if someone had extinguished the sun and you were trapped in a cloudy day that would never end.

Is this the right thing to do? Could anyone even notice this? Could someone just see me for once?

These questions whirled around in your head like a broken record, yielding no answers, only breeding more questions. And then, just as you were ready to take that final step, a voice shattered the silence.

"Do you want to talk?"

The voice arrived softly, yet with enough resonance to pull your mind back to the present. You blinked several times, trying to focus your vision because the tears prevented you from seeing clearly.

Looking through a blur of tears, you caught sight of a figure you never expected to see. It was a tall man, with a red cape billowing in the wind, wearing a blue suit with a symbol emblazoned on his chest.

Superman stood before you, his head slightly tilted, gazing at you with a serenity that made you feel strange. There was no judgment in his eyes, no haste, only patience.

"I don't want you to stop me," you whispered, your voice emerging so faintly that you could barely hear yourself.

But he didn’t budge from his spot. He remained there, steadfast, as though he harbored no fear of what you might do.

"Whatever reason you have for doing this, it has a solution," Superman said, and his words carried such conviction that, for a fleeting moment, you almost believed him.

But then the exhaustion rushed back, and you looked at him with eyes brimming with tears.

"And what if I've already tried everything?" you asked, your voice breaking at the end.

You truly had tried everything; you had spoken up, you had wept, you had silently begged for help, but no one seemed to listen. Or perhaps you just didn’t know how to ask properly. He nodded slowly, understanding the weight of your words.

"You can try again. Perhaps you think that dying is easy and that... you won't be afraid," he said, his voice so gentle it made your chest ache.

You shook your head, because as much as you wanted to be brave, the truth was that you were terrified.

"I am afraid, but I am just so... tired," you said, your voice trembling in tandem with your hands. You looked into his eyes, searching for something you couldn't quite define. "I just want... I want to rest," you stated, and that word, rest, sounded so sweet and yet so distant at the same time.

But he shook his head.

"I know you must be tired, and that the world surely hasn't been kind to you." You looked at him, and Superman smiled—a warm smile that illuminated his entire countenance. He continued speaking, his voice acting like a soothing hand caressing your soul. "But you must step out of the world that is drowning you in order to breathe. You cannot see it right now, but there is air out there waiting for you, colors you haven’t yet beheld, people you have yet to meet. You just need a little help to reach them."

And then, he extended his hand toward you, palm open, offering you something you never anticipated. "If you take it, I will dive into the depths with you, and we will surface together," he said, and those words were so wild and so beautiful that you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He, Superman, everyone's hero, was willing to descend with you to the very bottom of the pit just to pull you out.

"You're a hero, thousands of people depend on you. Why would you stop for a life that... a life that does little more than get in the way?" you inquired, your voice reduced to a mere thread. You genuinely could not comprehend why someone like him would dedicate his time to someone like you.

Superman sighed, and for a brief moment, his shoulders seemed to relax.

"Because I believe that every life is important, that it is worth living even when it seems bleak. Because as long as there is hope, even a shred of hope, then there is a willingness to live. And I can see that hope in you. It's there, even if you can't see it yourself. It's in your tears, in your fear, and in the fact that you are still here listening to me."

And when he said that, you could no longer contain it. You wept like you had never wept before, your entire body convulsing. You were about to step down, to take that pace you thought would end everything, but your foot faltered, slipping on the edge. Your body pitched forward, and you closed your eyes, accepting your fate. Even with Superman right there, you thought perhaps dying was your destiny, that there was no turning back.

But then, as you fell, your body collided with Superman's. He had flown to you in an instant, so swiftly that you didn't even see him move. His arms wrapped tightly around you, and you felt his warmth, his strength, and his scent of the sky and the wind. When you were back on the roof of your apartment building, you didn't let go. Your arms clung to him as if he were the sole piece of solid ground in a turbulent sea.

I would have let go if he hadn't asked, if he hadn't been so patient.

"Seriously, are you okay?" he murmured against your ear, his voice so soft it shattered you from within.

And then you cried like a small child who had never been embraced, like someone who had harbored all the agony of the world in their chest and had finally found a sanctuary to let it pour out. Your entire body shook, and you couldn't speak; you could only sob and sob.

"I don't want to die," you managed between sobs, those words wrenching from the deepest recesses of your being. "But everything... everything is so difficult," you whispered, pressing yourself against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong.

And he merely held you tighter, never releasing you, never rushing you, allowing you to weep for as long as you needed. Superman did not pull away. He didn't let go for a single second, not even when your tears soaked his suit and your hands gripped him as though he were the only life jacket in the middle of a dark ocean. He held you firmly, his arms enveloping you with a tranquility you hadn't felt in ages.

And within that embrace, you felt it. It was that hope you had heard so much about, the kind you always believed was reserved for others—for stronger, braver people. But there it was, in the warmth of his chest, in the rhythmic thud of his heart, and in the way his hand gently caressed your back without haste, never wishing for you to stop crying before your time. He didn't push you away, and that was precisely what you needed most in that moment: someone who wasn't afraid of your tears.

You cried until your eyes burned and your throat turned dry. You cried until there were no tears left inside you, leaving only a void that slowly began to fill with something entirely different. And then, when the tears finally ceased, he gently took you by the shoulders and guided you toward one of the benches on the building's rooftop—the ones used for events or when the neighbors gathered to watch the sunset. He seated you carefully, as if you were made of glass, and sat down beside you, leaving just enough space for you to feel accompanied without feeling crowded.

"Tell me, I will listen to everything," Superman said, his voice so peaceful it inspired confidence. There was no rush in his words, no judgment, only the promise to remain there for as long as necessary.

"Isn't there anyone else to save?" you asked without looking at him, staring down at your hands which were still trembling slightly. Your fingers intertwined, playing with the hem of your clothes, searching for something to do to avoid feeling so utterly exposed.

"Yes, I have to save you," he said, and when you looked up at him, you saw a smile on his face, as if he were entirely unacquainted with sorrow. He had deep dimples in his cheeks that appeared whenever he smiled, and that small expression of his caused an involuntary smile to grace your face amidst all the chaos. It was tiny, barely a twitch of the lips, but it was there.

"My job is overwhelming," you whispered, your voice sounding exhausted, as though you were carrying a weight that wouldn't allow you to breathe. "I work from Monday to Saturday, even Sundays, even though they don't pay overtime. But it's not just the work, it's the people. They are so... so cruel," you admitted, feeling the words pour out uncontrollably, as if you had unlocked a door that had been sealed shut for a very long time. "Adults behaving like teenagers. They've fabricated so many things about me—rumors, lies, things that aren't even true. And I just stayed quiet, I didn't say anything, thinking that if I ignored it all, it would go away. But it didn't. Everything became so monotonous, so heavy, and now I can't escape the very hell I chose to fall into."

Superman nodded slowly, processing every word that came out of your mouth. He didn't interrupt you, nor did he try to offer quick solutions. He simply listened, and that alone was more than most people ever did.

"Have you seen a psychologist or a psychiatrist to get treatment?" he asked carefully, as though every word was a delicate step, afraid of hurting you. His voice was gentle, but his eyes remained fixed on you, watching every change in your expression.

"I did," you said, your voice cracking slightly as the memory resurfaced. "But my mother scolded me. She thinks that's only for crazy people, that anyone who goes to therapy is mentally unstable. She won't let me take medication, even though I've already been diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. She thinks I just need to try harder, that my exhaustion is nothing but laziness, and that I'm just being dramatic."

Your hands tightened against your legs, and you felt anger and sadness collide inside your chest.

"And what is it that you want?" Superman whispered, his question so sincere that it made you look him straight in the eyes. There wasn't a trace of judgment in his gaze, only genuine curiosity, as if what you had to say truly mattered to him.

You looked back at him honestly, your heart completely laid bare.

"I want to be happy," you said, your voice breaking as those two words left your lips. They sounded so simple, yet they felt impossibly out of reach. "I just want to be happy. I want to feel like my life has meaning, like I'm not wasting my time, like I'm not a mistake."

He nodded with the kind of calmness that made it seem as though he understood everything.

"Then pursue happiness, even if it means leaving everything behind. Sometimes we have to let go of the things that weigh us down, even when it hurts, even when we're afraid. It's better to live alone than to die for everyone else. It's better to start over than to remain in a place that slowly extinguishes you."

His words were simple, yet they carried a weight that made you stop and think.

"What if I'm not good enough?" you asked, your voice small, like that of a little girl terrified of never being enough. "What if I only ruin myself even more? What if I try to change and end up worse than I already am?"

"The people who humiliate you are the ones hurting you, not yourself," Superman said, his voice so certain that you almost believed him instantly. "Your true light doesn't need anyone else to shine. I can see it. It's still there, beneath all that pain, beneath every layer that was forced onto you without your permission. If nothing changes, then make it change. Do it so you can be free. And I promise you, I'll be there listening to your heartbeat, and every time you want to return to the top floor of a building, I'll always be there to take your hand. I won't let you fall."

You nodded because his words felt like a soothing balm over an open wound. You didn't know if you could trust completely, but at that moment, with him sitting beside you and the warmth of his presence surrounding you, you wanted to try.

And that was exactly what happened.

Superman didn't leave.

He walked you all the way to the entrance of your apartment building and waited until you had gone inside. Even though you thought he would leave afterward, he didn't. He stayed for hours on the rooftop of the building across the street, watching your window because he was afraid his words had been nothing more than empty promises and that you might change your mind.

Then, after drinking the tea he had recommended, you walked over to the window to close it before going to bed. You looked outside and saw him. He was sitting on the rooftop across from your building, absentmindedly swinging his feet back and forth. The moment he noticed you, he looked directly at you and immediately started making gestures. He stretched his arms out before bringing them together, mimicking someone closing a curtain. Then he pointed at his head while shaking it from side to side, as though he were saying, "Don't think bad thoughts." After that, he rested both hands against his cheek and tilted his head, pretending to be asleep, and you smiled because you understood exactly what he meant. "Go to sleep."

"Thank you, Superman," you whispered, even though you knew he couldn't possibly hear you from that far away.

Yet somehow, he understood immediately. He nodded with a warm smile and lifted one hand in greeting. You closed the curtain, and for a brief moment, the world didn't feel quite so dark.

Behind the suit, Clark couldn't stop thinking about you. About the way you cried. About how your hands trembled. About how your eyes searched desperately for something they couldn't find. He had witnessed suffering like yours countless times. He had seen so many people standing on the edge of the abyss, yet human sadness always hurt him in a way he could never fully explain. He couldn't save everyone—that much he knew—but there was something different about you. Maybe it was the honesty with which you had spoken, or maybe it was the way you had clung to him as though you truly wanted to keep living. As the wind swept through his cape, Clark silently promised himself that he would stay, that he wouldn't leave you alone, that he would remind you there was still hope, even on the grayest days.

Clark believed he would never see you again. Of course, he continued watching over you from afar, always making sure you were okay, but you never returned to the top floor of the building where he had found you that night. Sometimes he would hear your heartbeat quicken, and his own heart would tighten in fear, convinced that something terrible had happened. But every time he checked, it wasn't danger. You must have been doing exactly what he'd told you to do: walking away from everything that had been hurting you and searching for the fresh start you so desperately needed. Even though he never approached you, he left behind little signs that he was still there, small things he knew you would find. They were Superman stamps he had bought from a souvenir shop. Whenever he flew past your apartment, he would leave one on your window. If he saw your car parked somewhere, he would tuck one beneath the windshield wiper. Sometimes he left one on your apartment railing, certain you would notice it. He simply wanted you to know that you weren't alone, even if he couldn't always be by your side.

Two months passed that way, and your heartbeat became steady and calm, like the heartbeat of someone who was finally beginning to find peace. Clark smiled to himself the first time he noticed. He didn't know exactly what had changed in your life, but hearing your heart beat without the anguish he had felt that night was enough to make him feel at ease.

That morning at the office, Clark was simply following his usual routine. He was reviewing articles, taking notes, and doing what he always did when suddenly he heard a familiar heartbeat. It was the very heartbeat he had quietly followed over the past two months, the one he had learned to recognize among millions of others. When he looked up, his eyes widened in surprise.

You were walking beside Perry, the editor-in-chief, clutching your bag against your side with a notebook in your hand while listening carefully as he showed you around.

A smile spread across Clark's face before he could stop it.

What are you doing here?

He wondered as he watched you walk confidently through the newsroom, your hands still slightly clenched. They were the same hands he remembered trembling that night. You were nervous—he could tell from the way your fingers tightened—but there was something undeniably different about you.

Your hair had grown longer, and you wore it in a style that made you look calmer, more comfortable with yourself. You looked around the newsroom with quiet curiosity, like someone discovering an entirely new world. There wasn't a trace of tears in your eyes anymore. None of that deep sadness he had seen the night you met.

Perry introduced you to Lois, the Planet's most renowned reporter, and to Jimmy, the photographer who was always running from one assignment to the next.

Finally, your eyes met Clark's.

He felt his heart skip a beat.

"This is Clark Kent," Perry said.

You nodded with a small smile.

"It's nice to meet you," you said nervously, your voice sounding lighter than it had that night.

"She'll be joining the photography team. Your desk will be next to Jimmy's, so go ahead and get settled," Perry said.

You nodded again before following him toward the work area.

Clark followed you with his eyes, unable to stop himself from watching you. He had so many questions he wanted to ask. Had you sunk beneath the surface and fought your way back up for air, just like he'd told you to? Had you found the courage to walk away from everything that had been hurting you? Were you happy now, even if only a little? But he held himself back, because those weren't questions he had the right to ask. That night, you hadn't met Clark Kent—you had met Superman. And even though he was both, he didn't know whether he had the right to bring any of it up.

"It's her," Lois whispered to Jimmy.

Clark glanced at them curiously. Lois showed Jimmy something on her phone, and he leaned in for a closer look. It was a photograph of two people, followed by another picture of you.

"The photographer who sued her former company, right?" Jimmy said, staring at the screen with wide eyes. "I heard they kept stealing her photo credits just because she'd only been working there for a short time."

"And she also won the lawsuit for workplace abuse and harassment," Lois added, genuine respect evident in her voice. "If Perry hired her, she must be incredibly talented. Not everyone has the courage to stand up to a company like that and actually win."

Then she looked at Clark with a teasing grin.

"So, what's the matter, Smallville?" Lois asked. "Do you already have a crush on the new girl?"

Jimmy immediately burst into laughter the moment he saw the blush spreading across Clark's face.

Clark didn't answer. He simply lowered his gaze and tried to focus on his work.

But his mind was already somewhere else.

During your first month, Clark approached you professionally, only when work required it. Perry even paired the two of you on a few assignments, and Clark treated you with the same kindness he showed everyone else, careful not to make you uncomfortable.

But he watched you.

Of course he did.

He couldn't help noticing the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you smiled.

Were you really happy now?

It was a question he found himself asking often, and part of him feared you were pretending—that beneath that newfound calm, the very same storm was still raging.

It was at the beginning of the second month that something changed.

Clark was standing in the office kitchenette with a cup of coffee in his hands when he saw you walk in to pour yourself a glass of water. He looked at you and swallowed hard, feeling his words catch in his throat.

"The coffee here is really bitter," Clark said.

The moment you looked at him, he realized how ridiculous that sounded.

"I mean... I know you've started drinking coffee, but... just in case... you forgot," he added awkwardly, his cheeks growing warm.

"I don't drink coffee, Clark," you replied with a smile. As you pulled a tea bag from your pocket, you added, "My psychiatrist thinks it's unhealthy for me and that it could interfere with my sleep schedule."

Your voice was calm, carrying a sense of peace he had never heard from you before.

"So you did end up seeing a psychiatrist," Clark said aloud.

When you looked at him in confusion, he immediately realized his mistake.

He cleared his throat and hurried to recover.

"I mean... it's good that you're taking care of your mental health. Everyone here believes that's important," he said.

You smiled warmly.

"Yeah," you replied, your eyes settling on the tea as you prepared it.

"Do you like working here?" Clark asked carefully, never taking his eyes off you. "I mean... does it feel comfortable for you? Are you... happy?"

The question slipped out before he could stop it, and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

"It's much better than my previous job," you admitted before looking him straight in the eyes. "I try to be happy every day. My work is... I don't know... I think I finally found where I belong."

Then you let out a soft laugh.

"Sorry. I ended up talking too much."

"Not at all," Clark answered immediately, his words coming out with far more enthusiasm than he'd intended.

You nodded, picked up your tea, and walked away.

But just before leaving the kitchenette, you stopped.

"I know you interview Superman," you said, looking back at him.

Clark felt the air leave his lungs.

"You probably see him pretty often. If you ever see him again... please tell him thank you. He probably doesn't remember me or even know who I am, but... I never got the chance to thank him properly that night. He truly gave me the hope I needed."

Then you walked away with your tea in hand, leaving Clark standing alone in the middle of the kitchenette, his heart racing.

Clark felt his chest fill with something warm, something he couldn't put into words.

Maybe Superman hadn't just saved a life that day.

Maybe Superman had made it possible for Clark to meet the woman who would never leave his mind.

As he looked at the place where you had been standing only moments before, he realized that it didn't matter if you had no idea who he really was.

He knew exactly who you were.

And somehow that was enough.

It should have been clearer to you, what Martha Kent had been busy creating for you prior to your own bridal shower held in the garden of the Kent Farm. She had sworn herself to secrecy ever since she causally asked you to stand in her beloved sewing room, only weeks before the shower, so she could measure every curve of your body. 

You hadn’t questioned it at the start. Nor, did she let you in on her intentions at the finish line either. 

“Ma wants to see you.” Clark catches you mid-stride, catching the faint surprise worn on your face as he peers over the top of the morning newspaper. He turns the page, satisfied that there had been nothing regarding Superman in the headlines, “She said she needs more measurements.” he informs casually. 

You turn your head to stare down the familiar hallway of the Kent household, lowering your voice to speak, “Again? She just measured me last week. You know she’s doing all sorts of measurements of my body from head to toe?” Clark looks back up from his newspaper and shrugs, “Head to toe, Clark!” 

“Honey, no doubt it’s a wedding gift. It is only a few months away.” Clark folds the paper in half to give you his undivided attention, “She might be making you a dress for the reception. I did mention that being a trend.” 

“She’s already doing the alterations for my actual wedding dress. For free.” you argue in a panic.

Clark stands and your head falls back to stare up at him when he saunters over to you—a handsome smile with prominent dimples spreading across his face. His palms smooth over the swell of your hips and you are reduced to a puddle of goo when he dips his head to press a featherlight kiss to your lips; leaving you craving more as he pulls back. 

“Just accept the love she gives you, okay?” Clark mumbles and pecks your lips again, this time with a little more passion. “You deserve it.” he hums. 

You give some form of a nod, with your head a little woozy from the way your husband-to-be was handling you. He tilts his head, brows raised as he waits for verbal confirmation that you were going to stop resisting the way the Kent family cared for you. 

When you verbalise the promise he needs to hear, he kisses you once more, and longer this time. One large palm trails down to your backside and he grabs a firm handful, humming with the deepest content before playfully smacking it as you take your leave. 

You swat at his hand with an airy laugh, unable to contain your own giddiness over the little love bubble you share. You peer over your shoulder when you walk down the hall, to see Clark drag his bottom lip between his teeth, arms folding across his broad chest with his blue eyes cast downward on your frame. 

It makes you sway your hips more, and he clasps a hand over his mouth before you disappear into Martha Kent’s sewing room. 

“Hi, Ma.” you say as you enter. 

“Oh! Hi, honey. You’re not busy are you?” Ma stands from her position behind a mountain of glittery tulle that was part of a commissioned prom dress. Her hands come to either side of your face when you respond that you’ve got all the time in the world for someone like her. “Good. Now, I just need to take a few more measurements to ensure I’ve got it all correct. Stand up there for me, sweetheart.” 

You do as she says, standing in front of the floor length mirror. Martha hurries to your side with measuring tape and taps the inner part of your leg so you separate them. She mumbles the numbers to herself, and then lowers her tone even further to discuss what her next steps will be for her creation. 

Once she stands to full height, you observe as she walks to her desk and is quick to take note of the last remaining measurements required. 

“You excited for your bridal shower?” Martha asks and looks to you with a warm smile. 

“Nervous, but excited to see everyone.” 

“Oh, it’ll be fun.” she chirps. 

You twiddle your thumbs, “Can I ask what you’re taking my measurements for?” your tone gives off the energy of a scolded child. 

Martha taps her nose, “That’s for me to know, and you to find out, sweetheart.”

That should have been a signal to where opening the gift from Martha Kent was going to go at your intimate bridal shower. You were sat amongst your closest friends and family, showered in gifts from the majority of them—even after you had insisted that presents were not mandatory. Some were sentimental such as, hand painted plates for display, or two coffee mugs with the date of your wedding and a photo album to keep the memories lasting forever. Naturally, with some mischievous friends involved, the gifts turned explicit and you were left swatting at them with pink fluffy handcuffs and a pleather whip that they insisted were for the horses on the farm. 

Martha Kent sat close by with a pale blue box sat upon her lap, amused by the younger generations antics and watching her future daughter-in-law swelter with mortification. 

When you eventually reach Martha for the gift, your tightened muscles from embarrassment loosen when you let out a sigh of relief. Martha Kent was a respectable, midwestern woman who sewed for a hobby and made chilli and cinnamon rolls on the weekends. There was no probable cause for the contents of the box to be…suggestive. 

(Wrong!) 

“Now, I made this in a pinch. I hope the measurements are correct, but we can sort it out no bother if it isn’t fitting right.” Martha explains as you sit back in your seat, fingers dancing over the pretty lace bow she had wrapped around it. 

You shake your head, “You’re one of the best seamstresses, Ma. I’m sure it’s perfect.”

You undo the bow and remove the box lid, expecting some sweet item of clothing—you know, like a modest dress—and you can see through the thin tissue paper that the fabric is a deep red. Almost burgundy. Once the paper is peeled back, you hook your index fingers under the thin straps and raise it out of the box to inspect. 

It’s a dress. If you could call it that. More of a dress for behind closed doors, never to see a public setting. It’s entirely sheer, aside from the intricate flower patterns that were embellished with tiny blue beading. 

There was no denying it was beautiful but—

“Where is the rest of it?” you blurt without thinking. Your gaze drops from the dress to Martha Kent who wears the broadest smile. “It’s amazing, Ma. I just—I don’t think I could wear this out. Is there—” you dip your hand into the shallow box to locate the rest of the dress amongst the tissue, “—Is there another piece to go underneath it?” 

Martha grasps your forearm, “Bless your heart. No, honey. This is it.” 

Your friends with more sexual prowess begin to sing their excitement over the suggestive dress. In this setting, your skin begins to burn from a sudden spout of coyness. 

You also take a moment to think about how Clark will like it without a shadow of a doubt. It’ll take all the sternness you can muster for him not to tear the fabric in a hurry. 

You blink, “…This is it?” you repeat quietly. 

“Yes, sweetheart!” Martha cackles, “I want some grandkids outta you two!” 

Especially because he walks out of your bathroom with sweatpants hanging low on his waist and his t-shirt stuck halfway over his head.

And you’re not blind. So of course your eyes flick down to his chest and his stomach, still a little damp. Of course you can’t bring yourself to look away or move until he clears his throat “A little help?”

“Oh!”

You walk over to him and find the hem of his shirt. It’s all rolled and twisted against his back, and he has to bend his knees a little to help you reach it properly. Your fingers brush against his skin as you tug it down into place, and it feels like touching a piece of art.

Clark’s hair is a wet mess when he gets his head through the neckline, and you smile as you fix that, too. He straightens when you’re done, takes your wrist into one hand and kisses your palm.

“Thanks. Got stuck on my glasses.”

“Mm, I think you did that on purpose. Ulterior motives and all.”

Clark doesn’t tell you that he did not in fact get stuck in his shirt on purpose — he really is that awkward. He knows you’re not the type to initiate things very often, and he relishes the feeling of your hands on him, of you near him in any way.

He simply smiles, a little guilty, something close to smug but not so conceited. “Uh huh. And thanks for the shower.”

You feel like you should be thanking him. It’s a surreal kind of intimacy to see him this way, to have him in your apartment, smelling like your soap.

“The water pressure’s not the best. And I got you a toothbrush.” You pick a piece of lint from his shoulder, “Do you need anything else?”

Clark has yet to stop grinning. “I’m perfect, stop worrying about me.”

“I always worry,” you shrug, shoulder to your cheek.

It’s then that he notices that you’re still in your work clothes, too focused on your face and your hands on him before. “Aren’t you gonna get comfy? I mean, I love those pants, but surely you don’t wanna hit the hay in them.”

“‘Hit the hay,’” you repeat. Such a dork.

A dork that still makes you nervous. Not as bad as you had been before, but there are still moments when you’re not sure how to act around him.

He levels you with a kind, pleading look. Be honest, he’s asking you.

You sigh, face turned away to mumble “My pajamas aren’t sexy.”

Clark gently nudges you to face him again with a knuckle to your chin. “Honey, clothes don’t make you sexy, it’s the other way around. If you’re worried about what I’ll think, don’t. I think you’re beautiful in anything because you’re you.”

He says it like it’s simple. A fact.

Then he’s slapping his hands over his glasses and turning around. “I won’t look, promise.”

It’s so sweet you could cry. There isn’t a judgemental bone in his body when it comes to you, and each time you’re reminded of that you fall for him a little more.

So, you get up and go to your dresser and change. Clark listens to the sound of your feet against the floors, the drawers being pulled open. When he hears you slipping your clothes off, he thinks he could come undone from the sound alone.

Once you’re changed into a pair of boxer shorts and a baggy shirt with a neckline so stretched it nearly hangs off your shoulder, you’re climbing onto your bed and tapping Clark’s shoulder. “Okay. Done.”

He turns around, smiles that dimpled smile again and gets you both settled under the covers.

He’s facing you, glasses still on, cheek pressed into your floral pillowcase, hand pushing the hair from your face. “Told you you’d look pretty.”

“Don’t be fooled. There’s a hole in the armpit of this shirt.”

He shifts to his back, both hands finding the armpit seam of his own tee, and rips it. “There, now we match.”

“Clark! I’m sewing that up tomorrow,” you say. A pause, then: “Do you need another pillow? Sorry my bed’s kinda small.”

"It's not a crush." You defend, though you know too well that it is. "I just think that he's cool." You keep your gaze locked on the papers at your desk, hoping to defuse the conversation.

"Cool, huh?"

You don't answer him, and that in itself is all he needs to know.

-

The next day Superman saves three young kids from a three story fall, and you watch the reports fly in. Hero, savior, wonder. Words used to describe him as he brings the kids to safety on the sidewalk. The event is caught from multiple different angles, and you watch every one you can find in your researching, feeling your heart well with pride. But you don't know him, never have, so why do you feel so attached?

Clark pushes his way into the office twenty minutes later, never on time, and you look up from your laptop to smile at him. He smiles back, and his dimples flash, triggering a resemblance to something in your head.

"Morning," He greets, and the tone of his voice washes over you. He's happy today, and walks tall as he makes his way to the desk.

"Morning." You say it back almost instinctually, but you're stuck on the fact he reminds of you someone. The dimples. Superman has dimples. God, you're so down bad that you're seeing him in everything. You worry you're losing your mind the next time Clark grins at you, and again you see the similarity to the man you're obsessed with. Clark Kent looks like Superman, just a little. Not really. Who are you kidding?

You're just seeing what you want to see, which is a more attainable version of your celebrity crush. Still, you can't stop yourself when you say "I have never noticed those before." Clark turns to you, and you clarify. "Your dimples. I've never noticed them before."

It's as if you saying that short circuit's something in Clarks brain as he fumbles for a response. "I've always had them." He ends up blurting, as if you don't know that now. Then after a moment, his voice softer, like he's gone shy, "Do you not like them?"

It stuns you a little, because of course you like them. You've always had a thing for guys with dimples—superman included—though you can't say that to Clark. He's your coworker, your friend. "No, I do. I like them. They're cute." And you mean the words you say. Because Clark's dimples are cute, and so is Clark.

You're in serious trouble now. A crush on Superman, a public figure you may never meet or even see in person, is one thing. A potential crush on your coworker. Bad, Bad, BAD.

-

A week later and you wake up sweating. And not from any nightmare, no, from a very, very good dream. A dream about Clark. You are absolutely fucked.

“I'm sure it's not as bad as you think.”

Lois is trying to calm you down, but there’s nothing she can do. You are fixated on him, on your coworker Clark Kent. You'd called her after much deliberation on the topic, and after a near panic attack you decided you needed her expert council.

“I’m having dreams about him Lois! And they’re not PG rated!” You’ve got your head in your hands, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. Deep breathes, in and out. “Every time I see him, I'm gonna think…god, you know what I'll think about.”

Three days ago Clark had brushed past you in the break room, a hand on your back as he reached for the coffee machine. And you’d shivered at the touch, his touch. His hand was warm, gentle and big. And you’d be damned if you could forget about it. And he apologized profusely as if he'd felt your shiver in his heart, "sorry, i didn't mean—that was out of line, sorry."

You hadn't known how to tell him that it was perfectly alright, perhaps even more so than that, for him to touch you. In fact, you wanted him to, and that was something you hadn't felt in a long time.

"What the hell am I gonna do?" you manage to look at Lois across from you now, and you know that she has no reasonable answers for you.

"Maybe tell him how you feel?" she offers, which is a totally unreasonable answer, just as you'd suspected.

"He's my coworker! I see him every day, and if he rejects me I'll have to change my name and run off to a whole new country."

"I don't think he'd reject you." Lois says, and there's a knowing smile on her lips. But you don't quite catch her drift.

"You're right, he's too nice to turn me down. He'd go out with me out of pity, we'd date for years and then finally when we're old and dying he'll say "it's not you, it's me." and—"

"Woah, okay stop." Lois has taken a few steps forward and is crouching in front of you, her hands on your knees.

"Did it ever occur to you that he might like you back?"

"No. Well, maybe. I don't know."

Lois just smiles at you, and pulls you in for a hug. She's used to you, to your out of control thoughts, and she squeezes you tight. "It's going to be fine, it's just Clark, not the end of the world."

-

A day after that conversation, and it sure does feel like some kind of hell. Sitting across from Clark is like torture, especially when he looks at you over his glasses, smiles brightly. Those dimples. Damn him.

There's only one thing for you to do. One thing that can fix the landslide of thoughts. A dive so deep down a rabbit hole of Superman media that no man will ever compare. Yes, that's reasonable right?

You pull open your laptop, and type 'Superman' into the search bar. Videos and images of the man fill your screen, articles and interviews with him popping up in every corner. But there's a haunting presence surrounding so many of them. Interviews with Superman, reported on by Clark Kent from the daily planet. Articles about Superman's latest saves written and edited by the one and only. You peek over the top of your laptop screen, and find Clark with his head in his own work.

His curls fall effortlessly into his eyes, and you wonder how he can see anything he's reading at all. A sigh leaves your lips, blissful and dreamy, and you don't realize you do it until Clark looks up at you.

He blushes when he catches you already looking his way. "Everything okay?" he asks, and you allow the sound of his voice to envelop you for a moment. It's a voice that sounds familiar, not in the sense that you've heard Clark speak so many times before, but almost like you've heard a similar voice spoken by someone else. Someone with a cape and very similar dimples.

"Yeah," you can feel your brows pulling down into a frown as you look at him. "Yeah, everything's good." you've never been good at masking your feelings, and now must be one of those times, your expression the dead giveaway.

"What's on your mind?" Clark rolls his office chair closer to your desk, his paperwork long forgotten. You turn your laptop around to face him with an unknown confidence.

"You know Superman, right?" you watch as Clark's eyes scan over all the articles he's written about the hero in the past, before he nods with hesitation. "Yeah, sort of, I mean professionally speaking."

You don't know what comes over you then, but the words spill from you before you can properly think them over. "Can you get me in contact with him? Unprofessionally speaking?"

You're unsure if what you're implying is landing right in Clark's brain, but he seems to short circuit at the words. He readjusts his glasses, and grabs at his tie, as if to loosen it. "Yeah, uh, sure. What did you want to talk to him about?"

You turn your laptop back to face you, and begin typing something new into the search bar. "If I asked nicely, do you think he'd grab a coffee with me?"

Clark nearly chokes, or at least you think that's the case considering the strangled noise that escapes his throat. "You want to ask Superman on a date?" the words sound tight, and stressed coming from him.

"Maybe?" you glance up from your screen to note the look of shock that covers Clark from head to toe. His entire body language has changed, and it makes you shift in your seat.

"Do you think he'll turn me down?" you say at last when Clark fails to offer anything further in the way of conversation. Your question seems to tug him out of his stupor, though he's still sitting up straighter than usual, as if he's walking on thin ice that you can't see.

"I don't think anyone could turn you down."

-

Clark is reeling. He can’t quite believe it. You want to ask him on a date. Well, not him exactly. Superman. Who is also him. Fuck, this is getting complicated.

Clark had been falling for you for months now, unbeknownst to anyone in the office, and he had to admit that when he heard of your crush on Superman originally, he got a bit of a kick out of it. A confidence boost. Until of course he realised that it wasn’t really him, Clark Kent that you wanted.

It’s weird to feel jealous of yourself, but that’s exactly how Clark feels. The feeling of “what does he have that I don’t?” Is strange when you have everything said other has.

Still, Clark puts you in contact with ‘Superman’ because for him, it’s impossible to say no to you. I mean how could he? Every time you smile at him his knees go weak and that day when you told him his dimples were cute? He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

So somehow, Clark is all done up in his ‘superman’ attire, ready to go meet you for coffee. But how does superman even have coffee? Should Clark get the same order he always does, or will you catch on if you recognise he has the same tastes?

Still, despite his doubts, he refuses to stand you up. He meets you outside the daily planet, standing tall just like he always tries to do when in this suit.

“Hey.” you greet him with such a wide smile, one that lights him up from the inside out, and he thinks in that mere second that maybe he doesn’t need the sun to heal, maybe he just needs you.

“Hello.” He extends a hand, formal despite the circumstances. “Clark has told me so much about you.”

“I was just about to say the same thing.” You answer, taking his hand to shake.

“So, shall we?” Clark gestures down the street, toward a coffee shop that he happens to appear at almost every day.

“We shall.”

-

For the most part, the date goes well. You talk about a plethora of things, and he makes jokes that have you red in the face with laughter. But there is something missing, shoes you don’t think even a superhuman man can fill.

Right now, you’re on the roof of a building taller than any tree, with the one and only Superman, looking over the city you love so much. And somewhere in that city, is a man you can’t stop thinking about. And that man, surprisingly enough, isn’t the one right beside you.

“What’s on your mind?” The voice covers you, smooth like stones washed up on the shore.

You look over at Superman, a singular curl coming loose in his hair from the wind that passes by. “You’re beautiful.” You tell him, before you can so much as think it over. “So beautiful, and kind, and funny, and a great listener.”

“Why, thank you.” He starts “I think of you the same way.” You know he means it, and that’s what makes it harder to say the next part.

“I’m going to sound like an asshole right now,” you preface, “but I know someone else, that is beautiful, and kind, funny, and a great listener. And he has these dimples that are just the cutest, and his eyes are so gentle and dreamy–“

Superman cuts you off, albeit politely. “I have a sneaky suspicion I’m being rejected right now.”

It makes you sick in your stomach to have to do it, but you nod, “I am so sorry.”

Superman is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles, soft and understanding. “It’s okay. But if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly am I being rejected for?”

You pause, and you know Superman isn’t pressuring or guilt tripling you in any way. You feel safe, and comfortable, to tell him the truth. Maybe that’s why he’s such a hero.

“Clark. Clark Kent.”

-

Clark’s heart stops in his chest. At least it feels that way when his name falls from your lips.

“Clark, like the Clark who set up this date?” The words tumble from him laced with confusion and doubt that isn’t an act. He almost says "who me?!" but manages to stop himself just in time.

“Yeah.” You heave a sigh, one that sounds heavenly and princess like. “Don’t tell, but I think I’m obsessed with him.”

That almost makes Clark break character. He can’t believe it. You like him, really like him, and he has a fucking shot after all.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s rude, and mean. We’re on a date and I’m talking about some other guy, what is wrong with me?

But Clark wants to know more, he’s begging for it internally. “No, no it’s fine. He seems like a nice guy.”

You smile subtly, staring off at the city around you. “He really is.” Clark is just about ready to pump his fist into the air.

"Why don't you ask him out?" he says instead.

You're quiet, and when you turn to face him the look in your eyes is anxious, unsure. "Because he might turn me down, and I don't know if I can handle that."

It's like a sucker punch to his gut, "I don't think anyone could turn you down." he mutters, losing himself in the look on your face. He watches, as your expression changes, shifts from one of nerves to one of confusion.

"He said the same thing." it's almost a whisper but he catches the words, despite the breeze trying to carry them away.

"Who did?" his own response is quiet too, as if you're telling each other secrets you don't want the air to hear.

"Clark. He said that exact same thing to me the day I asked you out."

-

It all comes together then as you stand there staring at Superman. His dimples, the curls in his eyes, the voice you know so well, the humor that is so familiar and kind. The touch of his hands, warm and gentle and big.

It's like a fog has lifted and you're unsure how you never saw it before. "Oh my god," you take a step back, wanting to cower in the corner from shame. You just gave the most embarrassing rom-com speech about Clark Kent, to Clark Kent. "Oh my god," you say again, your eyes scanning over every inch of the man before you. Superman. Superman. Superman. Except it's not is it? It's Clark, it's so clearly Clark that you feel stupid.

"What?" there's panic on his face, and you watch as he realizes that you know. That you see through him. "Oh," it hits him, and you watch as he also takes a step backward.

"You're Superman." you say, and it seems absolutely idiotic considering he's standing right in front of you in the red and blue suit, a giant yellow 'S' plastered on his broad chest.

He stays quiet, watching you closely. You take a step forward, and he stays utterly still, like a deer in headlights.

"You're Clark." you just needed to say it out loud. To fully convince yourself it's true. And it is. As soon as you say it, Clark—no superman—nods.

"Surprise?" he says it warily, daring for a soft and cautious smile.

-

Shortly after that conversation you beeline it out of there, promising to meet Clark later that night to really talk it over. But for now you need to sit with your thoughts, figure things out, and come to terms with the fact you just told the man you might be falling for exactly how you feel without knowing it.

To think you've had feelings for the same man twice, thinking that he was two different people? You have a type.

But you can't seem to get over completely exposing yourself and your feelings by rejecting Clark—for Clark. You pace back and forth in your apartment for an hour, maybe even two, before there's a knock at the door. You've run out of time.

"Hey," you groan as you open the door for him. He's in normal clothes now, out of the Superman suit, and he looks so unbelievably good. The white button up, the dress pants, the hair. His curls are set free, and you can almost feel your pupils dilate at the sight.

"Hey." his voice is soft, so gentle, so him. "How are you feeling?" there's genuine concern in his eyes, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he wants to reach out but refuses too.

"I'm okay, I guess. It's a lot."

He nods, and glances around your apartment, he's only been here once before for a staff party you held at your place last Christmas. He sat on the couch with you for most of the night, watching Jimmy dance offbeat to music you had coming from your tv. You think that might have been the first spark you felt for him, though you didn't know it at the time.

"So, about what happened on the roof."

As soon as he says it you want to crumble to the floor in shame. You keep yourself upright, though it's a struggle, as he continues, though he doesn't miss the way you wince at the topic of conversation.

"Did you mean what you said?"

You feel nauseous, but you nod. "Every word."

-

Clark can't help it. He tries to stop himself, but the smile grows, crawling across his face and clinging there. Stuck. "You said you were obsessed with me." he says through the smile, teasing, remembering.

He watches as you look away from him, your embarrassment endearing, sweet. "Did I say that? I don't remember saying that." the words tumble from you but he knows you're partly joking. You know just as well as he does what you said before.

He wants to laugh, wants to spin you around like a Princess, but he just takes a singular step forward, still grinning. "I distinctly remember you saying it." he adds, unable to take his eyes away from you. He's thrilled, excited, but also a little nervous. What if he made this all up in his head? What if it's just all one amazing dream?

"I'm a little obsessed with you too. For what it's worth." He adores the way you look up at him, the furrowed brows, making way for a smile of your own.

"Just a little obsessed?"

He feels the heat rising up his neck, "A completely normal amount of obsessed, I think."

That's the moment he reaches out, taking one of your hands in his own. He's hopeful that you won't pull away, be repulsed by the fact he isn't as human as you once thought he was. You stay with your hand in his own, and give his fingers a squeeze of reassurance before you speak again.

"So," you lower your head a little, "how many times did you laugh at me behind my back when I was watching videos of 'super-you' in the office?"

He pretends to think it over, look up at the ceiling contemplatively. He remembers those times, where he was almost jealous of himself. It feels so silly looking back now.

"Only once or twice." he answers, after a moment. "How many times did you almost figure out it was me?" He's been wanting to know since this afternoon, since you called him out. But there have been times in the past where he thought you already knew, where he thought maybe you were waiting for him to tell you.

"The dimples almost gave you away." You reach a hand up to touch his face, and he has to resist the urge to close his eyes in contentment. He nods, only slightly, not wanting you to move your hand away from his jaw.

"Unfortunately that is something I don't have much control over."

His eyes scan over every inch of your face, committing this moment and each of your expressions to memory. The smile lines and the way your eyelashes flutter. The purse of your lips as you try not to laugh. The lips he has a very strong urge to kiss right about now.

"I still can't get over the fact," he starts, "that you rejected me, for me." he leans in a little bit closer, as he says it, just to tease, and he revels in the roll of your eyes.

"Shut up, Kent." you say, right before you push up and close the rest of the distance between his mouth and yours. It's a not a perfect kiss, and his nose bumps with yours as he tries to hold you up to his height. He also can't stop smiling, so that doesn't help matters, and it might just be the messiest, most awkward kiss he's ever had. But it's also the best one. Because he's never felt this amount of joy before, never felt so at home in someone else's house, in someone else's hands.

So when you pull away, bashful and laughing, he brings you back in for one more.

Reblog and comment pretty pretty please!!

CLARK KENT TAGLIST: empty

Today, though, it was worse. You’d come back from the break room carrying a folder and an empty mug, and Clark froze mid-keystroke. Your heart was hammering so loud in his ears that for a split second he thought you were frightened. He looked up and saw you placing a hand against your chest, a little short of breath as you sat back down.

Something in him snapped. He was out of his chair before he thought about it, moving to your desk with that soft urgency only you recognized as Superman slipping through. “Are you alright?” he asked, too quickly, his voice low.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Clark? Yeah, I’m fine. Just walked too fast, I guess.”

He leaned down slightly, trying to be subtle, but his brow was furrowed, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Your heart—it’s…” He hesitated, words catching in his throat before tumbling out. “Why is it always so fast?”

The bullpen carried on around you, no one paying attention, but you froze in your chair. “My… what?”

“Your heartbeat,” he murmured, softer now, just for you. His hand almost hovered near your arm but stopped short. “It’s always racing. Every time you move, even just to stand up—it spikes. I’ve heard it for weeks. And now, you’re—” He swallowed. “You’re out of breath. That’s not nothing.”

Your lips parted. For a second, you just stared at him. His eyes—worried, earnest, wide behind his glasses. This was Clark in full protective mode, the same man who could carry you across the sky but right now was terrified by the sound of your pulse. And you realized. He didn’t know. You exhaled slowly. “Clark. It’s okay.”

“It doesn’t sound okay,” he said firmly, and it made your chest ache in a different way.

“I have tachycardia,” you explained gently. “It’s a heart rhythm thing. Not dangerous—not for me, at least. My heart just… beats faster than most people’s. Always has.” His frown deepened, and for a moment, you thought he might scoop you up right there and fly you straight to the nearest hospital. “It’s not life-threatening,” you reassured quickly, reaching up to rest your hand over his wrist. “It’s just me. My normal.”

Clark’s shoulders dropped, but the crease between his brows didn’t vanish. “You should’ve told me,” he murmured.

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been sitting over there every day thinking something’s wrong with you,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “And it—” He exhaled hard. “It scares me. The idea that I might miss something. That I could lose you because I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

The vulnerability in his tone knocked the air out of you. You stood, stepping close enough that your hand could press flat against his chest. “Clark,” you said softly. “You are the most attentive man I’ve ever known. And nothing’s wrong. I promise. It’s just my heart being a little overzealous.”

He let out a shaky laugh at that, finally smiling faintly. But his arms still came around you, pulling you in right there beside your desk, coworkers be damned. “Overzealous,” he repeated into your hair. “Guess it matches mine, then.”

You smiled against his shirt. “Guess so.”

Jake “Hangman” Seresin had a reputation for being bold and larger than life. To most, nothing more than a cocky, overconfident pilot, the kind of guy who never seemed to take life too seriously. But when the Daggers met you, they began to see a side of Jake they’d never expected—a side that made them realize there was far more to him than they ever realized.

And it happened in little moments, each one chipping away at the image of Hangman and revealing Jake.

***

Phoenix

Natasha had always been sharp. She could read people easily, and Jake was no exception. She’d noticed the changes in him before anyone else: how he wasn’t as quick to boast, how he lingered on his phone more often, smiling at something no one else could see.

Still, it wasn’t until that night at the Hard Deck that she put the pieces together.

Jake walked in with you by his side, and Natasha immediately noticed the way he looked at you. It wasn’t the casual charm he used on everyone else—it was softer, almost reverent.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Jake said, his voice filled with a kind of pride that made Natasha blink in surprise.

You smiled and waved, introducing yourself as Jake’s girlfriend, though you didn’t need to. Natasha had already figured it out.

She watched as Jake stayed close to you all night, not in his usual attention-seeking way, but quietly, as if he couldn’t bear to let you out of his sight. When you laughed, he leaned in just a little closer. When you spoke, he listened like your words were the most important thing in the world.

Later, as Jake brushed a strand of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek and a soft smile, Natasha smirked and leaned over to Bob. “He’s gone.”

Bob

Bob Floyd noticed it in the details, in the quiet moments that others might overlook.

When Jake and you invited the squad over for dinner, Bob didn’t know what to expect. He’d never pictured Jake as the hosting type, but as he stepped into your cozy home, he could tell this was different.

“Make yourself at home,” you said warmly, handing Bob a glass of sweet tea.

Jake was in the kitchen, wearing an apron—an apron, of all things—as he stirred something on the stove. Bob couldn’t hide his surprise.

“You’re domesticated, Seresin,” Rooster teased, leaning against the counter.

Jake smirked without looking up. “Happy wife, happy life,” he said easily, earning a laugh from you.

“Not your wife yet,” you teased.

“Yet,” Jake said, glancing at you with a grin and tossing you a wink that made Bob’s chest ache with secondhand fondness.

Bob noticed the way you moved around each other, wordlessly passing utensils and dishes, finishing each other’s sentences. There was a quiet rhythm to it, a kind of unspoken understanding that came from deep love and trust.

When dessert came out, Jake set the plate in front of you first, brushing a kiss to your temple. Bob caught the way you smiled, the way Jake’s hand lingered on yours for just a moment longer than necessary.

Bob glanced at Phoenix, who raised her eyebrows knowingly. “That’s love,” she whispered, and Bob couldn’t agree more.

Rooster

Bradley Bradshaw noticed it during a pool game at the Hard Deck.

Jake had always been competitive, but tonight, he wasn’t playing to win against the squad—he was playing to impress you.

Every shot he made, he’d glance over at you, his grin widening when you clapped or cheered. But it wasn’t just the showmanship that caught Bradley’s attention. It was the way Jake handed you the pool cue, guiding you through your shots with a patience Bradley hadn’t thought him capable of.

“Am I doing this right?” you asked, laughing as you tried to line up your shot.

“You’re perfect,” Jake said softly, his voice so low that only you and Bradley heard.

Bradley rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips. “You’re whipped, Seresin.”

“And happy about it,” Jake shot back, winking.

Bradley couldn’t argue with that.

Payback & Fanboy

Fanboy and Payback noticed it on the beach.

It was a rare day off, and the squad had decided to hit the sand for some football and relaxation. You’d tagged along, sitting under an umbrella with a book in hand while the others played.

Jake kept sneaking glances at you between plays, his grin growing every time you looked up and smiled.

When the game ended, Jake jogged over to you, dropping to his knees in the sand beside your chair. “Having fun?” he asked, brushing sand off his hands.

You smiled, closing your book. “Always, when I’m with you.”

Mickey nudged Reuben, jerking his chin toward the two of you. “Look at him. That’s not the Hangman we know.”

“Nope,” Reuben said with a grin. “That’s Jake. Big difference.”

Coyote

Javy had known from the beginning.

He’d been there when Jake first mentioned you, his voice tinged with something Javy hadn’t heard before: vulnerability. He’d watched as Jake navigated the early days of your relationship, unsure of himself in a way that was both endearing and rare.

At a barbecue one weekend, Javy pulled Jake aside, nodding toward you as you chatted with Phoenix and Bob.

“She’s good for you, man,” Javy said.

Jake nodded, his gaze fixed on you. “Yeah. She is.”

“You ever gonna tell her how whipped you are?” Javy teased.

Jake smirked. “She already knows, no need to say it.”

The Moment They All Realized

The squad’s collective realization came during another gathering at your house.

It was late, and the group was sprawled across the living room, laughing and swapping stories. You were in the kitchen, tidying up, when Jake disappeared without a word.

A few minutes later, he returned with a dish towel over his shoulder, carefully carrying a handful of freshly washed glasses.

“Need a hand, sweetheart?” he asked, walking straight to you.

The room went silent as the squad watched him press a kiss to your temple before helping you dry the dishes.

Phoenix broke the silence first. “Holy shit. He’s a househusband.”

The room erupted in laughter, and Jake looked over his shoulder with a smirk. “Jealous?”

“Absolutely,” Natasha said, grinning.

As the laughter died down, Javy raised his beer. “To Y/N,” he said.

You looked up, surprised. “To me?”

Javy nodded. “Yeah. You turned Hangman into Jake. And we love you for it.”

The squad cheered, and as Jake’s hand found yours, you squeezed it, your heart full.