his breath catches as you drop to your knees unceremoniously, the gentle press of your lips to his knee turning him rigid instead of its intended effect.

"you're gonna give me a complex." he comments, petulantly, rolling his shoulders in an effort to soothe his nerves.

you shoot him a grin, thumb circling his forearm, "have i told you how much i love you?"

his head tips with an unimpressed look, "only when you want me to do absurd things like this."

"well!" you rise up to sit on your thighs, "i gotta take measurements for before. and then after. some self-control?" you point out, with your hands tugging at his waistband.

"telling me to have self-control with you on your knees like that is a big ask. but wait. before and…after? after what?"

"measuring you when you're soft, and when you're rock hard." you say simply.

"oh good gosh. you've thought this through. don't tell me there's a chart?" the prospect of it horrifies him, but it’s strangely arousing all at once.

gently, you guide clark's very soft cock out, teeth caught on your lower lips, all eager with anticipation. at the very first glance, you're mesmerised.

"whoa…i've never seen it close up this soft before."

clark lets out a sharp exhale at the sudden brush of cold air, body tensed like a rod as you make your initials observations. "yeah, well…it isn't exactly a state i…would prefer to show off."

you hold the hefty weight to your palms, tilting it, "mhm.."

clark's hips involuntarily jerk at your touch, gripping tight around the vinyl, "geez…you're staring at it like it might grow two legs and walk off."

"i mean..it's really pretty." you mumble, thumbing gently over the skin covering his shy tip, to the veins that were visible down his length, "well, in the general baseline as far as dicks go."

he twitches in your palm, and you shoot him a warning glare. "easy there, tiger. i need the before measurement."

clark groans audibly, jumping at the sound of the measuring tape being expanded. you thoughtful angle it flattened onto your palm, "five…six…wow! not as big as i expected."

"hey!" he bleats, cheeks flushed even more, "i-it's cold, you're staring, i demand a re-measure in more…favourable circumstances."

you snort, "that defeats the purpose. it's supposed to be smaller when you're soft, dummy."

clark lets out a pained sigh, finding the entire situation a fate he'd eventually accepted. "you know what i meant."

"oh come on. now's the fun part. right?" you shuffle closer between his parted thighs, pressing a kiss to his soft tip. "we gotta wake him up."

he winces, letting out a low curse. "that's…hardly 'waking up.'"

you look up at him through your lashes, a grin curling at the corner of your lips. "greedy." his cock twitches in your hold at your tease, and you lower your head, kitten-licking along his length.

the tape measure remains forgotten next to you as you devote your attention to him. but after a good amount of effort, "huh. you don't usually take this long to get hard."

he gasps, offended. "really? you're measuring my…my junk out in the open. it's hardly a turn on. confusing, sort of…hot? but mostly confusing."

"if it's hot then get hard."

clark's jaw steadily flexes at the slow dribble of your spit, coating the base of his cock as you pump it up his tip. his head falls backwards onto the headrest, breathing turning more strained.

"okay. okay…it's…working."

"good?"

"m-mhm. yeah. real…good."

your eyes glint at his visual appraisal, and you wrap your mouth around the tip of his cock. the reaction is instant, hips jumping, bucking further into your hot, warm mouth.

"sh-shit. definitely, definitely working."

he's fully hard in your mouth now, thick and heavy against your tongue. the wet, drag of your tongue along his veins has him lifting off the chair. panting harder, "o-oh gosh, like that, not gonna…l-last—"

as quickly as his bliss had come, you'd cruelly pulled away with a loud pop! clark blinks at you, eyes hazy with frustration, confusion, and a dawning reminder as you pick the tape back up. but all he can focus on were how you lick his pre from your lower lip.

"seriously? now?"

"it has to be when you're still hard!" you counter.

"it's not a one-time-thing," he rasps, flinching as the cool metal tip meets his skin once more. he's breathing hard, chest rising and dipping in the wake of his arousal. gaze pleading for you to hurry up.

"mm. seven…eight," then, you gasp suddenly, "whoa! almost nine inches."

clark's head snaps down, in equal disbelief. "wait, really? no way."

you pause, frowning at him, "why the hell are you surprised. it's your dick." you angle him slightly with the measuring tape, "8.7 inches. that's…fully hard."

"i…i don't know. it's not like i actively measure myself. and —" he lifts his gaze, only to see your deeply perplexed one.

"are you…upset?"

"this is what's been in me the entire time," you begin, accusative, "no wonder i'm always fucking aching!"

clark straightens, his mouth agape in shock, "you're actually upset."

"no shit! i wanna go back to when i thought you were just six inches."

he slumps back in a long-drawn-out groan. with his cock painfully throbbing against his abdomen, he was certain this opened pandora's box was about to be a pain in his ass.

Mermaids have always adored humans, that’s what Marcellus told you when you were young. At that time, you felt like you had simultaneously unlocked the answers you’ve been searching for and gotten nothing out of it. Nothing truly changed in your life. 

That was until you met him. Cameron Cassmore. 

You wanted to help him at first. He was new to Sowell Bay, looking for someone while you were searching for a purpose of your own. You thought you were supposed to help him because then, maybe you wouldn’t feel as though you were stuck on this world for no reason.

That desire to help him later blossomed into a friendship rather quickly. You didn’t chase after him to fill your heart with meaning but instead you chased after him because he was the first friend you’ve had. 

So naturally, you wanted to help him with whatever was bothering him. Not because it was what you thought your purpose was but because he was someone you cherished. With all your heart.

There was just one problem. 

You weren’t well versed in romance. 

As people slowly start to roll out of the aquarium’s gift shop, you were watching a romantic movie in your spare time before you had to close up. You didn’t understand why people were so interested in stories such as these. In fact, it grows frustrating when the leads wouldn’t properly convey the emotions they felt for each other. 

Honestly, it just made your eyes roll and grip on your  phone to tighten. Your fingertips tap the counter as if the noise would make the time go by quicker. 

How were people interested in this crap? Have our tastes really devolved? You laugh to yourself. Great, now I’m starting to sound like a less intelligent Marcellus. 

Speaking of him, You never got back that ability to speak to him. You bought a goldfish from a pet store to see if you could channel that ability once more. You couldn’t. You didn’t know why you expected otherwise. Regardless, you still took care of the fish even going as far as naming it Marcy. 

You feel like one day you had to let Marcy go back to the ocean. But it was so big, full of sea creatures that could see it as prey. 

Maybe that’s how I saw Cameron- You freeze as the thought rudely makes its way into your mind. The idea of letting go of him felt impossible to you. But you knew that once he was done with his business in Sowell Bay. He’d leave and never return. 

You had to let him go. It was inevitable. Why didn’t you want to though? 

Were you just selfish? 

No, it was because you cared about him too much. More than you thought you would. And it scares you. 

Perhaps that in of itself is selfish. 

Your eyes drift back to the romantic film. It was nowhere near the part you were waiting for but you did take notes on how to set two people up. If you wanted to help Cameron with this mysterious Avery, then you had to do some research with your limited knowledge.

Didn’t expect it to be so boring-

You feel a fabric pressing against your cheek. When you move your head, you spot Cameron with an octopus stuffed toy in his hand, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. “Y’know, I was wondering when you’d finally notice I was here.”

Your face heats up. “Sorry… I was preoccupied with other things.”

Cameron tugs on the string of your headphones. “Yeah, I can tell. What’s got you so worked up anyway?” He leans forward, peeking at your screen from behind your shoulder. His confused frown turns into an amused grin as he notices what you’re watching. “That dumb movie? Heard from my band that it’s absolute shit.”

“Yeah, it is. I’m barely halfway through,” you grumble. 

“Didn’t expect you to be into films like that.” 

“I’m normally not. Just using it for…” You stop yourself for a second. There’s no way he’ll believe I’m actually watching these for fun. “Research.”

“Research?” His brows furrowed as if he was thinking about something deeply. “Why’d you need that?” He sets down the stuffed animal in his hands. You were taken aback by how bothered he looked. “You could just talk to me.”

I can’t because I’m setting you up with someone, you idiot.

“It’s embarrassing to talk about out loud.” You shrug your shoulders. 

“You never talked about romantic stuff.” He paused as if it finally dawned on him. Your body stiffens. Shit, did he figure me out already? “Is there a guy you like or something?” He leans against the wall, crossing his arms. A sign you normally notice when something’s wrong but right now? You were just thankful that he was dense. 

It was ridiculous to think about it in that way. For God’s sake, you were doing it for him. You weren’t doing it for some stranger that you had a silly crush on. It was more important than that. 

You decide to change the conversation. “Hey, have you heard from Tova? You guys got into a pretty big disagreement last time I checked so I was wondering if you’re both alright.”

That seemed to sweeten up his sour mood. “Oh yeah, we had one. It’s all fine now. She actually helped me find Simon Brinks. Or… tried to. It was a dead end.” He shivers. “I’d rather not think about that experience.”

“See! I told you!” You pat his back. “She grows on you.” You smile to yourself, thinking back to all the things she’s done for you. You’ve never been more grateful for a person in your life aside from Cameron. She was a figure in your life that you so desperately needed growing up even if you only saw her occasionally. You were glad that she helped him find a lead to Simon even if it didn’t give him the answers he wanted. A part of you was bummed you couldn’t help at all but you had already lost hope on that venture, now you had a new goal.

“I can see that,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “You sure have a good judgement of character.” His eyes flicker to his phone. You raise your eyebrow. He realizes you’re staring and puts the phone away. 

“Something the matter?” 

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. It’s just Tova… well, she did… something,” he says carefully. You stare at him expecting him to continue his story. He takes a deep breath. “There’s this girl I like. Her name’s Avery. I like her a lot and Tova- God, I don’t even know what she was thinking… but she thought it’d be fine to ask Avery to hangout and now, she wants to talk to me. I just… don’t know when.”

“Avery?” That’s all you could say. You already know who she was but he didn’t know that. You cross your arms, trying your best to look stern. “And you didn’t tell me?” 

“Sorry, it just-“

“I mean, I already knew but I wish you told me sooner.” It was strange feigning ignorance about Avery. Yet you thought it was better to be truthful as well. You didn’t want to be a hypocrite. “I overheard you talking to Marcellus. I left something so I went back,” you explain with a guilty smile, giggling when you saw his dumbfounded expression. “Guess we’re both even?” 

His face changes despite the red in his cheeks. A cute look, you think. Before he could respond, his phone starts ringing. He looked distraught. “Wait.. I can’t pick this up-“

“What?!” Now it was your turn to look dumbfounded. “Why not? Don’t you want to date her?”

“Of course I do! But I don’t know what to say! Tova set it up not me-“ You snatch the phone from him. “Oh my god! You two are the same-!”

“Hello! Is this Avery?” You hear her voice, your smile starts to slip. You don’t want to think about why. She asks what you were doing on his phone. “Oh, no! I’m not his girlfriend or anything like that. Just his close friend. He’s…” You turn to look at him, standing there, mortified. Your grin comes back. “He’s a bit embarrassed right now.” You hear a laugh. 

“Tell him he doesn’t need to be embarrassed around me.” It’s sickening how you don’t want to. Instead, you toss the phone to Cameron, giving him a thumbs up. 

“I got a close up. You got this. She seems like a nice girl and she definitely likes you.” He gives you a grateful smile before he leaves you be.

Tears fall from your eyes just as he leaves. You wipe them hastily as you close the gift shop. 

What’s wrong with me?

———

According to all the terrible romantic movies you saw, it was frowned upon to go third wheel on a date. Normally, you’d think that this was a logical answer. It just made everyone uncomfortable and awkward. You didn’t third wheel Cameron’s date with Avery. 

But you were staying nearby, just by pure coincidence. It was all to make sure things went according to plan. Besides, you could go for a quick swim anyway. 

You kept a respectable distance to make sure they wouldn’t spot you and just stared out in the water. You recall this place from your childhood. It’s when you tried to go back to your true home, the sea, naively believing that you could gain a tail and see your real parents again. 

That didn’t happen. You were still stuck here. For better or for worse. You watch Avery and Cameron get on their paddle boards and laugh together, exchanging stories like what you used to do with him. 

You shake that feeling away. That feeling you can’t name nor can you properly describe. 

There’s no way I can feel worse. A familiar voice calls out your name. A noise coming from someone you used to share a classroom with. You turn around and see an older version of the boy who used to put gum in your hair. 

“Tommy. Hey.”

“Shit! I didn’t realize you were back in town too! How’s it been?!” You couldn’t help but glare. How could he smile like that? Knowing how many times you had to cut your hair on your own to get rid of the trash he put in it. Knowing how alone he made you feel all throughout your childhood. He isn’t as obtuse as he once was. He could tell your distaste towards him. “I’m sorry. I know it’s an apology too little too late but I mean it. I was such an asshole to you. I didn’t mean it. You were like the sweetest person I know and an easy target-“

“Like that makes it any better?” 

“It doesn’t! But that’s just how I was when I was a kid.” He sits down on the ground next to you. “I used to have a crush on you. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“So your only solution to those feelings was to pick on me?” You asked unamused. Tommy sighs to himself.

“I didn’t know how to deal with it at the time. You were the weird girl of Sowell Bay. Everyone picked on you. I thought if they knew I liked you, they’d pick on me too.” 

“You made me feel the opposite of love.” You threw a rock into the water, trying to keep everything from spilling out. “You made me feel like I was hated. Alone. You helped make people hate me more than they already did.” 

Tommy hums. “I bet you’d know a lot about love now.” 

You straighten your posture, your glare becoming more hostile. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He raises his hands in defense.

“Sorry! That came out wrong. I just noticed you looking at that guy on the sea.” He pointed directly at Cameron. Your face heats up in embarrassment. “Is he an ex? A guy you like? Your boyfriend?”

“Why do you want to know?” 

“Just curious. I never got to know who you were. I’d like to know now.” 

“Well, just to be clear, Cameron is none of that! He’s my best friend.” You answer defensively. Maybe you were being too harsh on Tommy but with the way, he treated you back then, you think you’re justified. It was hard to let go of the past. 

Mermaids loved humans yet how did they never get angry when their efforts were never acknowledged.

“Really?” He looked surprised. “That was kind of the way I looked at you when no one was looking.” 

“What?” Your eyes widen. He was just messing with you again. You were sure of it. Maybe he never changed at all and he was making you second guess yourself. You look at his expression but he looks comically shocked. That wasn’t something you could fake especially an actor as terrible as Tommy. 

“I’m not one to tell you what to feel. But your face turns red when you look at him and you fidget with your hands.” He points out. “When you look at him, it’s like he’s the only thing you could pay attention to.”

“I was just zoning out,” you defend yourself. 

He lets out a loud laugh. You were almost scared Cameron could have heard. “I’ve known you since we were kids. I can tell when you’re zoning out and your cheeks don’t get like that when you do.” He pokes your cheek and you swat his hand away. 

“I- I was just making sure nothing bad happens. He’s my best friend. I don’t want him to drown.”

He scoffs. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.” He gets in the water. You raise your eyebrow as he grins at you. “Well, don’t you want a distraction? It must be boring ogling at him all day.”

“I’m not ogling-“

“Whatever. Come on, let’s catch up! It’s not like Cameron’s going anywhere.” He cuts you off, splashing you with the cold water, getting your outfit wet and making you shiver a bit.

You were about to say something in retaliation but you hear a splash. You instinctively turn to the sound and see Cameron in the water. You get up. “Cameron!” You yell, about to jump in the water to follow him. 

Then you hear the sound of laughter. His laughter. Avery’s laughter.

It’s a dagger to your heart. You physically wince at the sound. Tommy looks up at you concerned. 

“Alright, I’ll swim with you.” 

“Hey, you don’t have to—“

“I will.” 

You needed to take your mind off of things. Off of him.

It didn’t work. He was all you thought about as you were with Tommy. Even as he takes you back home. 

Something was seriously wrong with you.

———

Your shift the next day went by faster than you thought. Your mind was occupied with Cameron. That’s all you were thinking about at the moment. The only time you weren’t thinking about him was because of Tommy who heard you worked at the aquarium and wanted to stop by.

As much as you were hesitant to forgive him, your walls were slowly starting to crumble around him. He grew up to be a nice guy and you let your problems slipped.

It seems that he was firm in his belief that you were in love with Cameron which you found to be ridiculous. You failed to see his reasoning. You were likely just sick or something. You weren’t meant to fall in love with humans. 

Marcellus may have said that you were slowly adjusting to becoming a human but you still weren’t like them. You were different than everyone else was. It’s the truth that you could never get rid of. You may look like a human, feel like they do but you will never be one.

And Cameron deserved better than that. Maybe one day, you’d be fated to be in the sea again and he’d be left alone. You couldn’t do that. 

If only Marcellus was here. If only I could still talk to him. However, Tommy was a passable alternative.

You lost track of time talking to him. But a certain someone was quick to remind you. 

“Who’s he?” Cameron entered the gift shop as the kids and their parents were making their way out as usual.

“Tommy Houston.” Tommy extended a hand for the other to take. Despite his hesitance, Cameron shakes it. “You must be the Cameron Cassmore she keeps on talking about.”

“Yeah. I am.” He lets go and turns to you. “Can I talk to you? Alone? This place should be closed anyway.”

Tommy smirks. “Shouldn’t you leave too then?”

“I work here.” 

You didn’t understand the change in his demeanor. He wouldn’t usually act this guarded. Did you mentioned Tommy before? That could be the reason.

“It’s alright! I’m already heading out.” Tommy gives you a wink before leaving. You could see Cameron’s fists clench. 

“You okay?” You asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. He turns to you. The storm in his eyes softening and turning calmer. 

“Yeah, didn’t you mention a Tommy before? Didn’t he used to pick on you? Why’re you giving that asshole a chance?” 

“I know. And I don’t fully trust him. But I don’t want to hate him all my life. Even if I’m still upset.”

Cameron gives you a soft smile. Your heart skips a beat. He runs his hand through his hair. “Uh, by the way, Tova and I are going to a bar downtown and I was going to try to sing so I was wondering if you wanted to join-“

“Yes!” Your eyes light up. “I’d love to hear you sing.” Music was always tethered you to your past. To hear him sing, it would probably be akin to an angel. Maybe one day you could sing a duet.

“Keep your expectations low, alright? I’m not the best at it.” He rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’ll be there!” 

You’d prove that whatever was wrong with you had nothing to do with him. You were going to prove Tommy wrong. You did not have a crush on him. 

You were not in love with Cameron Cassmore.

———

Entering the bar made you wonder if you truly left the aquarium, with so many people crowded in one area, it was liver than any school field trip you’ve seen.

You never went to a bar before and you weren’t a big drinker either. You felt completely out of your element. You weren’t here for that though. You were here for him.

Tova was trying to encourage Cameron who was getting cold feet from the thought of singing in front of strangers. “Listen, I’m not even a singer.. so let’s- let’s get a beer.”

“Now’s the time for music. Not a beer.” She reasons. She gently grabs your arm and pushes you towards Cameron whose hands went on your hips to steady. “Convince him!”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. I used to sing in front of people all the time growing up! It was the one thing people liked me for.”

He bitterly chuckles. “Maybe it should be you there instead of me.” 

“No, it should be you. You signed up remember? Just…” you pause. No one was there to tell you had to calm your nerves. You didn’t know how to help. What would I want someone to say to me? 

“Just look at me when you’re feeling nervous. That way you could pretend you’re only singing to me.” You offered. 

“Okay.” He turns to Tova. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

When he leaves, you and Tova get a table. She stares at you for a bit. You knew she knew there was something wrong with you. She was giving you a sympathetic smile. You wanted to ask her what she thought until he stepped towards the mic.

He started singing a song you were unfamiliar with. The room was a bit noisy but you didn’t care. Once he sang the first note, it got you in a trance. He was staring at you like it was his goal. If anything, it seemed almost as if he was the mermaid rather than you were.

You listened to every lyric he sung, you hung on every note he let slip, every time he strung his guitar. 

You remember Tommy’s words. “When you look at him, it’s like he’s the only thing you could pay attention to.”

He was right. You were hooked on Cameron. You watched every action he did, you watched the way he grew more confident. It made you think back to your past interactions. Had you always felt this way around him? Your heart starts to swell as you let out a shaky breath. 

What makes it even better is how he was always glancing back at you even if he was slowly gaining confidence as if you were his anchor. Not anyone else. 

When he finished, he gave you a smile. A smile brighter than the sun, brighter than any treasure at the bottom of the sea. And it was all directed to you. 

Tova, after clapping for him, turned to look at you. “Oh, dear.” Everything was too much. Everything was too loud.

“I- I need to go. I’m sorry, Tova.” You leave before she could answer back. You leave before Cameron could approach the two of you. 

You leave the bar to quiet your thoughts. 

You stand on the sidewalk, your palm on a nearby brick wall as you try to steady yourself. 

Oh. Oh no. This can’t be right. 

I’m a horrible friend. I can’t- I’m not in love with my only friend. I can’t be. We’re different. We- We’re never- This was never supposed to happen. 

You look down at the concrete as it starts to pour above you. You can’t help but wonder once more if the true solution was to go back to the sea. That way you could escape your feelings, that way you could make everything better, that way you wouldn’t be confused.

This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been a human at all. You wouldn’t have to feel the pain of an unrequited love. You thought those films were exaggerating how much the pain hurt.

But as it turns out, you never understand what you don’t know. Now that you know what it feels like, you understand how deep it cuts.

The TV hummed softly in the background, filling the otherwise quiet trailer. The two of you were sprawled across the couch – well., you were. Eddie was sitting like a normal person, while you had somehow managed to claim every single cushion and half of his lap in the process.

“Uh…” he said, sounding far less casual than he had intended. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, baby.”

The faint furrow between Eddie’s eyebrows only deepened when you quietly climbed off the couch and knelt in front of him, your knees pressing into the cold linoleum floor. He didn’t dare comment on it, though.

Warm amber light spilled from the kitchen into the living room, catching in your already glimmering eyes when you lifted them to his. Your hands came to rest gently on his knees.

The crease between his eyebrows softened, giving way to a look that was still confused but far gentler than before. He felt your fingers twitch against him before they slowly trail higher along his thighs until they found the zipper of his jeans.

Eddie’s heart rate spikes as your hands continued twitching in anticipation, pulling down his zipper and tugging his pants down. He blinks down at you, his thoughts slowly turning into mush the more you tug down his pants. He then inhales sharply when your deftly hands reach for the elastic band of his boxers, curling your fingers into the fabric and pulling it down. The warm trailer air felt cool against his exposed skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

He can’t tear his eyes away from you as your face comes level with his soft cock, completely transfixed by the sight of you burying your nose in his trimmed balls. The faint scent of sweat mingles with the musky aroma of his skin, creating a heady fragrance that fills your nostrils. You breathe it in deeply, your mind turning into mush by the primal and raw essence that was so uniquely Eddie.

The crease between Eddie’s eyebrows returns, and a sharp breath escapes him when you nuzzle closer, the warmth of your breath sending a shiver racing across his silky skin, tracing delicate patterns that make his balls tighten slowly. The sensation leaves his fingers curling tightly against the couch cushion beside him.

Then, with a confidence that steals the air of his lungs, you rest your cheek against the underside of his cock and draw in a slow breath. The familiar scent of him settles around you – clean skin, traces of soap, and something unmistakably Eddie beneath it all.

Eddie wasn’t the first boyfriend you’d ever had, nor the first guy you’d been involved with, but he was the first one who genuinely seemed to care about his hygiene. Daily showers, the occasional spritz of cologne, and a level of self-maintenance that never went unnoticed. How could you not be obsessed with him?

His cock twitches against your face, betraying his nervous anticipation. For now, though, you ignore it, content to linger exactly where you are, committing every detail of the moment to memory.

“You always smell so good, Eds,” you hum against his skin, sounding soft and content. Your eyebrows knit together ever so slightly as you nuzzle closer, eyelashes fluttering when you draw in another slow breath.

Eddie’s breath hitches as your lips trail feather-light kisses along his hardening length. Each touch sends tiny sparks of pleasure racing through his veins, stoking the fire burning low in his belly. When you reach his balls, lavishing them with tender pecks, he can’t hold back a low groan.

Your fingers dance across the silky skin of his sack, exploring and caressing. The dual sensation of your lips and hands working in tandem is maddening, driving him to the brink of desperation. His cock throbs urgently, now fully hard, aching for more direct attention. But he doesn’t dare voice the plea lodged in his throat – not yet. He needs to see how far you’ll take this teasing exploration.

Your eyes are glossy with anticipation as they trail up to his face, watching every flicker of emotion that crosses his features. Your lips continue to brush soft kisses against the sensitive skin of his cock, lingering just enough to make his breath hitch again. Slowly, you part your lips, wetting them with a swipe of your tongue before lowering your mouth back to his balls. Spit glistens against his skin as you pull away, your gaze never quite leaving his as you bring your lips back to him, this time giving him a delicate yet determined suck.

He’s so captivated by the sight of you – so enraptured by his scent and his taste, your pupils are blown wide and cheeks warm with arousal against his sack. Eddie’s hips twitch upwards, seeking more of that delicious friction you teased him with. His cock juts out proudly, flushed an angry red and leaking with pre-cum. He’s aching, desperate for you to just do something, but holds himself back, wanting to prolong this moment you for as long as you needed.

Eddie lets his head fall back against the couch for a brief moment before straightening up again, unable to keep his eyes off you for long. His curls shift with the sudden movement, and his chest rises and falls with a slightly uneven rhythm. Slowly, he brings a ringed hand to your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his brows pulling together as he looks down at you. “You’re killing me here.”

“’M sorry, Eds,” you mumble with a small, shy smile tugging at your lips before pressing another kiss to his cock.

He lets out a shaky breath when he notices the way your eyes turn glossy, almost as though you were getting drunk on his scent alone. The sight sends a warmth curling low in his chest that spreads all the way down to his feet.

Your fingers twitch against him before drifting across the base of his cock, slow and absent-minded. Then you lean in again, pressing another sloppy kiss to him, your attention fixed entirely on him.

Eddie lets out a shaky breath when he notices the glazed, almost dreamy look in your eyes, like you’re getting drunk on nothing more than him. You rest your head against his thigh and slowly open your lips to take him into your mouth, the wet heat engulfing his sensitive tip. A deep, guttural moan rumbles from his chest at the sensation, his lips twitching and accidentally pushing more of his length past your lips.

“Sorry, baby,” he breathes out, dragging his free hand through his messy curls.

You hum as your tongue swirls around him, lapping at the milky pearl of pre-cum beading at his slit. Each lazy suck and pull sends jolts of pleasure shooting down his spine as he tangles his fingers in your hair, gripping lightly but not urging you to quicken your pace.

You shift awkwardly between his legs, almost wincing at the uncomfortable pool of arousal that started to seep into your panties. Reaching for him, you trail your free hand across the couch until your fingers find his, quietly threading them together as you take him deeper into your mouth with a deep sigh leaving your nostrils.

“You’re taking me so well, baby. So good f’me, hm?”

The grip on your hair tightens just slightly with your lips stretched taut around his girth, fighting the urge to thrust into the velvety confinement of your mouth. With a broken moan, he arches into you, chasing the pleasure without shoving more of his cock into your throat. The coil of tension in his lower belly winds tighter with each pass of your mouth, threatening to snap at any moment.

Eddie watches, transfixed, as you let go of his hand to trail it down your body until it disappears beneath your — his, actually — oversized shirt. The sight of you touching yourself, lost in the pleasure of his cock, is almost too much for him to bear. You slowly circle your clit a few times before you trail lower until your fingertips find your sloppy slit. The obscene squelch of your fingers dipping into your messy cunt fills the living room, mingling with the lewd pops and slurps and sighs of your mouth on his cock.

“Are you–” he groans and closes his eyes for a split second. “Jesus, baby. Are you fucking yourself?”

God, you looked so pretty like this – cheeks warm, your eyes glossy as they stares up at him, your hair slightly dishevelled from the absentminded grip he still had on your hair, drool and affirmative whimpers trickling down on his sack while you desperately fingered yourself. You’re so high on his smell and heavy cock, you grind down on your hand until your velvety walls flutter around your fingers.

Eddie lets go of your hair, petting the crown of your head as his thighs twitch under your face while he lets you work his cock in lazy yet greedy sucks and licks.

“Fuck, baby. I’m– I’m about to cum,” he manages to groan out. “Where do you want me, sweetheart?”

You maintain your pace for a few sucks more before you gently pull your head back, breathless from having him down your throat while your fingers continue pumping desperately in and out of your sloppy cunt. Your glossy eyes are still glued to his when your hand wraps softly around his cock. Your fingers look so small around him while you lazily jerk him off.

Eddie doesn’t last long at the vision of you between his twitching legs, one hand tightly wrapped around him while the other still thrusted desperately into yourself, expectant eyes looking back at him and drool pooling under your cheek and onto his thigh.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he moans out desperately, refusing to close his eyes as he watches each milky white spurt he gave you painting your face until your nose and chin is dripping with his cum.

You straighten yourself up just a little bit and open your mouth, sticking your tongue out to catch the last few ropes of cum and swallowing it down. You place soft kisses against his overstimulated and already softening cock as you let go of him.

But what really gets him is how you remove your sodden fingers out of your pussy and lick them clean, before wiping off his seed from your nose and chin, and bring your cum tainted fingers back into your cunt.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he groans out almost painfully, his sensitive cock twitching at the sight of you fucking yourself and pushing his cum deep into your pussy. “Look at you; so beautiful and desperate. Are you gonna cum f’me, hm?”

“Fuck, Eddie. I’m–” you cut yourself off as high-pitched whine escapes from your lips.

You don’t dare to look away from him, eyes wide and shiny with desperation, as low curses fall out of your swollen lips when the heat in your lower stomach begins to become too much. Your slick walls clench hard around your fingers, almost hard enough to halt your movements when you finally push yourself over the edge.

With one last high-pitched whimper, you fall back onto his lap, nose brushing against his cock while you try to take deep breaths. His hand finds your hair again, softly brushing strands away from your eyes.

“Pretty baby likes sniffing my cock, hm?” Eddie purrs, his chest still heaving heavily. You blink shyly and hide your face against his cock. “C’mon baby, don’t be shy now.”

His ringed fingers trail down your face until they come to rest beneath your chin. Gently, he tilts your head back, the tip of your nose brushing against his cock as he guides your gaze upwards until your eyes meet his once more.

“You know you could’ve asked me for this sooner, right?” he whispers as his fingers brush down your face.

“I-I didn’t know if you’d be up for it,” you whisper back.

Eddie’s dark brown eyes glimmer with affection as he looks down at you. A soft smile tugs at the corner of his lips, warm and impossibly fond.

“I want everything that you want,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on your face. “I love you.”

The confession makes heat bloom across your cheeks. Unable to hold his gaze for long, you hide your face against his thigh again.

“I love you too, Eds,” you mumble, your words muffled against him.

“In a van? I’m aware, it's all this town could talk about when you first got here.” Gossip ran rampant in Sowell Bay. Folks loved to act as if a newcomer was a rarity and Cameron Cassmore had given them plenty to talk about. He’s single handedly kept this town entertained for nearly a month now. You had heard things, about someone owing him a lot of money, how he seemed to argue with nearly everyone he met.

At open mic night, his demeanor was different. Less guarded. Probably helped that Tova was there, proving to everyone that this guy wasn't some dangerous drug dealer or whatever the rumor mill came up with this week.

Yeah, he was still awkward and needed a woman old enough to be his grandmother to strike up a conversation. After a beer or two, he had relaxed enough that Tova made an excuse about needing to leave (not before sending you a very obvious wink).

At the very least, Cameron would be a good time. If he could stop tripping over his own words.

“Oh, yeah.” He was clearly uncomfortable with the gossip surrounding him. Granted, it's not like he tried to fly under the radar, "It's not bad or anything. I mean, the heater doesn’t work but I have a ton of blankets. If you're cool with that, that is.”

He doesn't want to take you back there, it's clear as day. So you offer him an alternative.

“We could go back to my place if you want.”

He nods, “Yeah. We could do that.”

Cameron is silent in your car though his body can't seem to stay still. He alternates. First, fidgeting in the passenger seat, shifting his hips like he's trying to get comfortable. Knees bending despite there being plenty of room to accommodate his long legs. Then he’ll run a hand through his hair, once, twice before moving on to fingers. Tracing over his many tattoos, finding something on his nails to pick at.

“Been awhile?” Your tone is light, well meaning. And yet, one would think you had just accused him of murder.

“No. Actually. Uh, before I came here I had a girlfriend. Not that she's still my girlfriend, we broke up before I left. But we did…it pretty regularly. So no, it hasn't been a while. I mean, it's been a while since I hooked up with someone but that's just more of a situational thing. Totally doesn't impact my ability at all, if that's what you're wondering.”

Alright, that was kinda a lie. The last two months of his relationship with Katie, things had cooled off in the bedroom. She was always tired or something. And it had been almost two months since he arrived in Sowell Bay so…four months and some change. But the last thing Cameron needed was for you to think he couldn't deliver. You were cute, you actually approached him at the bar. When was the last time something so serendipitous happened to him? He couldn't remember. So he had to play it cool and he'd like to think he was doing an alright job at it.

“Hooking up with someone you barely know is really different than having sex with your girlfriend. For all you know, I could be a serial killer,” you were joking but the way his eyes widened again, it was clear he was in over his head and your comment did not help.

“I'm not. Besides, too many people have seen us together. You also have a job that requires you to be punctual. So if you go missing, it'll be noticeable immediately.” Oh God, you were scaring the poor kid, “Sorry, I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts.”

He laughs and for the first time since he sang on stage, the facade breaks. His shoulders relax, a crooked smile forms on his face. The corners of his blue eyes slightly crease. Its really fucking cute.

It lasts until you pull into your driveway.

“You live here?” Cameron asks, incredulous at the sight of your townhouse.

“I mean, I rent it, if that’s what you’re wondering.” It makes Cameron feel slightly better, feel less like a loser who lives in a van. But once his feet hit the gravel, his body tenses up. He’s going into your house. You live in a house and you’re his age. A nice house, all by yourself. And what does he have?

He just needs a little more time. That’s all he ever needed. A little more time, and he’ll meet Simon Briggs, get eighteen years worth of child support, buy an actual car, pay back Aunt Jean, and then rent out a nice place. Maybe he’ll even have enough for a down payment for a house or maybe a condo. Yeah, a condo with a patio. Nothing like the shitty one bedroom apartment he lived in with his mom until she-

“Cameron?” Your voice breaks him out of his racing thoughts. Somehow, he got to your porch, feet just steps away from the door like he’s a fucking vampire waiting to be given permission to enter. You’re in the doorway, not quite inside your home but not outside either.

Anxiety is practically pouring out of him. It was endearing though. So you take a step forward, grasping his large hand into yours.

“It’s been a while for me too,” You confess.

“What? No, I just told you-” You don’t let him finish the blatant lie. No amount of eye rolls would do the trick, so you let your lips shut up his. There’s the distinct remnants of whiskey on his lips. They’re surprisingly soft. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘guy who applies chapstick regularly’. He’s rusty at first, body stiff. His nose smashes into yours, as though he doesn’t know where else it could go. Cameron’s fingers twitch, as though he wants to move them but just doesn't know where.

The last month before the breakup, all they had done was exchange quick, tight lipped kisses. Looking back, it was clear Katie was looking for any excuse to break up with him. It was even clearer that Cameron hadn't passionately kissed someone in a fucking while.

Just when he remembers what to do with his damn hands, you pull away. That was a total shit kiss, like did he even do anything besides stand there? Cameron should just go home before you ask him to-

“Let's go inside,” you give his hand a gentle squeeze before leading him into your living room.

“You have a fireplace in your house?” he stares in amazement and if he hadn't dropped the fact his mom was a drug addict who abandoned him, you would be confused by his reaction.

“It's really common in the houses up here. Gets cold in the winter and there's plenty of trees.” He continues to stare at it, like it’s hypnotized him. Reminding him of all the possibilities he could have had in his past. In the present.

“Why don’t we go to the couch?” That’s when it hits him. Why he’s here.

He doesn’t want it to be a one night stand. Yes, that would be much easier. But talking to you is nice. You don’t treat him like an idiot. You don’t listen to the gossip that swarms this town. You’re cute, but also sincere. There’s a calmness to you that he yearns for. Always had, if he really thought about it.

So he lets you lead him over to the couch and sits down first. It gives him more time to gather his thoughts, more time to plan how he’s going to convince you that he should be more than a one night stand. He doesn’t have the money to take you out to a nice restaurant-do those even exist in Sowell Bay or is it all family style restaurants where everyone knows everyone? And he could, if he dipped into his paycheck. Or maybe he could take you out on a picnic. Tova probably had a picnic basket he could borrow, she seemed like that type. He could get sandwiches from Ethan at a discount and it wouldn’t give you food poisoning as long as you ate it the day of.

“You think really loudly,” you giggle, running a hand through his soft hair. It’s mused from his earlier fussing with it and the ends are beginning to curl, “It’s really cute.”

“It is?” His eyes are wide and bluer than the ocean. It's the fact he's genuinely surprised by the comment that gets you.

Aw.

“Also if you’ve changed your mind, it’s okay, like really. We could just watch a-”

“No! I mean,” he clears his throat, clearly a nervous habit, “I’m fine. I’m not nervous. It’s not like I’m a fucking teenager and it’s my first time.”

You straddle his waist, much to Cameron’s surprise, “It’s just your first time in a while with a stranger, right?”

“I mean, there was one time me and my ex were on a break-”

Nope. You weren’t listening to this. You tugged on his hair, forcing him to look up at you. Before another excuse could fall from his lips, you pressed yours against his. This time, Cameron remembered what to do with his fucking hands. They reached for your shoulders, helping you push off your jacket. It landed on the floor, somewhere. He could pick it up for you later, if he remembered.

His hands skimmed across your back, landing at your hips. He really wanted to grab your breasts, he had been trying not to stare at them all night. But that would be too much too soon.

At least he's a better kisser this time. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and a low sigh escapes your mouth. Cameron wants to hear it again. Like now. He's never felt this need so badly, to know you're enjoying it as much as he is. He wouldn't call himself a selfish lover, it was just never a driving force behind his actions.

He gives your hips a tentative squeeze and you shift in his lap, aligning your core with his crotch. You don't notice it at first, but then his mouth is exploring your neck and it feels really good. But this time when you shift, you can feel his erection pressing against your clothed core and fuck he’s already this hard from kissing?

Cameron is painfully aware how pathetic it looks to be this hard from a make out session. But you keep letting out these soft moans every time his teeth find your pulse point below your jawline and it's the hottest sound he's ever heard. He wants to hear it again, more than he wants to thrust his hips upwards to get some relief.

You grab his hair again, giving the ends a tug so he's forced to look up. He's pretty like this. Hair curly, pink lips slightly swollen. Adam's apple bobbing hard in his throat. Curious, you rolled your hips against his and his head tips back. His teeth are biting down on his bottom lip hard.

You could make a comment about it. But then he'd probably try to make an excuse, try to explain it away. And you don't want that. So instead, your mouth attaches itself to his neck and you continue to grind against his erection, having never been more grateful to be wearing a dress. Even though there's still two layers of fabric separating your bodies, you can feel how hard he is. His cock twitches against your covered core and it makes you want to swallow him whole.

You continue to rock your hips, delighting in the strained, breathy groans that fall from his mouth. Cameron can't help but jerk his hips upwards when your teeth sink into his neck. Fuck, you're marking him. He hasn't been this excited about a hickey since ninth grade. He can hide it with his hoodie, or maybe you want others to see?

Maybe you wouldn't mind if he gave you one? The thought thrills him. He's certain by tomorrow morning the whole town will be talking about how the two of you were seen going home together. But you didn't seem to care about that or the fact he lived in a van. So maybe you wouldn't mind if he marked you?

“Should we um…go to your bedroom?” His voice is strained, broad chest practically heaving. His hands are gripping your ass and unfortunately it's not because he wants to cop a feel. The reality is Cameron needs you to stop grinding against his cock because otherwise he will one hundred percent come in his pants.

You nod, leading him up the stairs. Cameron has to bite his tongue so he doesn't comment on the fact your place has three levels. Of course it does. You have your shit together, for a while now. And it's obvious he doesn't. He was also close to coming in his pants like a damn teenager.

He wants to see you again. But that won't happen if he's gawking over the fact you have an office and coming in his pants. You didn't seem to pay any mind to the gossip surrounding him but you've still heard it. He needs you to see that he's not some loser who lives in a van down by the river. He has potential, always had, the circumstances have just never been right and they're so close to being that.

He just needs a little more time.

Right now, he can't do much over the fact that locating Simon Briggs is harder than finding a needle in a haystack. But he can give you an unforgettable night. He can prove that he's worth keeping around, even if it's just for a tousle in the sheets.

So instead of ogling at your breasts, which look amazing in your lacy bra, he's studying your face as his fingers curve inside of you. He's listening for your breath to hitch, for you to let out one of those sweet moans so he knows what he's doing is actually bringing you pleasure.

Cameron has never thought so hard about this. Usually he considers fingering just part of the ‘warm up’, nothing too special. But what if he's bad and that makes you reconsider? If he can't use his fingers right, how could you expect him to pleasurably use…other parts of him?

His thumb draws a circle on your clit and he notices how your back arches off the mattress. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

“Yeah? You… you like that?” He winces. It sounded sexy in his head. But it comes out unsure and clunky. Usually he's the quiet type. But he's heard that erotic audio has become a big thing lately, so women must like guys who talk during it.

“I think you should get a condom.” Your voice is even and that worries Cameron. Shouldn't you sound a little more out of breath? Oh God, does he suck at this? Was Katie just faking it this whole time?

“You, you sure? I can keep going if you want.”

“I'm ready and it seems like you are too.” You're referring to the fact he's painfully hard in his boxers. At least he remembered to do laundry yesterday, the last thing he needed was for you to see him in a ratty pair of boxers that had more than an acceptable number of holes in it.

“Do you need one?” You run a hand through his curls to get his attention.

“No, I'm good. Absolutely have one. Cause why wouldn't I?” He nearly trips over his shoes to get to his pants and he hopes that maybe, just maybe, he has a condom that hasn't expired in his wallet.

Fuck, he doesn't. Because why would he? Katie was on the pill and despite everyone assuming he's a fuck up, she was the only one he was with for the past year.

“If you need one, second draw from the right.” Cameron looked to find you sitting up, legs to your chest.

“I usually have one. It's just been a while since I needed one. My ex was on the pill and I'm totally clean. I don't just walk around, putting my dick in everyone,” Jesus Christ, why did he say that? “What I'm trying to say is I don't want to get someone pregnant. I’d make a terrible parent.”

“I don't know you well enough to agree or disagree,” you chuckle, “But it's okay. You're fine, I promise.”

Cameron can't help but feel a pang of disappointment run through his body when he finds an opened box of condoms. Obviously you two aren't dating, you were free to fuck whoever you'd like. But that meant….you were free to fuck whoever you'd like.

He could be impressive, leave you wanting more. He'd like to think he’s decent at the whole sex thing.

Just needed to get this stupid condom on.

“I got you,” your voice is soothing. Cameron watches as your fingers roll the condom down his hardened length.

He has to make this good. Hell, unforgettable. You have a real, adult job (what it was exactly, he couldn't say at this current moment), and live in an actual house. Cameron knew he had a lot to offer, probably. But in this moment, he needed to wow you, make you want him back. Then he could prove he can be more than just a one night stand.

“You okay? Breathing kinda heavy.”

He doesn't respond back. If he does, he’ll just make up some excuse and that's the last thing he needs. Cameron surges forward, mouth crashing against yours. You're taken aback by the sheer force of his kiss.

One of his hands cups the nape of your neck, the other lays against the small of your back. He uses his hands to gently press you down against the mattress. You look like an angel among the pillows. A really sexy angel.

Focus.

His nose nuzzles into your neck, inhaling your sweet perfume. You smelled really, really good but he knew admitting that would make him look like a fucking weirdo. He wouldn't mind this, his body on top of yours, face buried in your neck.

Maybe afterwards.

For now, he grabs the base of his cock and guides it to your soaked core. The gasp you let you when his cock drags against your folds is music to Cameron’s ears. He still has it. One bad breakup didn't ruin his game.

You can feel every inch of him like this. The fat head of his cock rubs against your clit and you can't help the moan that falls from your lips.

“Sound really pretty when you do that,” Cameron says against your neck, “Gonna make you do it a lot tonight.”

“Y-yeah?” You try to chuckle but it's really hard when he’s rutting his cock against you. So instead you rake your nails across his inked biceps.

Usually Cameron doesn't talk. He’ll grunt occasionally, particularly when he's close to coming. But you don't need to know that.

“Yeah. Gonna make you feel good.” Every gasp and moan that fell from your lips motivated him.

“If you k-keep doing that, I'm gonna come,” you grit between your teeth.

“Want to come with me inside you?” You nod and Cameron has to fight the urge to raise a fist. He's doing this, things are actually going well.

He stills his hips and guides his cock down to your entrance. He sinks the tip in and holy shit, it feels like you're pulling him in, you're so tight.

“F-fuck. Bigger than I expected.” He should be walking on cloud nine with that compliment. Yeah, he always knew he was above average in that department. It's still nice to hear, puts some pep in your step. But Cameron can't because he's too busy trying not to come immediately. You're just so warm and feel incredible and yeah, it has been a long time.

So he stills his hips again, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. His eyes trail over your body, landing on your bare chest. Fuck, your tits. They somehow looked even better without the lacy bra. He couldn't stop himself, bringing one of your breasts to his mouth.

The action causes his hips to move forward, his cock to sink another inch deeper. Your fingernails have become well acquainted with his back, leaving half crescent marks scattered across his shoulders.

You feel incredible. Actually, incredible was an understatement. It's taking everything in him not to fill you to the brim, to not come immediately.

He slowly pulls out, just a little. Then he thrusts back in and shit. Shit shit shit. This is fucking amazing. You were so tight and warm. His hands find the backs of your thighs and he pushes your legs closer to your chest. He doesn't think he can do that whole “your legs over his shoulders” thing because who the hell is that flexible besides gymnasts? So this seems like a good compromise. Plus it makes him look like he can take charge.

So he does and fuck, this is a terrible idea. The new angle allows him to go even deeper, something he didn't know was possible. With every kiss you press against his lips, Cameron finds his brain becoming more and more cloudy. The only thing he can focus on is this need to fuck you, to make you moan, make you come. He needs it desperately.

“F-feel s’good,” his words are slurred, which is odd considering he only had two beers, “Gonna make you feel better.”

But also you feel so fucking incredible. He can't deny that either. You're warm and tight, so fucking tight. Your walls grip his cock and has he ever had sex this good? He needs to focus, you have to come first, but you feel fucking fantastic and oh God, you just clenched around him and fuck. No, no, this was not happening, this could not be happening.

“F-fuck, wait!” He tries to warn you, tries to pull out. But your legs are wrapped around his waist and it's too late. His hips are jerking forward uncontrollably and he can feel himself coming coming into the condom.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Fuck!

He's pulling out before you can process what just happened. It's not until you see him taking off a now very full condom that it hits you.

Oh.

Honestly? It was hot. You never had that kind of effect on a guy before.

“Sorry, I um,” his face is bright red, “I-I’ll leave.”

“Why?” He paused, boxers barely on, “B-because I just came after two minutes of sex like a fucking teenager?”

You shrug, “I thought it was hot.”

His blue eyes widened, “You did?”

Nodding, you prop yourself up against your pillows, “Yeah. You were really into it, which was honestly refreshing. Most guys try to act like they're above it. I liked that you’re enthusiastic. I like that I made you feel that good."

He's staring at you like you just told him a mind blowing secret. A million thoughts are running through his head.

“Really?” Is all Cameron can get out. He's standing in the middle of your bedroom, clad only in a pair of worn boxers. His chest is rising up and down rapidly, like he just ran a marathon" "You don't think it's like, beyond pathetic?"

“Really,” you assure him, “I’d hate to see you leave so soon. We could still hang out or-”

“You want me to stay?” he sounds incredulous. Is such a concept that foreign to him? You knew there was more behind the sarcastic comments and eye rolls. Just weren't expecting it to be such….lonelieness.

“I would love for you to stay, Cameron.”

He nods his head, like that four letter word didn't just knock him off his feet. Silently, he moves back to your bed, his lips pressing against yours. This kiss is different. More urgent. Fervent almost. As though he thinks you slip through his fingers if he doesn't.

“You didn't come,” he whispers against your neck, lips trailing down your body.

“It's fine-” Cameron's shaking his head before you can even finish your sentence. His mouth skims over your chest, his breath against your nipples creating goosebumps across your body.

“No. Need-wanna make you feel good,” is all he says before settling himself between your thighs.

Before you could respond, he dived into your heat, eagerly. His tongue circled your clit in deliberate strokes, his eyes glued to your face, watching for every little reaction.

Somehow you tasted sweet and tangy and all too addicting. Cameron saw how your back arched when his tongue found your entrance. He shifted, moving your thighs so they hugged the sides of his face. His cock was throbbing (how, he didn't know) but Cameron didn't care. Every brain cell was focusing on you, making you feel good.

It's how he noticed that while his tongue was making you moan, it wasn't the same as when he sank his cock into you. Not as breathy, not as needy. Fingers. He had long fingers. It's how he was able to learn the guitar and actually be quite good at it.

His mouth moved back up to your clit, allowing his index and middle finger to circle your entrance.

“C-Cameron, please.” Good. Yes. He sank his fingers into your wet entrance. Fuck you were tight. Had he actually obtained any will power, he could have felt that tightness with his cock for longer. But he couldn't harp on that.

He crooked his fingers upwards, trying to find that spot. Normally this wasn't a mission, his fingers and Dick were long enough that they usually ended up finding it without any extra effort.

Cameron couldn't just hope now. He already left a less than desirable impression with how he came after maybe five minutes of sex. He had to prove he was good at this, that he wasn't some jackass who lived in a van and didn't care if his partner came or not. He was good at something damn it and you were going to see that.

All while having this internal battle, you were fighting the urge to claw at his shoulders. No guy had ever eaten you out with this much vigor. His broad tongue drags a flat, wet stripe across your clit and oh fuck.

Your back arches off the mattress, fingers tangling themselves in his hair. He's a quick learner, you'll give him that. He repeats the motion and God, he’s looking at you with such intensity, studying every little reaction.

“F-fuck, don't stop,” and he's a much better listener than he appears because he doesn't. He keeps going, keeps moving his fingers in a come hither motion that feels so good it's making your hips roll upwards. Cameron doesn't seem to mind that you're practically humping his face. In fact, he seems to enjoy it given how his own hips are jerking against your mattress.

“Don't stop. M’gonna cum,” you can barely get out more than several words, much less a full sentence. You expect him to pull away, like most guys do.

Instead, his mouth continues. Your body feels light. There's a warmth that's spreading, seeping into your veins. A band is tightening in the pit of your stomach, tightening with every stroke of his tongue.

His fingers brush against that one spot and you feel the band snap. You start to have a vague idea of what's going on, though it's hazy. Like the fact you can now feel his tongue lapping up your essence, nose bumping against your clit. The mattress is moving, ever so slightly, against the headboard with the way his hips are basically jumping your mattress. There's a wet spot quickly spreading from the crotch of his boxers, but Cameron hopes you have a washer dryer (why wouldn't you, you have a fucking fireplace) he can use. Right now, all he can focus on is the taste of you on his tongue, how addictive it is.

He's chasing after it, desperate. You have to pull his mouth off of your cunt for it to register to Cameron what you were saying.

“S-slow down. It's o-okay,” your breathing is uneven, tits nearly spilling out of your bra and all he can think is,

“Can I..go again? Like keep going? If you want…me to.”

clark gently cups your face with his hand—his big palm cradling your jaw. his thumb brushes against your cheek as he stretches you open inch by inch. your breath catches, walls fluttering around him, already feeling full.

his pace is steady, slow but deep, like he’s got all the time in the world. his body engulfs yours, his thighs naturally forcing your body apart for him. your hands are all over him, fingers dragging across heated skin, nails scraping over the hard planes of his back.

“breathe for me, baby,” he rasps, sliding his hand up your arm and weaving his fingers through yours and lacing them together.

you try, you really do, but fuck, the burn—it's sharp, making your thighs tremble and hips jerk. he’s big, ridiculously so and your walls clench around him instinctively, trying to pull him deeper. 

“that’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear as he brings your joined hands to rest beside your head on the pillow. “taking me so well.”

“mmph—clark!” you moan, feeling his thick, flushed head probe and stretch you to your limit.  

the pleasure is overwhelming as he bottoms out inside you over and over again—dark curls beneath his navel brushing against your clit. clark’s gaze drops, watching where his cock disappears into you, your slick coating him and dripping onto the sheets below.

“doin’ so good f’me,” he pants, hiking one of your legs around his waist. 

the bed frame creaks in time with his thrusts—his cock stretching you open deliciously. his hand tightens against yours, eyes transfixed at the sight of your face contorting in pleasure. your moans spill free, lewd and needy, mixing with the slick sounds of him fucking into you.

“so fuckin’ beautiful,” he mutters, his voice rough.

“clark—!” your voice cracks on his name. 

you feel all of him, every ridge and vein as he rocks into your heat. his thrusts pick up—he’s still holding back but not much as before. you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, heels digging into his back and pulling him in deeper. 

every thrust makes your breath hitch, your body rocking with his. clark dips his head, his lips finding their way to your pulse point—sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. his hand squeezes yours and the muscles in his forearm constrict as he keeps himself propped up. 

the feeling of his cock is too much, yet somehow, not enough. you arch your back, desperate for more and clark slips his free hand under your lower back to support the curve. the new angle has you moaning in ecstasy and the need for a release becomes greater and greater.

“you close, baby?” he mumbles, sweat dripping down the column of his neck.

unable to stop the gasps tumbling from your lips, you nod dumbly as he fills you over and over again. the rhythmic sound of skin against skin and heavy breathing fills the bedroom with each thrust from clark bringing a new wave of pleasure, leaving you wanting more. 

clark moves his hand from your back and shifts it to your stomach—feeling where he was inside you, how he filled you completely. his palm presses down gently against the bulge of your stomach causing your toes to curl. 

“see that?” clark manages between pants. “that’s all me…”

you feel him throb and pulse inside you as his thumb slides lower and circles your clit. that added stimulation, in time with his thrusts, sends shockwaves down your spine and the sound that slips past your lips is embarrassingly needy.

“i’ve got you, sweetheart,” clark whispers, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you.

you are unbelievably close and one more thrust is all you need before your orgasm washes over you. a broken moan tumbles from your lips as clark fucks you through your orgasm, chasing his own. 

clark’s hand tightens against yours as his thrusts become sloppy—his own orgasm crashing over him. his hips stutter as he buries himself to the hilt and stays there—pulsing hot, thick ropes of cum deep inside you. 

it feels endless—each spurt of cum painting your insides and filling you beyond capacity. you clench around him, your cunt milking every last drop until his cum starts to leak around the base of him, dripping down his balls.

clark rocks his hips lazily into your puffy, swollen cunt, his cock still thick and throbbing. your hips jerk weakly as his thumb continues to rub your clit raw—prolonging your orgasm. 

slowly, clark brings the back of your hand to his lips and kisses it softly as he begins to pull out—your nails leaving crescent marks against his skin. a soft whimper escapes you as he leaves your swollen cunt.

you’re wrecked, and so is he. your cunt misses his cock already, glistening and stretched from taking him so deep. your release mixes with his, sticky strings connecting your folds to his slick, flushed cock.

“easy, baby,” he murmurs, watching you clench around nothing. “i know… i know.”

But Eddie hadn't let you feel empty for a single second. Though he had a baseline energy that could normally be only describe as “erratic”, he’d surprised you by taking his sweet time.

Your clothes weren’t immediately torn off upon entering his room, instead he had noticed the tremor in your hands when you first sat on the edge of his mattress (whether from nerves or low blood sugar, you weren’t quite sure) and hadn't made fun of you or been annoyed or even called the whole thing off. Instead, he had taken your hands in his, kissing your knuckles one by one until your breathing slowed. When he finally kissed you, it wasn't sloppy or rushed. It was deep and deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

And when things had gotten heated, his focus had been entirely on you. He hadn't just dived in - he’d actually asked what you liked, or didn’t. What felt best - be it a position or technique. He wasn’t happy with “good” or “fine” - no, no. He wanted your eyes to roll back in your head and for his name to be a whimper on your lips.

Eddie had watched your reactions with a hungry kind of fascination, adjusting the angle of his hips, the pressure of his hands, guided by the noises you made and the way your back arched off the mattress. He had held your gaze through it, his eyes blown wide and dark, murmuring praise that actually felt genuine. When you fell apart more than once - he was right there to catch you, whispering how beautiful you looked, how good you felt, making sure you knew that this wasn't just about him getting off.

The ceiling of his trailer was still swimming in your hazy vision, the faint yellow glow of the streetlamp outside cutting through the gaps in the blinds to stripe across the walls. Your chest was heaving slightly, heart rate just beginning to slow down to something resembling a normal rhythm, but your brain was still floating somewhere in the stratosphere. You felt boneless, thoroughly blissed out in the best possible way, and entirely ready to pass out exactly where you were.

You needed to leave, as neither of you had discussed anything about you spending the night, but maybe he would let you breathe for a second instead of immediately kicking you out of his home.

A moment later, you felt the mattress dip gently as Eddie shifted his weight. You braced yourself for the request for you to leave, for the cold shoulder that usually followed a hookup when a partner decided their part of the bargain was done.

Oddly, it didn’t come.

"You still with me, sweetheart?" Eddie’s voice was a low rasp, thick with post-sex haze, but laced with a gentleness that made your chest tight. He didn't wait for an answer before he reached out, his fingers - not rough or demanding, but achingly soft - brushing a few stray hairs away from your sweaty forehead. His eyes were locked on yours, scanning your face like he was looking for any sign of distress.

You blinked, trying to clear the fog. "Uh, yeah," you managed to get out. "I'm... yeah."

He smiled, a crooked, genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Good. Fuck, you’re amazing."

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks - not just the flush of sex, but something shyer. You weren't used to… what was this? Pillow talk? Post-sex praise? Whatever it was, you weren't accustomed to being looked at like you were something precious - rather than just a body to occupy space for a few hours.

"Stay here," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple that felt far too reverent for the grungy trailer park setting. "Don't move a muscle."

You watched as he climbed out of bed, unashamed of his nakedness as he padded across the room. Usually, this was the part where they disappeared to the bathroom to pee, and you started hunting for wherever the hell your bra had gone off to. But Eddie returned with a clean, soft washcloth he’d obviously wetted in the sink.

The warmth of the cloth was a shock against the sensitive skin between your legs as he gently cleaned you up. He didn't rush or treat it like a chore to get out of the way so he could sleep. He wiped away the sweat and your combined releases with a care that bordered on worship, eyes never leaving yours, checking in silently to make sure the pressure was okay, that you weren't too tender.

"Okay?" he whispered, his thumb brushing your hipbone where he’d left a rather impressive hickey not twenty minutes prior.

You nodded, overwhelmed by the simple intimacy of it. "Yeah. It's... Nice."

He huffed a quiet laugh, leaning down to kiss your knee. "Just nice? I'm aiming for at least 'pleasantly pampered'."

"Pleasantly pampered, then. Absolutely,” you corrected with a small smile.

"Good. That's the goal."

To your surprise, after he tossed the cloth into the hamper, Eddie didn’t help you look for your clothes. He simply climbed back into bed, pulling the duvet up over both of you before gathering you into his arms. His skin was warm against yours, his heartbeat steady under your ear as he began to draw intricate patterns on the bare skin of your back. The sweetness sent a pang of emotion through your heart. You’d known him for a few years by this point, but you absolutely hadn’t expected all this.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Eddie’s voice cut through your thoughts a few minutes later, and you glance up at him. “Lost you for a minute there.”

"I'm, uh, not used to…” you cut the words off before you could embarrass yourself.

Eddie stiffened slightly against you, his hand pausing its rhythm. "Used to what?"

"Being... Treated like this." You hesitated, but the safety of the dark and the lingering haze of the endorphins made you brave.

“What’d you mean?”

You exhaled. “It sounds kinda pathetic to say it out loud.”

“Try me.”

"Just, I don’t know. Like I matter. Most guys... they hang around long enough to get what they want and that's it. Either they’re kicking me out or they’re leaving. They don't care if I'm okay after. They don't ask if I liked it. During or after. And it’s fine, I mean, nature of the beast, right -“

Eddie pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his brow furrowed. The playfulness was gone from his face, replaced by something that looked a lot like disappointment.

"What do you mean, 'they don't ask'? How is that even possible? You're... You’re incredible. Why wouldn't they want to know if they actually made you feel good?"

You shrugged, suddenly feeling exposed under his intense scrutiny. You’d absolutely said too much. Eddie didn’t sign up for a sob story when he’d invited you over, so why the hell were you dumping all this shit on the first decent guy you’d been with in ages (or maybe ever)? Damn, you knew how to ruin a nice moment.

“I dunno. I'm just... Not the type they care about."

Eddie let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, shaking his head against the pillow. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. And I've heard a lot of stupid things from the idiots in this town."

He reached up, tucking your hair behind your ear with a seriousness that made your breath hitch. "You are definitely the type to care about. If those guys made you feel like you weren't, then they're idiots."

"You don’t have to say stuff like that just because you fucked me, Eddie,” you whispered.

“I’ve known you for what, five years? So would it make you feel better if I’d say that even if we hadn’t just had sex, angel?”

"I -“ you thought for a moment, then shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “I'm just not used to someone like you."

"Someone like me?" he echoed, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Ooh - a freak? Or maybe a - gasp - metalhead?"

"Well yes. But also no," you said, tracing a tattoo on his arm. "Someone who actually gives a shit. Someone who makes me feel like... Don’t like, but like I'm the only girl in the world when we're… Not that I’m gonna hold you to that, since this was a one-time thing, but you know what I mean.”

Eddie’s expression softened, the disappointment draining away into something warmer. He leaned in and kissed you, cutting off your words with a slow, deep press of his lips that left you dizzy all over again.

"Well, how about you try and get used to it," he murmured against your mouth. "Because I plan on making you feel that way a lot more often. If you’ll let me."

He settled back against the pillows, pulling you tighter into his side before you could protest. "Now," he said, his tone shifting back to that lighter, teasing cadence, though his eyes remained serious. "Did you eat today? You came over straight from work, right?"

You blinked at the sudden subject change, but you knew better than to try and deflect him by now. "Uh, yeah. But I had something from the vending machine, so I’m fine.”

Eddie let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "A vending machine snack? That’s not real food, babe. That's cardboard with artificial flavoring."

"Hey, it sustained me for our activities,” you defended weakly.

"It like seven at night and I wore you out pretty good," he shot back, grinning to show he was teasing. "I'm making you a grilled cheese. Don't argue."

“I should probably go home -“

“No.”

“What do you mean no? Where are my clothes?”

“Do you really need them?”

"I'm naked, Eddie."

"And you're beautiful," he countered without missing a beat, leaning in to kiss you, quick and sweet. "I’ll get you one of my shirts to wear if you’re suddenly feeling so bashful. Then it’s dinner time.”

He started to get out of bed again, the energy returning to his limbs now that he had a mission of selecting you a shirt and then preparing you dinner. After rummaging through his dresser, he dramatically draped a Dio tshirt over your head so you looked like a ghost before you properly put it on.

"You're seriously making me food right now?" you asked, watching him hunt for his boxers on the floor.

"Starvation is a terrible aftercare strategy," he said, stepping into his boxers and then jeans and buttoning them with practiced ease. "I'm multitasking. I can be a rockstar in the sack and a short-order cook. I'm a man of many talents."

You laughed, the sound bubbling up out of you without permission. It felt good. Oddly real.

"Extra cheese?" He asked, heading toward the small kitchenette, his hair a wild mess around his shoulders.

"Yes please," you called out.

"You got it, princess."

You sat there for a few moments, listening to the sounds of him moving around in the tiny kitchen - the clinking of the frying pan, the opening of the fridge, the hum of the stove. It was all so domestic. Sweet. Everything you had convinced yourself you didn't need out of a quick fling, wrapped up in a package of leather and tattoos and a heart that was way too big for his own good.

You pulled his t-shirt over your head, the soft fabric smelling like him, and settled back against the pillows, listening to him mutter to himself about the butter being too hard for his liking, following by some absentminded humming to a song you’d have to ask him about later.

Thoughts flooded your head in his absence. You weren't used to being taken care of - in or out of the bedroom, much less treated like something fragile and valuable. But as Eddie walked back into the room a few minutes later, holding a plate with two perfectly golden grilled cheese sandwhiches, glasses of lemonade, and a please look on his face, you felt like you could probably get used to it.

"Eat," he commanded gently, setting the food on the nightstand and crawling back under the covers with you.

You took a bite of the sandwich he brought you, the cheese stretching perfectly, and looked at him. He was watching you, eyes soft and small smile playing on his lips.

“Good?”

"Delicious. Thank you, Eddie," your words came out as a whisper.

"Don't thank me," he said, pulling you closer. "Just lemme take care of you. That's all I want."

The smell of melted butter and toast filled the small room, mixing with the lingering scent of sex and Eddie’s leather jacket draped over the chair. You took another a bite of the grilled cheese and hummed in appreciation. It was simple, but exactly what you needed.

Eddie was still watching you with a satisfied expression, leaning back against the headboard, his own sandwich half-eaten in his hand.

"You really weren't kidding about your cooking skills,” you mumbled around a mouthful. “Probably would’ve come over a lot sooner if I knew how great the room service was.”

Eddie laughed a moment before his expression shifted. The playfulness faded into something more intent, though his eyes remained warm. "I've been thinking."

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Sweetheart, you wound me,” though his grin belied his amusement at your response.

You paused, sandwich halfway to your mouth as you thought about what he’d originally said. The phrase I’ve been thinking rarely led anywhere good in your experience. "What’ve you been thinking about?"

"Us." He set the plate back down on the nightstand and turned his body toward you, one leg bent up on the mattress so he was facing you fully. "I don't want this to be a one-time thing. Like, I really don't."

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. "Okay," you said slowly, trying to gauge where he was going with this. "I... I had a good time too. I think I’m free on Thursday, but I have to get up early on Friday for a -“

"No, I mean... I want to see you. Exclusively." He rushed the words out, like he was worried if he didn't say them fast enough, he'd lose his nerve. "Like, take you on actual dates. Or pick you up from work sometimes. Bring you dinner when you've had a shitty day. I want to be the guy you call when you need something. Not just a release. Though I can give you that too."

Your eyebrows shot up, surprise rippling through you. You weren't expecting him of all people to want to lock this down after one night. Most guys in Hawkins were allergic to labels, treating "relationship" like a dirty word.

"You want to be… Exclusive?"

"Yes," he said, simple and direct. "If you'll have me, that is."

You stared at him, a little stunned. It was ridiculous, really, how much you wanted to say yes right that second, but your brain was still trying to catch up with your heart.

"Eddie... We literally just hooked up for the first time like two hours ago. Isn't that a little... Fast?"

He let out a frustrated huff, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Why? Because I know what I want, and I think you do to?" He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "We’ve known each other for years, baby. I don't need to periodically hook up with you for like six months to know that I want something a bit more permanent.”

“Friendship and hooking up are two different -“

“I don't wanna share you.” The words came out in another rush, and a bolt of adrenaline shot through your veins. It wasn’t like Eddie owned you - but the fact that he wanted to slap a label on the two of you made you feel pretty good. “I don't want you going home with other random guys who don’t know how to make you feel the way you deserve."

You felt your cheeks heat up, his intensity washing over you. It was flattering, overwhelming, and more than a little terrifying. "I just... I don't know, Eddie. It's a lot to process."

"Is it?" He challenged, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes flashing with something dangerous and mischievous. He shifted closer, his hand landing on your bare thigh under the covers, his fingers tracing circles into your skin. "Or are you just used to settling for less? Because I think I can be pretty persuasive when I put my mind to it."

Your breath hitched as his hand slid higher, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Fuck, you still hadn’t tracked down your underwear from wherever he’d thrown it after stripping it off of you hours ago.

"Eddie..."

"Let me convince you," he murmured, leaning in until his lips were hovering just above yours. "Show you exactly what you'd be saying yes to."

Before you could formulate a proper response - before you could even tell him that you were already pretty convinced - he moved. In one fluid motion, he pulled the duvet back, exposing your legs to the cool air. He didn't give you a chance to cover up or shy away as he slid down the bed, hands gripping your hips and tugging you toward him until you were lying flat on your back, your legs falling open instinctively under his touch.

"Eddie, wait, I'm -“

"Shh," he hushed you, his breath hot against your inner thigh. "Just let me take care of you, baby.”

Eddie didn't bother to waste time with teasing or dragging it out. Before you could protest, he buried his face between your legs with a groan that sounded like relief, like he’d been starving and you were the only thing that could nourish him.

The first touch of his tongue was electric. He licked a long, slow stripe up your center, gathering the wetness there and moaning like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted. Your hips writhed against the mattress, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as the sensation overwhelmed you. He held you down, his strong arms wrapping around your thighs, large hands splaying across your stomach to pin you in place.

"You taste so fucking good," he mumbled against you, the vibration of his words sending shockwaves through your core. "I could stay here all night. Want me to try, baby? I’ll do it.”

Without waiting for an answer, he dove back in, his tongue delving deeper, exploring you with a thoroughness that bordered on obsessive. He wasn't just trying to get you off - he was worshipping you. He was learning every fold, ridge, and sensitive spot. Relishing each gasp and whimper he could pull from your throat. He alternated between broad, flat strokes that had you seeing stars and pointed, precise flicks against your clit that made your toes curl. Eddie’s tongue speared into you, and your inner walls clenched instinctively. Pressure began to build low in your hips, and you ground yourself against his face, seeking friction.

You reached down, fingers tangling in his wild hair to pull him closer, needing more. He moaned at the sensation, which only aroused you more.

"Eddie, p-please," you gasped, head falling back against the pillows.

"Tell me yes," he demanded, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. His chin was shiny with your arousal, his lips swollen and red and eyes blazing with lust. "Tell me you'll be mine, and I'll let you finish."

You whined in protest, your hips rolling futilely against the air, seeking the sensations he was currently denying you. "That's... That’s cheating."

"All's fair in love and war, sweetheart," he grinned, wicked and unrepentant. He leaned back in, pressing a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss to your clit, but not moving his tongue. Just holding it there, teasing you with the promise of more pressure. "Say yes."

"You're impossible.”

"I'm persistent," he corrected, flicking his tongue once, hard, against the bundle of nerves, making your legs shake. You were so close to the edge. "Come on, gorgeous. You know you want to. We're so good together. Say. Yes

Then he did it again, a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, curling it just right, before pulling away entirely. His ringed hands flexed against your thighs, continuing to hold you open for him. It was clear he was barely holding himself back, and his wish to stay between your legs all night was likely not an idle threat.

“Please, baby.” His breath fanned over your center, and what little composure you had snapped.

You let out a sound of pure frustration, somewhere between a groan and a whimper, hands gripping the sheets beneath you. "Okay! Okay, yes! Yes, I'll be your girlfriend!"

"Good girl," he growled, and then he finally stopped teasing.

He attacked your clit with renewed vigor, sucking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it in tight, rapid circles. Your back arched off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat as the pleasure crested, sharp and overwhelming. He didn't let up, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you steady as he wrung every ounce of pleasure out of you. He let your thighs clamp around his ears, not complaining for a moment as your hips rode his face.

It was honestly unlike anything you’d ever felt. It was intense and all-consuming, a white-hot rush that started in your toes and shot up your spine, detonating behind your eyelids in an explosion of stars. You heard yourself crying out broken versions of his name, and possibly some iteration of a litany of curse words as the waves crashed over you, leaving you gasping and trembling in their wake.

He worked you through it, because of course he did. His movements slowed as you came down, gentle licks and kisses to help you ride out the aftershocks. When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. His hair was a disaster, his lips practically bruised, and his eyes were glazed over with a mix of lust and adoration that made your heart stutter as your own vision cleared.

Eddie crawled slowly back up your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, chest, and neck, until he was hovering over you, bracing his weight on his arms. He dipped his head, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You could taste yourself on him, musky and sweet, and the sheer eroticism of it made your head spin. Not something you thought you’d ever be into, but there was a first time for everything.

"Don’t you taste good, sweetheart?" he murmured, nipping at your bottom lip.

"You're dangerous," you brought a hand up to cup his cheek gently.

"I'm yours," he corrected, turning his head to kiss your palm. "Exclusively. Remember?"

"I-I remember," you said, a smile finally breaking through the haze. "Gotta say. I think I'm going to like having a boyfriend who takes his job this seriously."

Your arrival at the Daily Planet had become a little strange. Honestly, if you were being truthful with yourself, your position as an “artist” had changed over time without you fully noticing it. Now you were an “editor,” though not the kind of editor who corrected articles line by line, making sure every comma was perfectly in place. That was never your thing. You were more like the person who had boosted the Daily Planet’s traffic after presenting that incredibly well-made report suggesting the newspaper redesign its website structure. You proposed making it more eye-catching, easier to navigate, and more adapted to the technology that advanced day after day. You talked about adding infographics, more interactive options for readers, and you even met with a college friend who knew programming to pitch the idea of creating a Planet news app for phones. Even so, Perry White, the boss, believed that when there wasn’t someone designing an illustration of a fire, or a new building that would become Metropolis’ newest attraction, or a drawing of Superman, then the newspaper lost part of its essence, even online. It was exhausting work, yes, because sometimes you had a thousand things to do at once, but if you were honest, your true passion had always been drawing, and that was what made you happiest.

You had notebooks with worn-out pages, the kind that felt soft to the touch because you had opened them so many times. Inside them, you had captured landscapes from your travels, the faces of strangers you found interesting on the subway, animals you spotted in the street while walking to work. It was an art you never intended to let go of, because drawing was like breathing to you. So having a job as an illustrator, even while doing other things at the Planet, felt perfect. You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Perry usually asked you to draw Superman. It was always Superman. Superman from the waist up for an opinion piece, Superman flying above the buildings, Superman standing in the middle of Metropolis, Superman stopping a plane from falling apart midair. That happened whenever Jimmy Olsen failed to capture his essence with the camera. You would simply watch the news footage that recorded the moment, pause the image at the exact second, and sketch that frame for the article. Done. That was your job whenever something important happened. Somehow, drawing Superman so many times in that heroic suit with the enormous S across his chest, with his strong and calm face, made you feel as though you knew him without actually knowing him. You knew how his lips curved when he smiled, how his hair fell over his forehead, how his muscles showed beneath the blue fabric. You had drawn him so many times that he felt almost familiar, even though you had only seen him in person once during an interview Lois Lane conducted.

“He’s ridiculously sexy,” Sam said, laughing while staring at your iPad.

Sam was one of your closest friends. She documented fashion shows in Metropolis and sometimes traveled abroad to cover international events. Occasionally, you illustrated for her because she insisted fashion should be captured in drawings, not just photographs, that brushstrokes held something cameras could never truly catch. You laughed at her comment because, deep down, you knew she was right. You looked at your iPad screen, where you had just finished the final adjustments for tomorrow’s article. There was your drawing of Superman, detailed down to the smallest feature, along with the edits prepared for both the website and the physical newspapers sent to print every night.

“No wonder Perry’s been in such a good mood today,” Cat Grant said as she walked by with a coffee mug in hand, stopping the moment she noticed the drawing. “Look at those shoulders,” Cat added, pointing at the screen with her finger.

You looked at your drawing while Sam held the iPad in her hands, admiring it like a work of art.

“Right?” Sam said with a grin stretching from ear to ear. “If I had your drawing skills, I would’ve already created every single scenario I’ve imagined with Superman and locked myself in my room for an entire week,” she admitted shamelessly.

Cat laughed when she noticed your cheeks turning bright red. You couldn’t believe the things they were saying, but you also couldn’t deny you’d thought something similar more than once.

“No… that’s… unprofessional, isn’t it?” you said, though your voice sounded more like a question than a statement. “I mean, wouldn’t that count as some kind of crime or something?” you added, feeling slightly guilty just for imagining it.

“Unprofessional? Please,” Cat said, shaking her head. “Thousands of people on Pinterest do that all the time. They call it fanart. I would’ve done the same years ago if I knew how to draw like that,” she said before taking a sip from her mug.

“Actually,” Leslie chimed in, your editing assistant, who had been listening from behind her desk before approaching, “I would’ve drawn myself next to Superman, holding onto his arm. That would make a pretty incredible thing to hang on a wall,” Leslie said with a knowing laugh.

Everyone laughed, and you felt yourself relax a little. Apparently, you weren’t the only one.

When everyone left to gather their things and finish up the last tasks before heading home, you stayed alone at your desk. You picked up your iPad and looked at Superman’s face. It was a half-body portrait, his face looking straight ahead, and you realized just how well you knew his features. His broad shoulders, his powerful chest, the sharp line of his jaw. You had only seen him once in person, during that interview Lois held on a rooftop terrace. You watched him from afar, hidden behind a column, your cheeks red as tomatoes. You remembered that he looked at you for a second, just a brief instant, and your stomach twisted like you’d been thrown onto a roller coaster. Of course he was a man with presence; there was no denying that. And you couldn’t lie to yourself either: sometimes your hands wanted to draw Superman without the suit, just in regular clothes, or with even less clothing, but you always told yourself that would be unprofessional. Now that you knew other people—or several other people—had the exact same thoughts, maybe you could draw him without guilt. Maybe.

Your breathing caught slightly at the thought. You looked at your notebook with the worn pages, the one you always carried with you, and carefully picked it up. You packed everything into your bag: the iPad, your pencils, the charger, the notebook. You slung the bag over your shoulder, but before leaving, you scheduled the next day’s posts and triple-checked everything because that was who you were: careful, organized, professional.

You walked toward the elevator with your mind somewhere else, thinking about lines and shadows and muscles. You were so distracted that when you stepped inside, the doors were already slowly closing, and you didn’t notice someone approaching behind you.

“I’m going down too,” you heard a voice say just as the gap between the doors narrowed.

Your eyes widened instantly, and the moment you reacted, you pressed the “open doors” button. The doors stopped and slid open again. And when they did, you saw Clark Kent standing there. He looked slightly hunched as always, his gaze lowered toward the floor, almost as if he’d been saddened by the thought that you’d left him behind. Or maybe he thought you ignored him on purpose. No… you knew Clark. He’d been your coworker for years. You knew he was clumsy and shy and always bumping into tables. But everyone in the office said his destiny was tied to Lois Lane’s, that they were meant for each other. Then you remembered you were about to go home and draw Superman, the very same man Clark had interviewed countless times, the same man who seemed so completely different from Clark in every possible way.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, feeling a little guilty for leaving him out. “I was distracted, I didn’t see you coming. I’ve had a thousand things on my mind at once and didn’t realize you were back there. Sorry.”

“No… I’m sorry… yeah,” Clark said, nodding several times in a row as though agreeing with something he hadn’t fully said out loud. He adjusted his glasses with his finger, something he always did whenever he got nervous. Then he stepped into the elevator and stood beside you, leaving a polite amount of space between you.

The doors closed, and the elevator slowly began to descend.

You smiled and looked forward again, watching the numbers change on the screen. You hesitated. Was what you were thinking appropriate? Absolutely not. But you had imagined it, of course you had, even before your coworkers planted the idea in your head. And now you couldn’t stop thinking about it while Clark stood right next to you.

“How was your day?” Clark’s voice interrupted your thoughts. You looked up at him, and the moment he met your gaze, he blushed immediately. Or maybe it was just the warm yellow light inside the elevator. But his cheeks were definitely pink.

“Exhausting,” you answered with a tired sigh. “I edited everything that’s going out tomorrow. But it’s all ready now, so I don’t have to worry about it until morning.” You paused before adding, “I heard Lois is interviewing the president tomorrow. And you’re interviewing Superman, right?”

Clark looked at you with wide eyes behind his glasses, as though he couldn’t believe you paid attention to the things he did.

“You know about that?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. Like it was some secret only he knew.

“Well… Perry mentioned it this morning during the meeting, and everyone’s been talking about it in the break room,” you replied, not understanding why he seemed so shocked. It was public knowledge around the office.

“Right… right, that’s true,” Clark said, looking away and pushing his glasses up again with his finger. He swallowed and fell silent.

Once again, uncomfortable silence settled between the two of you. But your thoughts drifted elsewhere again. Muscles. Superman was incredibly strong; that much was obvious. He had to be perfectly built beneath that suit. You could already imagine the drawing in your notebook, the lines of his back, the curve of his arms. You sighed without realizing it, a deep sigh Clark definitely heard. How tall was Superman exactly? He was certainly taller than you; you knew that much because when you saw him in person, you’d had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. But how tall exactly? Then you glanced sideways at Clark and noticed his height. He was very tall, much taller than the other men in the office. You should compare his height to Superman’s. They were probably the same height, or close to it. You looked at him again discreetly, but you’d seen photos of Lois and Superman together, and Lois was fairly short. When Clark walked beside Lois, he looked just as tall next to her. When you glanced sideways once more, he was looking at you too. Both of you looked away at the same time. Clark’s cheeks turned red as an apple.

“How tall are you, Clark?” you suddenly asked before you could stop yourself.

Clark looked at you in confusion, frowning slightly.

“Why do you want to know that?” he asked.

“Curiosity,” you admitted with a shrug. “Just curiosity. I’ve always wondered how tall you are.”

“I… well, I think the last time I checked, I was around six foot three, I think,” he said as though recalling something from years ago. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up slightly. “It’s been a while since I measured myself, honestly. But around that.”

“Oh,” you said, your mind instantly making calculations. Superman was probably the same height. How strange. You stared at the floor for a moment, and Clark kept looking at you as though expecting you to say more, something that never came. Then the elevator doors opened on the ground floor.

“Goodnight, Clark,” you said without waiting another second.

You stepped out of the elevator quickly, your heart beating slightly harder than usual. You didn’t turn around to see whether he stayed watching you or followed behind you. You kept walking toward the building’s exit, toward the cold streets of Metropolis, and made your way home without rushing, though not exactly calmly either. Your thoughts were filled with muscles and measurements and how you would draw that night.

When you arrived at your building, you took the elevator up again, reached your floor, and once you were finally inside your apartment, you put everything in order for the next day. You hung up your jacket, put away your shoes, and set your bag on the dining chair. But you didn’t place your notebook or pencil back into the drawer like you usually did. You were going to need them tonight. You changed into your soft, comfortable pajamas—the ones covered in little stars—and before locking yourself in your room, you grabbed a large glass of water from the kitchen because you knew you’d get thirsty while drawing. Then you went straight to your bedroom, specifically to your desk, your chair, the place where you had drawn ever since moving into that apartment.

You loved drawing. You loved it with all your heart. Even when editing was involved, you first created sketches in your worn notebook before transferring them to your iPad apps for the final touches—color, lighting, shadows, everything. But tonight you weren’t going to use the iPad. Tonight you would use your pencil and notebook, just like when you first started, and you were going to take your time. You opened the notebook to a blank page, rested the pencil against the paper, and closed your eyes for a moment.

You decided to draw Superman in the middle pages. Nothing unusual at first. Just ordinary Superman, little Superman logos here and there, things you’d drawn a thousand times before, especially because you were still hesitant. You weren’t sure how far you wanted to go tonight. But once the first page filled with logos and Superman in different poses, you looked at the next blank page and sighed. Without thinking too hard, you drew his face, just like always, knowing him in a way that surprised even you. You traced his firm jawline, his lips that you always sketched slightly curved as though he were on the verge of smiling, that curl falling over his forehead that never seemed capable of staying perfectly in place. Then you moved down to his neck, broad and strong, and you knew the next step should’ve been drawing the cape and the suit, the way you always did.

But it wasn’t.

Your hands moved on their own, almost without your permission. You drew his shoulders, wide and rounded, but without the fabric of the suit covering them. You outlined them like bare skin, giving them a soft yet firm contour, as though you could feel the warmth of those shoulders simply by looking at them on paper. Then came his chest, and imagining it made your pupils dilate slightly. Placing your hands there had to be… an entirely new sensation, you told yourself, smiling with a flushed face. Then you drew his pectorals, sharply defined, as though he’d spent endless hours training. You imagined how they would look under the light, how they would move with each breath. Then you moved lower, and you knew you were reaching his hips. You knew that going any farther would bring you dangerously close to a place that made your cheeks burn red. You stopped right there. Took a breath. Started another drawing.

You made several sketches in different poses. In one, you drew him with his head tilted slightly, as though he were watching something with interest, wearing that deep gaze only he possessed. In another, his hair was messy, as though Superman could sweat after a difficult fight. You added droplets sliding down his bare abdomen, glistening, while his fingers brushed over his own skin as though teasing, as though he were playing with someone. Then you drew another pose where you almost went lower than his lower abdomen, and you had to put the pencil down for a moment because it felt like the air had left your lungs.

Then, in the seventh drawing, he was no longer alone.

There was a waist. Nothing more at first, just a woman’s waist with Superman’s hands resting on it, squeezing gently. In the next drawing, it wasn’t only a waist anymore. There was wavy brown hair falling down someone’s back. Coincidentally, that hair looked identical to yours. You stared at it and couldn’t deny it. It was coincidence, wasn’t it? Just coincidence. Then came a nose, a mouth, the woman slowly taking shape beneath your fingers on the page, and you knew perfectly well it was you. You sighed as you looked at the lines. It was a drawing of yourself. His fingers so large, so firm, pressing into your waist as though he never wanted to let go. Your hands resting against his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palms. Your mouth slightly parted, his the same, both of you desperate, so close to one another you could almost feel warmth radiating from the paper itself.

Then you drew another one. Another pose. The same scene but with sharper, more intense features. Your blouse clinging tightly to your skin, so tightly that you sketched your breasts pressed against him without any space between you. His hand beneath your chin, lifting it as though he wanted you to kiss him, and his other hand on your waist, but higher now, nearly at the middle of your back. Then you stopped. Your legs pressed together uncontrollably. Your breathing became uneven, short and quick. You snapped the notebook shut as though you could trap inside it everything you had just drawn.

“Too many drawings,” you muttered aloud before pausing. You closed everything, slipped the notebook into your bag to take to work the next day because you couldn’t leave it at home—you still needed to finish the building illustration Perry had requested. You went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on your face again and again, trying to stop thinking about those lines, those hands, that gaze. You sighed at your reflection in the mirror and decided it was finally time to sleep. But sleeping turned into an entire mission on its own.

You climbed into bed, turned off the lights, and closed your eyes. But your mind refused to quiet down. You tossed and turned repeatedly, thinking about the drawings, the lines you created, the way his abdomen looked beneath the imagined light, how it would feel to have his hands on your waist for real. Hours passed like that, staring at the dark ceiling while listening to cars driving far below. And only when exhaustion finally overtook you, when your eyelids could no longer stay open, were you able to rest. You slept without dreaming, or at least without remembering the dreams once morning came.

The next morning, you woke up with sunlight pouring through the window. You barely remembered the drawings, only a distant echo in your mind, like a dream fading away beneath daylight. You showered with hot water to wake yourself up properly, ate toast with jam and a glass of milk for breakfast, changed quickly into the first clothes you found in your closet, and rushed to work with your bag hanging from your shoulder, almost forgetting your keys in the door.

When you arrived at the Daily Planet, the first thing you did was check that everything was running smoothly with that day’s publication. You called the printing company, and they confirmed the newspapers had already been distributed all across Metropolis. You sighed in relief. Then you checked the website—everything was functioning perfectly, the articles were in place, the drawings looked good on every screen. Sam started monitoring the views from her desk, moving numbers and graphs around.

“So far, they’re doing great,” she told you with a thumbs-up.

Then you got to work on a new sketch. According to the email Perry had sent that morning, you needed to create an illustration of a building that would be completed within a month. It was called the Wallers Building. Perry wanted a polished illustration, something that would make people look at it and think, what a beautiful building, I want to visit when it opens—a modern tower with shining stores, something that would keep people excited for its grand opening.

“Here.”

A voice made you look up. It was Clark. He had walked all the way to your desk without you hearing him approach, and now he was placing a steaming cup of coffee beside your keyboard. The smell reached your nose, and you realized you desperately needed it.

“Thanks, Clark,” you said with a smile. “I already told you not to bother. Jimmy’s the one who should feel bad for not getting that picture on time.” You slid your chair slightly to the side and gestured for him to bring his over, the way you sometimes did whenever you wanted to talk for a while.

Clark sat beside you, a little clumsy as always, and his knees bumped against the leg of your desk.

“Oops,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses.

“Well… it’s still my article,” Clark said in that soft, calm voice of his. “I should thank you for finishing it. It turned out really well. Honestly. Perry told me it was one of the best drawings you’ve ever done of Superman.” He paused and glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “What are you working on now?” he asked, but the moment he looked at you directly, his gaze darted quickly toward your computer screen instead.

“The next drawing,” you said, pointing at the half-finished sketch in your notebook. “The Wallers Building. They say it’ll be a huge success once it opens. Perry asked me to draw it so people will already have it in mind before construction is even finished.” You showed him the sketch: a tall tower with large windows and plants hanging from the balconies.

Clark leaned in slightly to get a better look.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “You’re really good at drawing buildings too. Not just people.”

You smiled and closed the notebook to put it away.

And then you went pale.

Because the moment you shut the notebook, you noticed the edges of the pages, and you saw the faint outlines of last night’s drawings. A line here, another there, like they were trying to escape from the paper. Suddenly you remembered everything at once: the pectorals, the sweat drops, the waist, the brown hair, your hands on his chest. You admitted to yourself that bringing the notebook to work had been far too reckless. Far too reckless. Someone could see it. Someone could accidentally open the notebook, flip through the pages, and discover those images you had drawn the night before. Your cheeks heated just thinking about it.

Luckily, Clark hadn’t noticed. He was looking elsewhere now, out the window, with a calm expression on his face. He hadn’t seen anything.

“Are you okay?” Clark asked, turning back toward you. “You suddenly went pale.”

“Yes, yes,” you answered quickly, shoving the notebook deep into your bag and zipping it closed all the way. “Just… too much work. I forgot to eat this morning.”

Clark frowned with concern.

“You should eat something then. Want me to go to the cafeteria and get you something? Maybe a sandwich?”

“No, don’t worry about it,” you said, even though what you actually wanted was for him to leave quickly so you could check whether the drawings were visible from outside the notebook. “I’ll eat later. Thanks for the coffee, really.”

Clark nodded and stood up from the chair, awkward once again.

“Well… if you need anything, let me know,” he said before walking back toward his desk, nearly tripping over a chair along the way but catching himself just in time.

You watched him leave, your heart beating faster than normal. Then you slipped your hand into your bag, touching the notebook through the fabric, and sighed. You had to be more careful. You couldn’t let anyone see those drawings. No one. Especially not Clark, who worked so closely with Superman.

When the day finally ended, you stretched like a cat waking from a long nap. Your arms extended toward the ceiling, and your shoulders cracked softly from spending so much time sitting in front of the computer. You packed your belongings slowly: pencils into their case, charger into the front pocket, headphones neatly wrapped. But you left the notebook for last. You held it in your hands instead of putting it away, almost afraid you’d arrive home and somehow not find it, as if someone might steal it along the way. You preferred carrying it yourself, feeling the weight of the pages in your hands, making sure it was still there.

As you approached the exit, you passed by Clark’s desk like you always did. It had become a habit over the past few months, though you had never told him why. Maybe you simply liked saying goodbye before heading home. Or maybe you just liked seeing him one last time before he disappeared into the streets of Metropolis. That afternoon, he was gathering papers and organizing them with his large, clumsy hands, stacking them into a folder beside him. He looked focused, his brow slightly furrowed behind his glasses.

“New investigation?” you asked, leaning lightly against the edge of his desk.

Clark looked startled, as though he hadn’t heard you approach. His shoulders tensed, and his cheeks instantly turned pink.

“Yeah,” he answered quickly, nodding several times, almost like a child caught doing something he shouldn’t. He stuffed the papers into the folder and shut it firmly.

“Heading home now?” he asked, looking at you over the top of his glasses. His eyes seemed wider than usual, like he was waiting for your answer with too much anticipation.

But before you could reply, you heard quick footsteps behind you. Sam and Cat rushed over, pointing toward the television playing in the corner of the room. It was the last TV still turned on, and someone would shut it off once everyone had gone home. Clark used the distraction to take a drink from his water bottle, shifting his gaze toward the screen.

“That’s exactly what I was talking about,” Sam said excitedly, pointing insistently at the television.

You looked closer at the screen and realized they were airing a Superman story. But it wasn’t new. It was from the previous week, footage you had already seen before, from the fight where he faced some massive enemy that appeared out of nowhere and destroyed everything in its path. During the fight, the creature had ripped Superman’s suit along his side, exposing part of his abdomen—defined, tan, and firm. The footage replayed the moment in slow motion over and over again, like the news station knew exactly what it was doing. You watched without fully understanding why Sam seemed so excited.

“That tear where the enemy ripped his suit makes women imagine way too many things, doesn’t it?” Sam said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow with a mischievous grin.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Leslie added, appearing behind Cat while narrowing her eyes at the television. “Life is so unfair. If the tear had gone just a little lower, I’m sure my boss here would’ve had no choice but to draw what Superman’s hiding under that suit.” Leslie laughed and looked toward Cat and Sam, who nodded in total agreement.

You blushed at the exact same moment Clark choked on his water.

But it wasn’t a small cough. It was violent, almost making him spit the water out completely. Some of it splashed across his carefully organized papers, and he dropped the bottle, which rolled across the desk before falling onto the floor with a loud thud. You turned immediately at the sound and saw him with cheeks red as tomatoes, coughing while trying to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Clark!” you exclaimed, crouching beside him to help gather everything.

The wet papers had scattered across the floor. Some were soaked, others luckily untouched. You picked them up one by one, careful not to tear them, handing them back to Clark as you gathered them. He accepted them without looking at you, his hands trembling slightly. Once you’d collected them all, you searched for something he could use to clean his glasses, which had also been splashed. You found a tissue in your pocket and offered it to him.

“Your glasses,” you said with a small nod toward them, but he didn’t look at you. Instead, he turned away and wiped them with his sleeve, giving you his back.

When he turned around again, he grabbed the papers from your hands quickly, almost snatching them away, and looked elsewhere immediately. You didn’t understand what was happening. He was acting strange, even more nervous than usual, and Clark was always nervous. But this felt different. You didn’t understand any of it, though you decided not to ask. The other girls were already walking toward the elevator together, laughing among themselves, and you followed after them. Clark came behind everyone else, holding his briefcase in one hand and the damp papers pressed against his chest with the other.

“Are you okay?” you whispered once you ended up standing at the very back of the elevator, directly behind him while the doors closed.

“Yeah,” Clark replied, his voice slightly rough. “Just swallowed wrong. The water went down the wrong way.”

You nodded, though you weren’t entirely convinced.

The ride down passed in silence. Once you reached the lobby, you waved goodbye to everyone—Sam, Cat, Leslie, the rest of the employees heading out. Clark lingered a step behind, staring at the floor. You smiled and wished everyone goodnight before heading home through the streets of Metropolis without any trouble at first. One by one, the city lights flickered on as evening settled in, and the air smelled faintly of street food and car engines.

You walked slowly with your hands tucked into your jacket pockets, thinking about what you had just seen on television. Superman with the ripped suit along his side, that firm abdomen, that hard muscle beneath tan skin shining under the midday sunlight. Your cheeks flushed red just remembering it. You could draw more, you thought. You could draw so much more. Tonight, once you got home, you could open the notebook again and let your hands do whatever they wanted. You didn’t have to feel guilty anymore, right? Nobody would ever see it.

Though maybe it would be smarter to tear those pages out of the notebook and use a different sketchbook entirely. That way no one would risk finding them. You could rip them out and hide them somewhere in your apartment—under the mattress, inside a locked drawer, anywhere no one else would ever discover them. Just for yourself. That would be safest.

When you looked down at your hands, you realized you weren’t holding the notebook.

You went pale. Your heart shot straight into your throat. You assumed it was in your bag because it was always there—it was your most precious possession. But then you remembered you’d carried it in your hands from your desk all the way to the elevator. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d left it back at the Planet on your desk, but no, you clearly remembered having it with you. Then you looked at your hands again. Empty. You yanked your bag open and shoved your hand inside. Nothing. You dug through everything: the pencil case, charger, headphones, a pack of gum, your keys. Nothing. The notebook was gone. You didn’t have it because you’d waved goodbye with one hand while the other held your bag—but the notebook… the notebook required one free hand to carry, and you couldn’t remember holding it after leaving the elevator.

Then you thought about Clark.

Clark Kent had choked on his water, of course he had. Papers had fallen everywhere, some wet, and you crouched to help him gather everything. You handed him every paper you picked up from the floor. The tissue for his glasses. And the notebook. Your notebook. In the chaos, while rushing to gather everything before everyone left, it must have mixed with his papers without either of you noticing. You handed him everything from the floor, and he accepted it without looking, his hands trembling. Your notebook had been among those papers.

You went even paler, if that was possible. Your hands started trembling violently. You yanked your phone from your pocket so fast you nearly dropped it. You tried retracing your steps, but you’d already walked several blocks away. You didn’t know what to do. You looked around desperately for a taxi, but naturally, none were passing. The streets were too quiet. You knew where Clark lived because once, you had accompanied Jimmy to pick up something from his apartment when Clark claimed he was sick. You remembered the address, the building, the apartment number. You could walk there, but it was far—too far—and if you ran, you’d arrive breathless and drenched in sweat.

Your hands shook harder. You opened your phone, found Clark’s contact, and called once. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Voicemail. You hung up and called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Every time you heard the automated recording, it felt like the ground beneath your feet sank a little deeper.

Then the taxi appeared.

It seemed to come out of nowhere, like a miracle in the middle of the empty sidewalk. You raised your hand immediately, barely thinking, and the car stopped right in front of you. You climbed in without hesitation, gave Clark’s address in a shaky voice, and once the taxi lurched forward, you pulled out your phone again, your hands still trembling. One message after another spilled out without pause, your fingers moving on their own across the screen.

“Clark you took my notebook,” you sent first, immediately realizing it sounded harsher than you intended, but it didn’t matter.

Right after that, without giving him time to respond, you typed: “Please don’t open it.” Your fingers were damp against the glass screen. Then: “I have private things in there.” The moment you pressed send, regret hit you. It sounded suspicious, like you were hiding something terrible. So quickly, trying to cover yourself, you added: “I have my credit card numbers and passwords written in it.” A lie, obviously, but a believable one. Anyone would understand not wanting someone to see that kind of information.

The taxi turned a corner, and there it was: traffic. Endless rows of stopped cars, glowing red brake lights, distant honking. It had to be a joke from the universe, right when you needed to get there quickly. You pressed your forehead against the window and closed your eyes for a second, trying to breathe deeply. It didn’t help. You called again. Once. Twice. Three times. Clark didn’t answer. Every ring felt like another stab twisting into your stomach.

Your pulse was erratic, swinging wildly between too fast and too slow, like your heart didn’t know what to do with so much panic. Imagining Clark opening that notebook made you feel physically sick. Clark, who knew Superman. Clark, your coworker who had always been kind to you, who brought you coffee without being asked, who blushed whenever you spoke to him. He would think you were a pervert. A lunatic. Someone wildly unprofessional who spent her nights drawing things she shouldn’t. The shame burned inside you like fire.

When you looked out the window and realized there were only two blocks left, you couldn’t wait anymore. Traffic hadn’t moved at all. The cars were completely stuck.

“Let me out here,” you told the driver, throwing cash at him without waiting for change, without even checking how much you handed over.

You jumped out of the taxi, nearly tripping on the curb, and started running. Two long blocks filled with parked cars, glowing streetlights, and strangers staring at you like you were insane. Your bag slammed against your hip while air tore in and out of your lungs like you’d just finished a marathon.

You reached Clark’s building and yanked open the front door. You took the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor over and over as though that would somehow make the doors close faster. You watched the numbers climb on the screen. Fifth floor. Right. That was it. The moment the doors opened, you practically sprinted down the hallway until you reached his apartment door—the same one Jimmy had knocked on that day you both came together. You recognized it from the small scratch in the wood and the slightly crooked doormat.

You rang the doorbell while knocking against the door with your knuckles at the same time, breathing hard, unable to stay still. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

Then the door opened.

You froze the moment you saw Clark. His hair was damp and pushed back, tiny droplets of water still sliding down the side of his neck. He wore a gray long-sleeved shirt and black pants, simple but comfortable, like casual sleepwear. He looked freshly out of the shower—or maybe the bath. That’s why he hadn’t answered his phone, you realized. That’s why he ignored the messages. You looked at him, and despite the panic and embarrassment, your cheeks turned red instantly because you couldn’t deny he looked good.

“Hi,” Clark said with a small smile, tilting his head slightly like a puppy recognizing its owner.

“You accidentally took my notebook, Clark,” you blurted out, the words rushing out faster than you intended. Then you took a breath, trying to calm yourself before adding, “Hi.” You bit your lip nervously without noticing.

Clark’s eyes widened slightly, like he had only just understood the situation. He ran a hand through his damp hair and nodded.

“Oh, right. I realized when I got home,” he said calmly—far too calmly. “I put it in my bag so I could give it back to you tomorrow at the office. I didn’t realize you needed it that urgently.”

He turned around and walked deeper into the apartment, leaving the door open behind him. You stayed frozen in the doorway, too nervous to step inside. You wanted to go home. You wanted to run away again. But fear rooted you in place. You couldn’t leave without that notebook in your hands. You just couldn’t. So you waited there, fingers gripping your bag tightly while listening to his footsteps disappear and then return.

Clark came back holding the notebook.

He offered it to you with that awkward little smile of his, and you grabbed it like a recovered treasure. Relief rushed through you so intensely it almost escaped as a moan. You clutched it against your chest, feeling the familiar weight of the pages and the rough texture of the worn cover. It was there. Everything was fine.

“I should’ve called you,” Clark said, guilt written across his face. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d worry this much.”

“You…” You swallowed hard because the question felt dangerous, but you needed to ask it anyway. “Did you open the notebook?”

Clark stared at you for a second that felt endless. His blue eyes behind the glasses didn’t blink.

“No,” he said.

You nodded with a relieved smile, feeling the weight of the world fall from your shoulders. Suddenly you felt lighter, calmer, like you had been holding your breath for hours and could finally exhale.

“Good… I… thank you,” you said, your voice no longer shaking as badly. “And sorry for showing up like this, out of nowhere, without warning. I just panicked. But it’s fine now. I’m going home. Bye, Clark.”

You walked away down the hallway without looking back, clutching the notebook tightly against your chest along with your bag. This time, you walked toward the elevator more calmly, no longer running, feeling like the night had finally returned to normal.

When you got home, you locked the door behind you as though someone were chasing you. You tossed your bag onto the couch and pulled out the notebook Clark had returned. You held it in your hands for a moment, staring at the cover like you could somehow see through it. Your fingers still trembled slightly. You opened the notebook halfway and flipped through it page by page, slowly and carefully.

They were all there.

Every drawing. Half-body Superman. Flying Superman. Small Superman logos. Defined muscles. Then you reached the middle pages, the drawings from the night before. The abdomen with sweat drops. The wandering hands. The waist with fingers digging into it. Your face. Your parted lips. You sighed in relief so deeply your chest almost hurt. Everything was still there. Nothing was missing. Clark hadn’t seen anything.

But you couldn’t keep doing this. You couldn’t continue carrying that notebook everywhere with those drawings hidden inside it. Someone else could see them, not just Clark. Sam, who was curious and always grabbed your things without asking. Perry, who sometimes borrowed your notebook to check your sketches. Anyone at the office. So you decided to tear the pages out.

Carefully, you removed each page containing those drawings. Shirtless Superman. The abdomen. The sweat drops. The hands. You tore them out gently but firmly, enjoying the crisp sound of paper separating from the notebook. Then you folded the pages in half and slipped them into a large envelope from your desk drawer. Afterward, you went into the kitchen, found one of those white adhesive labels you used to organize your things, and wrote clearly across it:

“Private drawings.”

You stuck the label onto the envelope and hid it beneath your mattress, deep enough that nobody would ever think to look there.

Then you picked up the notebook again. You grabbed another label and wrote:

“Daily Planet Notebook.”

You stuck it directly onto the cover, right in the center where it would be impossible to miss. That way you would never make the same mistake again. The work notebook was only for work drawings. The other one—the real one, the one you had named “Superman Notebook”—was only for you. For your thoughts. For your fantasies.

You felt calmer after that.

You drank an entire glass of water in one go, then finally went to bed without overthinking it anymore.

But Clark would never tell you that. Never tell you the truth.

Clark would never admit that he opened your notebook out of pure curiosity. He always looked at your drawings, even if you never noticed. Whenever you were focused, your head tilted slightly down, your tongue peeking between your lips, he simply couldn’t help himself. He loved watching you like that, so absorbed in your work, so dedicated. It was one of his favorite parts of the day. So when he got home that night, after you left, he sat down on the couch in his living room and let out a long sigh. He arranged the damp papers across the coffee table, the ones he had picked up from the floor, and while organizing them, his eyes landed on your notebook. He had taken it by accident, mixed in with his own papers. A smile tugged at his lips. How clumsy of him. Well, he would just return it to you at the office tomorrow.

He picked it up and opened it without thinking, almost instinctively, while settling back against the sofa cushions. He only wanted to take a quick look, just for a second, to see how far you had gotten with the Wallers Building sketch you showed him before leaving. He liked looking at your art. He liked the way you drew Superman’s features over and over again with such detail, such precision. And still, after all those drawings, you never suspected Superman was him. That you were drawing him without knowing it. That every line you traced along that face, those shoulders, that chest, belonged to his face, his shoulders, his chest.

He smiled again, warmth blooming quietly in his chest. He flipped through the first few pages filled with normal Superman sketches, tiny logos, poses you already knew by heart. Then came the Daily Planet notes, headline ideas, infographic concepts. He adjusted himself more comfortably on the couch, feet resting on the coffee table, and kept flipping through the pages.

Then he searched for the Wallers Building sketch. He wanted to see how much progress you’d made since showing it to him earlier.

He turned one page.

Then another.

And the moment he reached the next one, his eyes widened.

It was Superman shirtless.

Not the usual Superman in the blue suit and red cape. It was Superman bare-chested, every muscle carefully defined, the abdomen carved into the kind of perfect lines magazines obsessed over. The drawing was so detailed it almost looked like a photograph. Every shadow, every curve, every line of his body was there on the page with such accuracy that it stole Clark’s breath away.

He swallowed hard.

His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the page.

More drawings.

Superman with his head tilted, wearing an intense expression. Superman with messy hair and drops of sweat sliding down his abdomen, as though he had just come out of a brutal fight. Superman with his fingers brushing over his own chest in a pose that wasn’t heroic, wasn’t noble, but something else entirely.

Something intimate.

Something forbidden.

Then he reached the third page.

Superman holding a woman’s waist.

Her face wasn’t visible yet, only her hands tangled in the fabric of a shirt. Clark felt heat spread along the back of his neck. He turned the page again.

And there you were.

Your face, completely recognizable. Your features, your nose, your parted lips, your wavy brown hair spilling over your shoulders. His fingers traced over the drawing carefully, almost afraid to touch it, like he could somehow feel your skin through the paper.

Then he turned the page again.

The same drawing.

But more detailed.

Much more detailed.

His large hands were buried against your waist, gripping the fabric of your blouse. Your shirt clung tightly to your body, enough to reveal the curve of your waist, the shape of your hips, and your breasts pressed firmly against his bare chest. Your nipples strained faintly beneath the fabric, and even though it was only a drawing, Clark could imagine it perfectly. Your hand rested against his chest, fingers slightly spread as though you were caressing him. His other hand tilted your chin upward, like he wanted you to kiss him. Your eyes looked bright and dark with desire. His lips were parted too, ready to meet yours.

The entire drawing radiated need.

Urgency.

Desperation.

And Clark felt all the blood in his body rush downward.

A hard ache formed beneath his pants, impossible to ignore. He grew hard seeing you like that, seeing you drawn with him, with Superman. He imagined you drawing it. Imagined your hands moving the pencil across the page, slowly creating that image. He imagined whether you had pushed your shirt up while sketching him, whether you had touched yourself while drawing him. He could imagine your bare skin. Your naked breasts pressed against him without fabric between you. Your hardened nipples brushing against his chest. Your warm breath against his neck.

A rough sound escaped his throat before he realized it.

His hand moved on its own.

It dropped toward his lap, pressing against the hardness beneath his pants. No… was this right? he thought. You were his coworker. The woman who drew Superman without knowing he was the man beneath the cape. Someone he respected. Someone he admired. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit there aroused, staring at your drawings like they were something filthy.

But he couldn’t stop.

He stood from the couch abruptly and crossed the apartment toward his bedroom. He locked the door behind him, twisting the lock until he heard the click. As though someone could walk in. As though you could somehow appear there out of nowhere. Then he crossed to the window and shut the blinds completely, pulling the heavy curtains closed.

No one could see him.

No one could know what he was about to do.

He sat on the edge of the bed with the notebook open beside him on the most detailed drawing, his erection straining painfully beneath his pants. His cock throbbed, hard and hot, the skin stretched tight and sensitive. He freed himself from his clothes and sighed at the feeling alone.

Your drawings were everything he had forbidden himself from imagining about you.

He had denied himself thoughts like these countless times. At the office, whenever you leaned over your desk and your blouse shifted open slightly, he forced himself to look away. When you laughed with Sam and tipped your head back, exposing your neck, he bit down on his tongue to stop himself from staring. But having those drawings there in front of him, seeing you wrapped around him, pressed against him, wanting him—

It made him close his eyes while his hand finally moved.

Up and down.

Up and down.

The rhythm started slow, almost hesitant.

Then faster.

More desperate.

His breathing turned heavy and uneven. The image of you wouldn’t leave his mind. Your parted lips. Your shining eyes. The outline of your breasts beneath your blouse. His fingers dug into your waist.

He could imagine you moaning his name.

Imagine your back arching against him.

And by the time he reached the edge, the final sound torn from his throat was your name. A rough whisper, almost pleading. Your name spilled from his lips as release overtook him, white streaking across his hand and part of his shirt while his entire body tensed sharply. He came once, then again, trembling through it, mouth open in a silent groan before finally collapsing backward onto the bed, chest rising and falling heavily, his hand sticky and warm.

He snapped the notebook shut immediately afterward, like he could trap the guilt inside it.

Then he stood with shaky legs and disappeared into the bathroom to clean himself up. He turned on the hot water and scrubbed his hands again and again until nothing remained on his skin. Afterward, he stepped into the shower, letting the water pour down his back and over his hair, washing away every trace of what he had just done.

When he finished showering, the shame had dulled slightly, though embarrassment still lingered beneath his skin. Embarrassed that he had lost control. Embarrassed that he had used your drawings that way without your permission.

He sighed quietly while drying his hair with a towel, running it through the damp strands over and over again.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He picked it up and finally saw your unread messages.

“Clark you took my notebook.”

“Please don’t open it.”

“I have private things in there.”

“I have my credit card numbers and passwords written in it.”

You were coming.

You would arrive at his apartment at any moment.

Panic surged through his chest instantly.

Using the same speed he used to save people, he changed into his pajamas in less than a second: gray shirt, black pants, simple and normal. Then his eyes landed on your notebook where he had left it on the bed. He picked it up carefully—very carefully—and found the final drawing again.

The most detailed one.

The one that had driven him into sin.

His hands still trembling slightly, he tore the page from the notebook, wincing at the sound of ripping paper because it seemed deafeningly loud in the silence of the room. He folded the page in half and hid it deep inside his drawer beneath stacks of papers where nobody would ever find it.

Then he slipped your notebook into his work bag, the same one he carried to the office every day. That way, he could pretend he intended to return it tomorrow morning.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he had never opened it.

Like he had never seen anything at all.

You would never realize one drawing was missing.

Between the panic and your nerves, you didn’t notice when you tore the pages out at home. Maybe you counted wrong. Maybe fear convinced you they were all there. But the most detailed drawing—the one showing your breasts beneath the fabric, his hand beneath your chin, your shining eyes—

That one was no longer inside the envelope hidden beneath your mattress.

That drawing now rested at the very bottom of Clark Kent’s drawer.

Clark couldn’t stop staring at you during the following days.

Whenever you turned toward him, he would look away too quickly, cheeks turning pink while thoughts of you, the drawings, and that night in his apartment flooded his mind again. He sighed constantly, as though he carried something heavy inside his chest. And maybe he had developed a new habit too: every night before bed, he opened his drawer and looked at the drawing he had kept—the most detailed one, the one of the two of you wrapped in each other’s arms—with a stupid little smile he simply couldn’t wipe off his face.

You noticed none of it.

Not really.

You continued on normally, doing your work, sketching buildings and landscapes and Superman whenever Perry asked for him. Maybe you noticed Clark blushing sometimes, but Clark always blushed, you thought. It was part of him, like the glasses and the clumsiness. Sometimes you saw him returning from the bathroom with flushed cheeks and slightly damp hair, like he had splashed water on his face, but you barely paid attention.

And maybe, just maybe, Clark wished you actually would notice.

He wanted you to ask him why he stared at you so much. Why he always hovered close to you. Why he got nervous whenever you smiled at him.

But you were so distracted, so lost in your world of lines and colors, that you never saw what stood directly in front of you.

“It’s only three pieces of furniture,” Jimmy said one afternoon, appearing at your desk with a huge grin while leaning both hands against the edge like he was about to share a secret.

You looked up from your iPad, confused.

“And why does that involve me?” you asked, frowning slightly. You didn’t understand why Jimmy looked so excited.

“Come help us. Lois is bringing pizza, which means you’ll eat for free,” Jimmy said, wiggling his eyebrows like he was offering you the greatest deal in the world.

You thought about the free pizza. You had spent the entire week eating sandwiches at your desk because you never had time to go to the cafeteria. The idea of a hot slice sounded heavenly.

You smiled.

“Fine,” you said, locking your iPad. “But only for the pizza.”

Jimmy laughed and slapped your shoulder lightly. “That’s my girl,” he said proudly, like the two of you were longtime partners in crime.

Jimmy was a good friend. You had worked together for years. But his insistence felt strange this time. Usually he hired movers for things like this, or asked Clark to handle everything himself because he was the strongest one. Maybe, without realizing it, Jimmy had already noticed the way Clark looked at you and was secretly trying to play cupid.

But you couldn’t prove that.

In the end, you agreed with a sigh and slipped your work notebook into your bag. You put on your jacket, said goodbye to the people still working, and followed them through the streets of Metropolis toward Jimmy’s apartment.

When you arrived at Jimmy’s building, the three pieces of furniture were already waiting outside the entrance. According to Jimmy, a delivery truck had dropped them off an hour earlier after he bought them from a same-day delivery store.

There was a massive new couch upholstered in gray fabric, the kind that looked soft enough to fall asleep on while watching television. A tall wooden wardrobe with two mirrored doors. And a white refrigerator, sleek and modern, still wrapped in plastic and cardboard, sitting on the sidewalk like abandoned giants waiting to be claimed.

“Well,” Jimmy said, rubbing his hands together, “we’ve gotta get all of this up to the fifth floor.”

Lois rolled her eyes immediately. She wore a fitted skirt and heels clearly not made for carrying furniture, and the look on her face made it obvious she had no intention of helping.

“I brought the pizza,” Lois declared, lifting the large box in her hands. “My job ends there. I’m going upstairs to unlock the apartment and set the table.”

“But Lois—” Jimmy started.

“Without me,” Lois cut him off while already walking toward the building entrance, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

You looked at Jimmy, then Clark, then the furniture.

Clark was already shrugging off his jacket silently, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. His arms looked broad and strong, even though he tried to hide it by hunching his shoulders the way he always did.

“I’m not carrying anything,” you said immediately, raising both hands. “I’m an artist, not a mover. Besides, I’ve got a notebook in my bag and I don’t want it ruined.”

Jimmy sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. Go upstairs with Lois. We’ll handle it. But at least put on music or something while you wait.”

You smiled and followed Lois inside the building. The elevator was tiny, but there was enough room for both of you. Most of the ride passed in silence until Lois suddenly spoke without even looking at you.

“Clark looked at you again before you left,” she said casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

Heat rushed into your cheeks.

“Clark looks at me all the time,” you answered with a shrug. “That’s just his face.”

Lois laughed softly. “No, it’s not his face. It’s his eyes. And he’s had them on you for a very, very long time.”

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

“But hey,” Lois added while stepping out first, “not my problem. I’m just here for the pizza.”

Jimmy’s apartment was small but nice. Large windows overlooked the city, an open kitchen connected to the living room, and a narrow hallway led toward the bedrooms. Moving boxes sat scattered around the floor beside old furniture Jimmy still hadn’t decided whether to keep or throw away.

Lois set the pizza box on the kitchen table and opened it immediately. The smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce filled the apartment within seconds.

Your stomach growled.

“Want some?” Lois asked while reaching for the cutter.

“Yes, please.”

She handed you a huge pepperoni slice, and you sat down at the kitchen table where you could see the window. Lois sat across from you with her own slice, and the two of you ate quietly while listening to the distant noise of the street below and, occasionally, Jimmy’s strained complaints echoing up from downstairs.

Minutes passed.

You finished your first slice and accepted a second without hesitation. From the window you couldn’t see much beyond the entrance below, but you imagined Clark and Jimmy hauling the couch up the stairs, stopping every few flights because Jimmy got tired. Clark, on the other hand, probably could’ve carried it alone without much effort. Maybe a little sweat, but still. He had the build for it.

“How much longer?” Lois muttered mostly to herself.

At that exact moment, heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway. Doors slammed. Jimmy’s exhausted voice rang out:

“Almost there! Don’t fall asleep up there!”

Lois laughed and you did too.

It felt nice. Just sitting there together eating pizza, thinking about nothing serious.

And yet, something kept bothering you.

Clark had been looking at you differently these past few days.

And without meaning to, you had started noticing him more too.

His hands.

His back whenever he bent down.

The way his shirt clung to him when the weather got warm.

“You okay?” Lois asked suddenly, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Yes,” you answered too quickly. “Just tired.”

Lois didn’t reply, but she kept staring at you like she knew you were lying and was waiting for you to confess. You didn’t.

Instead, you stood to grab a glass of water.

That was when you heard the building’s main door downstairs slam open again. Voices followed. Jimmy complaining. Clark saying something low and calm.

You stayed beside the kitchen counter, glass in hand, and peeked toward the doorway without meaning to.

Jimmy appeared first, sweating and red-faced while carrying the back end of the couch. Clark carried the front.

The couch was enormous, yet Clark held it like it weighed no more than a pillow. His arms were tense beneath his rolled sleeves, and strands of hair had begun falling across his forehead.

You stared longer than you intended.

“They’re here,” you murmured.

The two of them carried the couch inside and dropped it into the middle of the living room with a dull thud. Jimmy collapsed onto it immediately, plastic wrap still covering the cushions, breathing like he had just run a marathon.

“That was… only one,” Jimmy wheezed. “Two more to go.”

“The wardrobe and the refrigerator,” Clark added while wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, though honestly you barely saw any sweat at all. One of his shirt buttons had popped open while lifting.

You stared at your water glass.

At the floor.

Anywhere except him.

But it was impossible not to notice him.

He stood only a few feet away, hair messy, the top three buttons of his shirt accidentally undone, looking completely different from how he looked at the office.

Bigger.

More real.

“Do you want water?” you asked suddenly, lifting your glass slightly without even knowing why you spoke.

Clark looked at you and his cheeks flushed pink instantly.

“Yes, thank you,” he said softly before walking into the kitchen to grab his own glass.

His fingers brushed yours when he reached for it.

A shiver traveled all the way up your arm.

“Let’s go get the wardrobe,” Clark said before leaving the apartment again, not even giving Jimmy time to complain properly.

Jimmy groaned dramatically while dragging himself after him, making you smile despite yourself.

When they came back again later, your eyes immediately found Clark.

Your heartbeat sped up the moment you saw his shirt.

Jimmy was panting loudly and gulping water while Lois teased him mercilessly, but your attention stayed fixed on Clark.

You kept staring.

You couldn’t stop.

Something about him felt different now. Something you couldn’t name. Maybe it was the evening sunlight pouring through the windows. Maybe it was exhaustion.

Or maybe it was because his glasses had slipped crooked from all the lifting, making his face look stronger.

More like…

Clark suddenly looked up and caught you staring.

His cheeks turned red instantly and he looked down toward the floor. You did the same, quickly finishing your water in one long gulp just to give your hands something to do.

“The refrigerator’s last,” Clark announced before disappearing again with Jimmy stumbling after him.

“If I die doing this, I won’t even get to use my furniture,” Jimmy complained miserably.

You waited.

Your gaze drifted toward your empty glass.

No. It was impossible, you thought. People resembled each other all the time, didn’t they?

Then they came back.

This time, you were already standing near the apartment entrance waiting.

Not because you wanted to help.

Because you wanted to see him up close again.

You wanted to confirm what you were thinking.

The refrigerator was enormous, white and sleek with double doors. Clark carried one side while Jimmy struggled with the other.

“Put it there,” Jimmy panted while pointing weakly toward an empty space in the kitchen. “Next to the wall.”

They lowered it into place. Jimmy nearly collapsed, but Clark adjusted the entire refrigerator in his arms and set it down smoothly.

Then he straightened up and wiped his forehead with his forearm.

His glasses slipped from his nose and hit the floor with a soft clack.

He bent down to pick them up.

But before putting them back on, he looked at you.

And smiled.

A soft smile. Calm. Closed-lipped.

Like he had nothing to hide.

Like he didn’t mind you seeing him that way—without his glasses, hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed pink, blue eyes brighter than you had ever imagined.

Your heart stopped.

Those eyes.

That deep blue you had drawn a hundred times.

That messy hair falling over his forehead exactly the way you always drew it.

That jawline.

Those lips.

Your mind flashed back to the drawings hidden in your private notebook.

Superman shirtless.

Superman with messy hair.

Superman holding a waist—your waist—while looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And suddenly you remembered something else.

In those drawings, Superman looked like someone.

And that someone was standing right in front of you now, crouched beside the refrigerator with his glasses in his hand and his chest still rising from exertion.

Clark was Superman.

Superman was Clark.

Everything clicked into place instantly.

The height. The shoulders. The smile. The way he always disappeared whenever danger appeared. The way he returned late and disheveled after Superman saved the day. The times he lifted impossible things while claiming he was “stronger than he looked.”

You stood abruptly without thinking.

Your legs trembled.

The glass slipped from your hand and rolled across the floor.

“I need to go,” you blurted out suddenly, your voice strange and uneven. Your cheeks burned.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay?”

You nodded too quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t feel real. “Yes, yes, I just… remembered something. Something urgent. At my apartment.”

“But we just got here,” Jimmy said from the couch, confused. “And you barely ate any pizza.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I really have to go,” you said while already grabbing your bag from the back of the chair.

“Want me to walk you home?” Clark asked.

His voice sounded so close it sent a chill down your spine.

He was standing again now, glasses back in place, though his hair remained messy and his eyes stayed fixed on you with an intensity you didn’t remember ever seeing before.

“No, thanks,” you answered quickly, almost too sharply.

You couldn’t look at him.

If you looked at him, you were afraid you’d point at him and scream, “You’re Superman,” right there in front of everyone.

So instead you kept your eyes locked on the door handle.

Anywhere but him.

You left the apartment in hurried steps, took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, and by the time you reached the street, the cool evening air hit your burning face immediately.

You walked fast without looking back, thoughts spinning wildly inside your head like trapped hornets.

Clark was Superman.

All this time, you had been drawing Clark without ever realizing it.

Your arrival at the Daily Planet had become a little strange. Honestly, if you were being truthful with yourself, your position as an “artist” had changed over time without you fully noticing it. Now you were an “editor,” though not the kind of editor who corrected articles line by line, making sure every comma was perfectly in place. That was never your thing. You were more like the person who had boosted the Daily Planet’s traffic after presenting that incredibly well-made report suggesting the newspaper redesign its website structure. You proposed making it more eye-catching, easier to navigate, and more adapted to the technology that advanced day after day. You talked about adding infographics, more interactive options for readers, and you even met with a college friend who knew programming to pitch the idea of creating a Planet news app for phones. Even so, Perry White, the boss, believed that when there wasn’t someone designing an illustration of a fire, or a new building that would become Metropolis’ newest attraction, or a drawing of Superman, then the newspaper lost part of its essence, even online. It was exhausting work, yes, because sometimes you had a thousand things to do at once, but if you were honest, your true passion had always been drawing, and that was what made you happiest.

You had notebooks with worn-out pages, the kind that felt soft to the touch because you had opened them so many times. Inside them, you had captured landscapes from your travels, the faces of strangers you found interesting on the subway, animals you spotted in the street while walking to work. It was an art you never intended to let go of, because drawing was like breathing to you. So having a job as an illustrator, even while doing other things at the Planet, felt perfect. You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Perry usually asked you to draw Superman. It was always Superman. Superman from the waist up for an opinion piece, Superman flying above the buildings, Superman standing in the middle of Metropolis, Superman stopping a plane from falling apart midair. That happened whenever Jimmy Olsen failed to capture his essence with the camera. You would simply watch the news footage that recorded the moment, pause the image at the exact second, and sketch that frame for the article. Done. That was your job whenever something important happened. Somehow, drawing Superman so many times in that heroic suit with the enormous S across his chest, with his strong and calm face, made you feel as though you knew him without actually knowing him. You knew how his lips curved when he smiled, how his hair fell over his forehead, how his muscles showed beneath the blue fabric. You had drawn him so many times that he felt almost familiar, even though you had only seen him in person once during an interview Lois Lane conducted.

“He’s ridiculously sexy,” Sam said, laughing while staring at your iPad.

Sam was one of your closest friends. She documented fashion shows in Metropolis and sometimes traveled abroad to cover international events. Occasionally, you illustrated for her because she insisted fashion should be captured in drawings, not just photographs, that brushstrokes held something cameras could never truly catch. You laughed at her comment because, deep down, you knew she was right. You looked at your iPad screen, where you had just finished the final adjustments for tomorrow’s article. There was your drawing of Superman, detailed down to the smallest feature, along with the edits prepared for both the website and the physical newspapers sent to print every night.

“No wonder Perry’s been in such a good mood today,” Cat Grant said as she walked by with a coffee mug in hand, stopping the moment she noticed the drawing. “Look at those shoulders,” Cat added, pointing at the screen with her finger.

You looked at your drawing while Sam held the iPad in her hands, admiring it like a work of art.

“Right?” Sam said with a grin stretching from ear to ear. “If I had your drawing skills, I would’ve already created every single scenario I’ve imagined with Superman and locked myself in my room for an entire week,” she admitted shamelessly.

Cat laughed when she noticed your cheeks turning bright red. You couldn’t believe the things they were saying, but you also couldn’t deny you’d thought something similar more than once.

“No… that’s… unprofessional, isn’t it?” you said, though your voice sounded more like a question than a statement. “I mean, wouldn’t that count as some kind of crime or something?” you added, feeling slightly guilty just for imagining it.

“Unprofessional? Please,” Cat said, shaking her head. “Thousands of people on Pinterest do that all the time. They call it fanart. I would’ve done the same years ago if I knew how to draw like that,” she said before taking a sip from her mug.

“Actually,” Leslie chimed in, your editing assistant, who had been listening from behind her desk before approaching, “I would’ve drawn myself next to Superman, holding onto his arm. That would make a pretty incredible thing to hang on a wall,” Leslie said with a knowing laugh.

Everyone laughed, and you felt yourself relax a little. Apparently, you weren’t the only one.

When everyone left to gather their things and finish up the last tasks before heading home, you stayed alone at your desk. You picked up your iPad and looked at Superman’s face. It was a half-body portrait, his face looking straight ahead, and you realized just how well you knew his features. His broad shoulders, his powerful chest, the sharp line of his jaw. You had only seen him once in person, during that interview Lois held on a rooftop terrace. You watched him from afar, hidden behind a column, your cheeks red as tomatoes. You remembered that he looked at you for a second, just a brief instant, and your stomach twisted like you’d been thrown onto a roller coaster. Of course he was a man with presence; there was no denying that. And you couldn’t lie to yourself either: sometimes your hands wanted to draw Superman without the suit, just in regular clothes, or with even less clothing, but you always told yourself that would be unprofessional. Now that you knew other people—or several other people—had the exact same thoughts, maybe you could draw him without guilt. Maybe.

Your breathing caught slightly at the thought. You looked at your notebook with the worn pages, the one you always carried with you, and carefully picked it up. You packed everything into your bag: the iPad, your pencils, the charger, the notebook. You slung the bag over your shoulder, but before leaving, you scheduled the next day’s posts and triple-checked everything because that was who you were: careful, organized, professional.

You walked toward the elevator with your mind somewhere else, thinking about lines and shadows and muscles. You were so distracted that when you stepped inside, the doors were already slowly closing, and you didn’t notice someone approaching behind you.

“I’m going down too,” you heard a voice say just as the gap between the doors narrowed.

Your eyes widened instantly, and the moment you reacted, you pressed the “open doors” button. The doors stopped and slid open again. And when they did, you saw Clark Kent standing there. He looked slightly hunched as always, his gaze lowered toward the floor, almost as if he’d been saddened by the thought that you’d left him behind. Or maybe he thought you ignored him on purpose. No… you knew Clark. He’d been your coworker for years. You knew he was clumsy and shy and always bumping into tables. But everyone in the office said his destiny was tied to Lois Lane’s, that they were meant for each other. Then you remembered you were about to go home and draw Superman, the very same man Clark had interviewed countless times, the same man who seemed so completely different from Clark in every possible way.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, feeling a little guilty for leaving him out. “I was distracted, I didn’t see you coming. I’ve had a thousand things on my mind at once and didn’t realize you were back there. Sorry.”

“No… I’m sorry… yeah,” Clark said, nodding several times in a row as though agreeing with something he hadn’t fully said out loud. He adjusted his glasses with his finger, something he always did whenever he got nervous. Then he stepped into the elevator and stood beside you, leaving a polite amount of space between you.

The doors closed, and the elevator slowly began to descend.

You smiled and looked forward again, watching the numbers change on the screen. You hesitated. Was what you were thinking appropriate? Absolutely not. But you had imagined it, of course you had, even before your coworkers planted the idea in your head. And now you couldn’t stop thinking about it while Clark stood right next to you.

“How was your day?” Clark’s voice interrupted your thoughts. You looked up at him, and the moment he met your gaze, he blushed immediately. Or maybe it was just the warm yellow light inside the elevator. But his cheeks were definitely pink.

“Exhausting,” you answered with a tired sigh. “I edited everything that’s going out tomorrow. But it’s all ready now, so I don’t have to worry about it until morning.” You paused before adding, “I heard Lois is interviewing the president tomorrow. And you’re interviewing Superman, right?”

Clark looked at you with wide eyes behind his glasses, as though he couldn’t believe you paid attention to the things he did.

“You know about that?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. Like it was some secret only he knew.

“Well… Perry mentioned it this morning during the meeting, and everyone’s been talking about it in the break room,” you replied, not understanding why he seemed so shocked. It was public knowledge around the office.

“Right… right, that’s true,” Clark said, looking away and pushing his glasses up again with his finger. He swallowed and fell silent.

Once again, uncomfortable silence settled between the two of you. But your thoughts drifted elsewhere again. Muscles. Superman was incredibly strong; that much was obvious. He had to be perfectly built beneath that suit. You could already imagine the drawing in your notebook, the lines of his back, the curve of his arms. You sighed without realizing it, a deep sigh Clark definitely heard. How tall was Superman exactly? He was certainly taller than you; you knew that much because when you saw him in person, you’d had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. But how tall exactly? Then you glanced sideways at Clark and noticed his height. He was very tall, much taller than the other men in the office. You should compare his height to Superman’s. They were probably the same height, or close to it. You looked at him again discreetly, but you’d seen photos of Lois and Superman together, and Lois was fairly short. When Clark walked beside Lois, he looked just as tall next to her. When you glanced sideways once more, he was looking at you too. Both of you looked away at the same time. Clark’s cheeks turned red as an apple.

“How tall are you, Clark?” you suddenly asked before you could stop yourself.

Clark looked at you in confusion, frowning slightly.

“Why do you want to know that?” he asked.

“Curiosity,” you admitted with a shrug. “Just curiosity. I’ve always wondered how tall you are.”

“I… well, I think the last time I checked, I was around six foot three, I think,” he said as though recalling something from years ago. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up slightly. “It’s been a while since I measured myself, honestly. But around that.”

“Oh,” you said, your mind instantly making calculations. Superman was probably the same height. How strange. You stared at the floor for a moment, and Clark kept looking at you as though expecting you to say more, something that never came. Then the elevator doors opened on the ground floor.

“Goodnight, Clark,” you said without waiting another second.

You stepped out of the elevator quickly, your heart beating slightly harder than usual. You didn’t turn around to see whether he stayed watching you or followed behind you. You kept walking toward the building’s exit, toward the cold streets of Metropolis, and made your way home without rushing, though not exactly calmly either. Your thoughts were filled with muscles and measurements and how you would draw that night.

When you arrived at your building, you took the elevator up again, reached your floor, and once you were finally inside your apartment, you put everything in order for the next day. You hung up your jacket, put away your shoes, and set your bag on the dining chair. But you didn’t place your notebook or pencil back into the drawer like you usually did. You were going to need them tonight. You changed into your soft, comfortable pajamas—the ones covered in little stars—and before locking yourself in your room, you grabbed a large glass of water from the kitchen because you knew you’d get thirsty while drawing. Then you went straight to your bedroom, specifically to your desk, your chair, the place where you had drawn ever since moving into that apartment.

You loved drawing. You loved it with all your heart. Even when editing was involved, you first created sketches in your worn notebook before transferring them to your iPad apps for the final touches—color, lighting, shadows, everything. But tonight you weren’t going to use the iPad. Tonight you would use your pencil and notebook, just like when you first started, and you were going to take your time. You opened the notebook to a blank page, rested the pencil against the paper, and closed your eyes for a moment.

You decided to draw Superman in the middle pages. Nothing unusual at first. Just ordinary Superman, little Superman logos here and there, things you’d drawn a thousand times before, especially because you were still hesitant. You weren’t sure how far you wanted to go tonight. But once the first page filled with logos and Superman in different poses, you looked at the next blank page and sighed. Without thinking too hard, you drew his face, just like always, knowing him in a way that surprised even you. You traced his firm jawline, his lips that you always sketched slightly curved as though he were on the verge of smiling, that curl falling over his forehead that never seemed capable of staying perfectly in place. Then you moved down to his neck, broad and strong, and you knew the next step should’ve been drawing the cape and the suit, the way you always did.

But it wasn’t.

Your hands moved on their own, almost without your permission. You drew his shoulders, wide and rounded, but without the fabric of the suit covering them. You outlined them like bare skin, giving them a soft yet firm contour, as though you could feel the warmth of those shoulders simply by looking at them on paper. Then came his chest, and imagining it made your pupils dilate slightly. Placing your hands there had to be… an entirely new sensation, you told yourself, smiling with a flushed face. Then you drew his pectorals, sharply defined, as though he’d spent endless hours training. You imagined how they would look under the light, how they would move with each breath. Then you moved lower, and you knew you were reaching his hips. You knew that going any farther would bring you dangerously close to a place that made your cheeks burn red. You stopped right there. Took a breath. Started another drawing.

You made several sketches in different poses. In one, you drew him with his head tilted slightly, as though he were watching something with interest, wearing that deep gaze only he possessed. In another, his hair was messy, as though Superman could sweat after a difficult fight. You added droplets sliding down his bare abdomen, glistening, while his fingers brushed over his own skin as though teasing, as though he were playing with someone. Then you drew another pose where you almost went lower than his lower abdomen, and you had to put the pencil down for a moment because it felt like the air had left your lungs.

Then, in the seventh drawing, he was no longer alone.

There was a waist. Nothing more at first, just a woman’s waist with Superman’s hands resting on it, squeezing gently. In the next drawing, it wasn’t only a waist anymore. There was wavy brown hair falling down someone’s back. Coincidentally, that hair looked identical to yours. You stared at it and couldn’t deny it. It was coincidence, wasn’t it? Just coincidence. Then came a nose, a mouth, the woman slowly taking shape beneath your fingers on the page, and you knew perfectly well it was you. You sighed as you looked at the lines. It was a drawing of yourself. His fingers so large, so firm, pressing into your waist as though he never wanted to let go. Your hands resting against his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palms. Your mouth slightly parted, his the same, both of you desperate, so close to one another you could almost feel warmth radiating from the paper itself.

Then you drew another one. Another pose. The same scene but with sharper, more intense features. Your blouse clinging tightly to your skin, so tightly that you sketched your breasts pressed against him without any space between you. His hand beneath your chin, lifting it as though he wanted you to kiss him, and his other hand on your waist, but higher now, nearly at the middle of your back. Then you stopped. Your legs pressed together uncontrollably. Your breathing became uneven, short and quick. You snapped the notebook shut as though you could trap inside it everything you had just drawn.

“Too many drawings,” you muttered aloud before pausing. You closed everything, slipped the notebook into your bag to take to work the next day because you couldn’t leave it at home—you still needed to finish the building illustration Perry had requested. You went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on your face again and again, trying to stop thinking about those lines, those hands, that gaze. You sighed at your reflection in the mirror and decided it was finally time to sleep. But sleeping turned into an entire mission on its own.

You climbed into bed, turned off the lights, and closed your eyes. But your mind refused to quiet down. You tossed and turned repeatedly, thinking about the drawings, the lines you created, the way his abdomen looked beneath the imagined light, how it would feel to have his hands on your waist for real. Hours passed like that, staring at the dark ceiling while listening to cars driving far below. And only when exhaustion finally overtook you, when your eyelids could no longer stay open, were you able to rest. You slept without dreaming, or at least without remembering the dreams once morning came.

The next morning, you woke up with sunlight pouring through the window. You barely remembered the drawings, only a distant echo in your mind, like a dream fading away beneath daylight. You showered with hot water to wake yourself up properly, ate toast with jam and a glass of milk for breakfast, changed quickly into the first clothes you found in your closet, and rushed to work with your bag hanging from your shoulder, almost forgetting your keys in the door.

When you arrived at the Daily Planet, the first thing you did was check that everything was running smoothly with that day’s publication. You called the printing company, and they confirmed the newspapers had already been distributed all across Metropolis. You sighed in relief. Then you checked the website—everything was functioning perfectly, the articles were in place, the drawings looked good on every screen. Sam started monitoring the views from her desk, moving numbers and graphs around.

“So far, they’re doing great,” she told you with a thumbs-up.

Then you got to work on a new sketch. According to the email Perry had sent that morning, you needed to create an illustration of a building that would be completed within a month. It was called the Wallers Building. Perry wanted a polished illustration, something that would make people look at it and think, what a beautiful building, I want to visit when it opens—a modern tower with shining stores, something that would keep people excited for its grand opening.

“Here.”

A voice made you look up. It was Clark. He had walked all the way to your desk without you hearing him approach, and now he was placing a steaming cup of coffee beside your keyboard. The smell reached your nose, and you realized you desperately needed it.

“Thanks, Clark,” you said with a smile. “I already told you not to bother. Jimmy’s the one who should feel bad for not getting that picture on time.” You slid your chair slightly to the side and gestured for him to bring his over, the way you sometimes did whenever you wanted to talk for a while.

Clark sat beside you, a little clumsy as always, and his knees bumped against the leg of your desk.

“Oops,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses.

“Well… it’s still my article,” Clark said in that soft, calm voice of his. “I should thank you for finishing it. It turned out really well. Honestly. Perry told me it was one of the best drawings you’ve ever done of Superman.” He paused and glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “What are you working on now?” he asked, but the moment he looked at you directly, his gaze darted quickly toward your computer screen instead.

“The next drawing,” you said, pointing at the half-finished sketch in your notebook. “The Wallers Building. They say it’ll be a huge success once it opens. Perry asked me to draw it so people will already have it in mind before construction is even finished.” You showed him the sketch: a tall tower with large windows and plants hanging from the balconies.

Clark leaned in slightly to get a better look.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “You’re really good at drawing buildings too. Not just people.”

You smiled and closed the notebook to put it away.

And then you went pale.

Because the moment you shut the notebook, you noticed the edges of the pages, and you saw the faint outlines of last night’s drawings. A line here, another there, like they were trying to escape from the paper. Suddenly you remembered everything at once: the pectorals, the sweat drops, the waist, the brown hair, your hands on his chest. You admitted to yourself that bringing the notebook to work had been far too reckless. Far too reckless. Someone could see it. Someone could accidentally open the notebook, flip through the pages, and discover those images you had drawn the night before. Your cheeks heated just thinking about it.

Luckily, Clark hadn’t noticed. He was looking elsewhere now, out the window, with a calm expression on his face. He hadn’t seen anything.

“Are you okay?” Clark asked, turning back toward you. “You suddenly went pale.”

“Yes, yes,” you answered quickly, shoving the notebook deep into your bag and zipping it closed all the way. “Just… too much work. I forgot to eat this morning.”

Clark frowned with concern.

“You should eat something then. Want me to go to the cafeteria and get you something? Maybe a sandwich?”

“No, don’t worry about it,” you said, even though what you actually wanted was for him to leave quickly so you could check whether the drawings were visible from outside the notebook. “I’ll eat later. Thanks for the coffee, really.”

Clark nodded and stood up from the chair, awkward once again.

“Well… if you need anything, let me know,” he said before walking back toward his desk, nearly tripping over a chair along the way but catching himself just in time.

You watched him leave, your heart beating faster than normal. Then you slipped your hand into your bag, touching the notebook through the fabric, and sighed. You had to be more careful. You couldn’t let anyone see those drawings. No one. Especially not Clark, who worked so closely with Superman.

When the day finally ended, you stretched like a cat waking from a long nap. Your arms extended toward the ceiling, and your shoulders cracked softly from spending so much time sitting in front of the computer. You packed your belongings slowly: pencils into their case, charger into the front pocket, headphones neatly wrapped. But you left the notebook for last. You held it in your hands instead of putting it away, almost afraid you’d arrive home and somehow not find it, as if someone might steal it along the way. You preferred carrying it yourself, feeling the weight of the pages in your hands, making sure it was still there.

As you approached the exit, you passed by Clark’s desk like you always did. It had become a habit over the past few months, though you had never told him why. Maybe you simply liked saying goodbye before heading home. Or maybe you just liked seeing him one last time before he disappeared into the streets of Metropolis. That afternoon, he was gathering papers and organizing them with his large, clumsy hands, stacking them into a folder beside him. He looked focused, his brow slightly furrowed behind his glasses.

“New investigation?” you asked, leaning lightly against the edge of his desk.

Clark looked startled, as though he hadn’t heard you approach. His shoulders tensed, and his cheeks instantly turned pink.

“Yeah,” he answered quickly, nodding several times, almost like a child caught doing something he shouldn’t. He stuffed the papers into the folder and shut it firmly.

“Heading home now?” he asked, looking at you over the top of his glasses. His eyes seemed wider than usual, like he was waiting for your answer with too much anticipation.

But before you could reply, you heard quick footsteps behind you. Sam and Cat rushed over, pointing toward the television playing in the corner of the room. It was the last TV still turned on, and someone would shut it off once everyone had gone home. Clark used the distraction to take a drink from his water bottle, shifting his gaze toward the screen.

“That’s exactly what I was talking about,” Sam said excitedly, pointing insistently at the television.

You looked closer at the screen and realized they were airing a Superman story. But it wasn’t new. It was from the previous week, footage you had already seen before, from the fight where he faced some massive enemy that appeared out of nowhere and destroyed everything in its path. During the fight, the creature had ripped Superman’s suit along his side, exposing part of his abdomen—defined, tan, and firm. The footage replayed the moment in slow motion over and over again, like the news station knew exactly what it was doing. You watched without fully understanding why Sam seemed so excited.

“That tear where the enemy ripped his suit makes women imagine way too many things, doesn’t it?” Sam said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow with a mischievous grin.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Leslie added, appearing behind Cat while narrowing her eyes at the television. “Life is so unfair. If the tear had gone just a little lower, I’m sure my boss here would’ve had no choice but to draw what Superman’s hiding under that suit.” Leslie laughed and looked toward Cat and Sam, who nodded in total agreement.

You blushed at the exact same moment Clark choked on his water.

But it wasn’t a small cough. It was violent, almost making him spit the water out completely. Some of it splashed across his carefully organized papers, and he dropped the bottle, which rolled across the desk before falling onto the floor with a loud thud. You turned immediately at the sound and saw him with cheeks red as tomatoes, coughing while trying to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Clark!” you exclaimed, crouching beside him to help gather everything.

The wet papers had scattered across the floor. Some were soaked, others luckily untouched. You picked them up one by one, careful not to tear them, handing them back to Clark as you gathered them. He accepted them without looking at you, his hands trembling slightly. Once you’d collected them all, you searched for something he could use to clean his glasses, which had also been splashed. You found a tissue in your pocket and offered it to him.

“Your glasses,” you said with a small nod toward them, but he didn’t look at you. Instead, he turned away and wiped them with his sleeve, giving you his back.

When he turned around again, he grabbed the papers from your hands quickly, almost snatching them away, and looked elsewhere immediately. You didn’t understand what was happening. He was acting strange, even more nervous than usual, and Clark was always nervous. But this felt different. You didn’t understand any of it, though you decided not to ask. The other girls were already walking toward the elevator together, laughing among themselves, and you followed after them. Clark came behind everyone else, holding his briefcase in one hand and the damp papers pressed against his chest with the other.

“Are you okay?” you whispered once you ended up standing at the very back of the elevator, directly behind him while the doors closed.

“Yeah,” Clark replied, his voice slightly rough. “Just swallowed wrong. The water went down the wrong way.”

You nodded, though you weren’t entirely convinced.

The ride down passed in silence. Once you reached the lobby, you waved goodbye to everyone—Sam, Cat, Leslie, the rest of the employees heading out. Clark lingered a step behind, staring at the floor. You smiled and wished everyone goodnight before heading home through the streets of Metropolis without any trouble at first. One by one, the city lights flickered on as evening settled in, and the air smelled faintly of street food and car engines.

You walked slowly with your hands tucked into your jacket pockets, thinking about what you had just seen on television. Superman with the ripped suit along his side, that firm abdomen, that hard muscle beneath tan skin shining under the midday sunlight. Your cheeks flushed red just remembering it. You could draw more, you thought. You could draw so much more. Tonight, once you got home, you could open the notebook again and let your hands do whatever they wanted. You didn’t have to feel guilty anymore, right? Nobody would ever see it.

Though maybe it would be smarter to tear those pages out of the notebook and use a different sketchbook entirely. That way no one would risk finding them. You could rip them out and hide them somewhere in your apartment—under the mattress, inside a locked drawer, anywhere no one else would ever discover them. Just for yourself. That would be safest.

When you looked down at your hands, you realized you weren’t holding the notebook.

You went pale. Your heart shot straight into your throat. You assumed it was in your bag because it was always there—it was your most precious possession. But then you remembered you’d carried it in your hands from your desk all the way to the elevator. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d left it back at the Planet on your desk, but no, you clearly remembered having it with you. Then you looked at your hands again. Empty. You yanked your bag open and shoved your hand inside. Nothing. You dug through everything: the pencil case, charger, headphones, a pack of gum, your keys. Nothing. The notebook was gone. You didn’t have it because you’d waved goodbye with one hand while the other held your bag—but the notebook… the notebook required one free hand to carry, and you couldn’t remember holding it after leaving the elevator.

Then you thought about Clark.

Clark Kent had choked on his water, of course he had. Papers had fallen everywhere, some wet, and you crouched to help him gather everything. You handed him every paper you picked up from the floor. The tissue for his glasses. And the notebook. Your notebook. In the chaos, while rushing to gather everything before everyone left, it must have mixed with his papers without either of you noticing. You handed him everything from the floor, and he accepted it without looking, his hands trembling. Your notebook had been among those papers.

You went even paler, if that was possible. Your hands started trembling violently. You yanked your phone from your pocket so fast you nearly dropped it. You tried retracing your steps, but you’d already walked several blocks away. You didn’t know what to do. You looked around desperately for a taxi, but naturally, none were passing. The streets were too quiet. You knew where Clark lived because once, you had accompanied Jimmy to pick up something from his apartment when Clark claimed he was sick. You remembered the address, the building, the apartment number. You could walk there, but it was far—too far—and if you ran, you’d arrive breathless and drenched in sweat.

Your hands shook harder. You opened your phone, found Clark’s contact, and called once. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Voicemail. You hung up and called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Every time you heard the automated recording, it felt like the ground beneath your feet sank a little deeper.

Then the taxi appeared.

It seemed to come out of nowhere, like a miracle in the middle of the empty sidewalk. You raised your hand immediately, barely thinking, and the car stopped right in front of you. You climbed in without hesitation, gave Clark’s address in a shaky voice, and once the taxi lurched forward, you pulled out your phone again, your hands still trembling. One message after another spilled out without pause, your fingers moving on their own across the screen.

“Clark you took my notebook,” you sent first, immediately realizing it sounded harsher than you intended, but it didn’t matter.

Right after that, without giving him time to respond, you typed: “Please don’t open it.” Your fingers were damp against the glass screen. Then: “I have private things in there.” The moment you pressed send, regret hit you. It sounded suspicious, like you were hiding something terrible. So quickly, trying to cover yourself, you added: “I have my credit card numbers and passwords written in it.” A lie, obviously, but a believable one. Anyone would understand not wanting someone to see that kind of information.

The taxi turned a corner, and there it was: traffic. Endless rows of stopped cars, glowing red brake lights, distant honking. It had to be a joke from the universe, right when you needed to get there quickly. You pressed your forehead against the window and closed your eyes for a second, trying to breathe deeply. It didn’t help. You called again. Once. Twice. Three times. Clark didn’t answer. Every ring felt like another stab twisting into your stomach.

Your pulse was erratic, swinging wildly between too fast and too slow, like your heart didn’t know what to do with so much panic. Imagining Clark opening that notebook made you feel physically sick. Clark, who knew Superman. Clark, your coworker who had always been kind to you, who brought you coffee without being asked, who blushed whenever you spoke to him. He would think you were a pervert. A lunatic. Someone wildly unprofessional who spent her nights drawing things she shouldn’t. The shame burned inside you like fire.

When you looked out the window and realized there were only two blocks left, you couldn’t wait anymore. Traffic hadn’t moved at all. The cars were completely stuck.

“Let me out here,” you told the driver, throwing cash at him without waiting for change, without even checking how much you handed over.

You jumped out of the taxi, nearly tripping on the curb, and started running. Two long blocks filled with parked cars, glowing streetlights, and strangers staring at you like you were insane. Your bag slammed against your hip while air tore in and out of your lungs like you’d just finished a marathon.

You reached Clark’s building and yanked open the front door. You took the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor over and over as though that would somehow make the doors close faster. You watched the numbers climb on the screen. Fifth floor. Right. That was it. The moment the doors opened, you practically sprinted down the hallway until you reached his apartment door—the same one Jimmy had knocked on that day you both came together. You recognized it from the small scratch in the wood and the slightly crooked doormat.

You rang the doorbell while knocking against the door with your knuckles at the same time, breathing hard, unable to stay still. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

Then the door opened.

You froze the moment you saw Clark. His hair was damp and pushed back, tiny droplets of water still sliding down the side of his neck. He wore a gray long-sleeved shirt and black pants, simple but comfortable, like casual sleepwear. He looked freshly out of the shower—or maybe the bath. That’s why he hadn’t answered his phone, you realized. That’s why he ignored the messages. You looked at him, and despite the panic and embarrassment, your cheeks turned red instantly because you couldn’t deny he looked good.

“Hi,” Clark said with a small smile, tilting his head slightly like a puppy recognizing its owner.

“You accidentally took my notebook, Clark,” you blurted out, the words rushing out faster than you intended. Then you took a breath, trying to calm yourself before adding, “Hi.” You bit your lip nervously without noticing.

Clark’s eyes widened slightly, like he had only just understood the situation. He ran a hand through his damp hair and nodded.

“Oh, right. I realized when I got home,” he said calmly—far too calmly. “I put it in my bag so I could give it back to you tomorrow at the office. I didn’t realize you needed it that urgently.”

He turned around and walked deeper into the apartment, leaving the door open behind him. You stayed frozen in the doorway, too nervous to step inside. You wanted to go home. You wanted to run away again. But fear rooted you in place. You couldn’t leave without that notebook in your hands. You just couldn’t. So you waited there, fingers gripping your bag tightly while listening to his footsteps disappear and then return.

Clark came back holding the notebook.

He offered it to you with that awkward little smile of his, and you grabbed it like a recovered treasure. Relief rushed through you so intensely it almost escaped as a moan. You clutched it against your chest, feeling the familiar weight of the pages and the rough texture of the worn cover. It was there. Everything was fine.

“I should’ve called you,” Clark said, guilt written across his face. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d worry this much.”

“You…” You swallowed hard because the question felt dangerous, but you needed to ask it anyway. “Did you open the notebook?”

Clark stared at you for a second that felt endless. His blue eyes behind the glasses didn’t blink.

“No,” he said.

You nodded with a relieved smile, feeling the weight of the world fall from your shoulders. Suddenly you felt lighter, calmer, like you had been holding your breath for hours and could finally exhale.

“Good… I… thank you,” you said, your voice no longer shaking as badly. “And sorry for showing up like this, out of nowhere, without warning. I just panicked. But it’s fine now. I’m going home. Bye, Clark.”

You walked away down the hallway without looking back, clutching the notebook tightly against your chest along with your bag. This time, you walked toward the elevator more calmly, no longer running, feeling like the night had finally returned to normal.

When you got home, you locked the door behind you as though someone were chasing you. You tossed your bag onto the couch and pulled out the notebook Clark had returned. You held it in your hands for a moment, staring at the cover like you could somehow see through it. Your fingers still trembled slightly. You opened the notebook halfway and flipped through it page by page, slowly and carefully.

They were all there.

Every drawing. Half-body Superman. Flying Superman. Small Superman logos. Defined muscles. Then you reached the middle pages, the drawings from the night before. The abdomen with sweat drops. The wandering hands. The waist with fingers digging into it. Your face. Your parted lips. You sighed in relief so deeply your chest almost hurt. Everything was still there. Nothing was missing. Clark hadn’t seen anything.

But you couldn’t keep doing this. You couldn’t continue carrying that notebook everywhere with those drawings hidden inside it. Someone else could see them, not just Clark. Sam, who was curious and always grabbed your things without asking. Perry, who sometimes borrowed your notebook to check your sketches. Anyone at the office. So you decided to tear the pages out.

Carefully, you removed each page containing those drawings. Shirtless Superman. The abdomen. The sweat drops. The hands. You tore them out gently but firmly, enjoying the crisp sound of paper separating from the notebook. Then you folded the pages in half and slipped them into a large envelope from your desk drawer. Afterward, you went into the kitchen, found one of those white adhesive labels you used to organize your things, and wrote clearly across it:

“Private drawings.”

You stuck the label onto the envelope and hid it beneath your mattress, deep enough that nobody would ever think to look there.

Then you picked up the notebook again. You grabbed another label and wrote:

“Daily Planet Notebook.”

You stuck it directly onto the cover, right in the center where it would be impossible to miss. That way you would never make the same mistake again. The work notebook was only for work drawings. The other one—the real one, the one you had named “Superman Notebook”—was only for you. For your thoughts. For your fantasies.

You felt calmer after that.

You drank an entire glass of water in one go, then finally went to bed without overthinking it anymore.

But Clark would never tell you that. Never tell you the truth.

Clark would never admit that he opened your notebook out of pure curiosity. He always looked at your drawings, even if you never noticed. Whenever you were focused, your head tilted slightly down, your tongue peeking between your lips, he simply couldn’t help himself. He loved watching you like that, so absorbed in your work, so dedicated. It was one of his favorite parts of the day. So when he got home that night, after you left, he sat down on the couch in his living room and let out a long sigh. He arranged the damp papers across the coffee table, the ones he had picked up from the floor, and while organizing them, his eyes landed on your notebook. He had taken it by accident, mixed in with his own papers. A smile tugged at his lips. How clumsy of him. Well, he would just return it to you at the office tomorrow.

He picked it up and opened it without thinking, almost instinctively, while settling back against the sofa cushions. He only wanted to take a quick look, just for a second, to see how far you had gotten with the Wallers Building sketch you showed him before leaving. He liked looking at your art. He liked the way you drew Superman’s features over and over again with such detail, such precision. And still, after all those drawings, you never suspected Superman was him. That you were drawing him without knowing it. That every line you traced along that face, those shoulders, that chest, belonged to his face, his shoulders, his chest.

He smiled again, warmth blooming quietly in his chest. He flipped through the first few pages filled with normal Superman sketches, tiny logos, poses you already knew by heart. Then came the Daily Planet notes, headline ideas, infographic concepts. He adjusted himself more comfortably on the couch, feet resting on the coffee table, and kept flipping through the pages.

Then he searched for the Wallers Building sketch. He wanted to see how much progress you’d made since showing it to him earlier.

He turned one page.

Then another.

And the moment he reached the next one, his eyes widened.

It was Superman shirtless.

Not the usual Superman in the blue suit and red cape. It was Superman bare-chested, every muscle carefully defined, the abdomen carved into the kind of perfect lines magazines obsessed over. The drawing was so detailed it almost looked like a photograph. Every shadow, every curve, every line of his body was there on the page with such accuracy that it stole Clark’s breath away.

He swallowed hard.

His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the page.

More drawings.

Superman with his head tilted, wearing an intense expression. Superman with messy hair and drops of sweat sliding down his abdomen, as though he had just come out of a brutal fight. Superman with his fingers brushing over his own chest in a pose that wasn’t heroic, wasn’t noble, but something else entirely.

Something intimate.

Something forbidden.

Then he reached the third page.

Superman holding a woman’s waist.

Her face wasn’t visible yet, only her hands tangled in the fabric of a shirt. Clark felt heat spread along the back of his neck. He turned the page again.

And there you were.

Your face, completely recognizable. Your features, your nose, your parted lips, your wavy brown hair spilling over your shoulders. His fingers traced over the drawing carefully, almost afraid to touch it, like he could somehow feel your skin through the paper.

Then he turned the page again.

The same drawing.

But more detailed.

Much more detailed.

His large hands were buried against your waist, gripping the fabric of your blouse. Your shirt clung tightly to your body, enough to reveal the curve of your waist, the shape of your hips, and your breasts pressed firmly against his bare chest. Your nipples strained faintly beneath the fabric, and even though it was only a drawing, Clark could imagine it perfectly. Your hand rested against his chest, fingers slightly spread as though you were caressing him. His other hand tilted your chin upward, like he wanted you to kiss him. Your eyes looked bright and dark with desire. His lips were parted too, ready to meet yours.

The entire drawing radiated need.

Urgency.

Desperation.

And Clark felt all the blood in his body rush downward.

A hard ache formed beneath his pants, impossible to ignore. He grew hard seeing you like that, seeing you drawn with him, with Superman. He imagined you drawing it. Imagined your hands moving the pencil across the page, slowly creating that image. He imagined whether you had pushed your shirt up while sketching him, whether you had touched yourself while drawing him. He could imagine your bare skin. Your naked breasts pressed against him without fabric between you. Your hardened nipples brushing against his chest. Your warm breath against his neck.

A rough sound escaped his throat before he realized it.

His hand moved on its own.

It dropped toward his lap, pressing against the hardness beneath his pants. No… was this right? he thought. You were his coworker. The woman who drew Superman without knowing he was the man beneath the cape. Someone he respected. Someone he admired. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit there aroused, staring at your drawings like they were something filthy.

But he couldn’t stop.

He stood from the couch abruptly and crossed the apartment toward his bedroom. He locked the door behind him, twisting the lock until he heard the click. As though someone could walk in. As though you could somehow appear there out of nowhere. Then he crossed to the window and shut the blinds completely, pulling the heavy curtains closed.

No one could see him.

No one could know what he was about to do.

He sat on the edge of the bed with the notebook open beside him on the most detailed drawing, his erection straining painfully beneath his pants. His cock throbbed, hard and hot, the skin stretched tight and sensitive. He freed himself from his clothes and sighed at the feeling alone.

Your drawings were everything he had forbidden himself from imagining about you.

He had denied himself thoughts like these countless times. At the office, whenever you leaned over your desk and your blouse shifted open slightly, he forced himself to look away. When you laughed with Sam and tipped your head back, exposing your neck, he bit down on his tongue to stop himself from staring. But having those drawings there in front of him, seeing you wrapped around him, pressed against him, wanting him—

It made him close his eyes while his hand finally moved.

Up and down.

Up and down.

The rhythm started slow, almost hesitant.

Then faster.

More desperate.

His breathing turned heavy and uneven. The image of you wouldn’t leave his mind. Your parted lips. Your shining eyes. The outline of your breasts beneath your blouse. His fingers dug into your waist.

He could imagine you moaning his name.

Imagine your back arching against him.

And by the time he reached the edge, the final sound torn from his throat was your name. A rough whisper, almost pleading. Your name spilled from his lips as release overtook him, white streaking across his hand and part of his shirt while his entire body tensed sharply. He came once, then again, trembling through it, mouth open in a silent groan before finally collapsing backward onto the bed, chest rising and falling heavily, his hand sticky and warm.

He snapped the notebook shut immediately afterward, like he could trap the guilt inside it.

Then he stood with shaky legs and disappeared into the bathroom to clean himself up. He turned on the hot water and scrubbed his hands again and again until nothing remained on his skin. Afterward, he stepped into the shower, letting the water pour down his back and over his hair, washing away every trace of what he had just done.

When he finished showering, the shame had dulled slightly, though embarrassment still lingered beneath his skin. Embarrassed that he had lost control. Embarrassed that he had used your drawings that way without your permission.

He sighed quietly while drying his hair with a towel, running it through the damp strands over and over again.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He picked it up and finally saw your unread messages.

“Clark you took my notebook.”

“Please don’t open it.”

“I have private things in there.”

“I have my credit card numbers and passwords written in it.”

You were coming.

You would arrive at his apartment at any moment.

Panic surged through his chest instantly.

Using the same speed he used to save people, he changed into his pajamas in less than a second: gray shirt, black pants, simple and normal. Then his eyes landed on your notebook where he had left it on the bed. He picked it up carefully—very carefully—and found the final drawing again.

The most detailed one.

The one that had driven him into sin.

His hands still trembling slightly, he tore the page from the notebook, wincing at the sound of ripping paper because it seemed deafeningly loud in the silence of the room. He folded the page in half and hid it deep inside his drawer beneath stacks of papers where nobody would ever find it.

Then he slipped your notebook into his work bag, the same one he carried to the office every day. That way, he could pretend he intended to return it tomorrow morning.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he had never opened it.

Like he had never seen anything at all.

You would never realize one drawing was missing.

Between the panic and your nerves, you didn’t notice when you tore the pages out at home. Maybe you counted wrong. Maybe fear convinced you they were all there. But the most detailed drawing—the one showing your breasts beneath the fabric, his hand beneath your chin, your shining eyes—

That one was no longer inside the envelope hidden beneath your mattress.

That drawing now rested at the very bottom of Clark Kent’s drawer.

Clark couldn’t stop staring at you during the following days.

Whenever you turned toward him, he would look away too quickly, cheeks turning pink while thoughts of you, the drawings, and that night in his apartment flooded his mind again. He sighed constantly, as though he carried something heavy inside his chest. And maybe he had developed a new habit too: every night before bed, he opened his drawer and looked at the drawing he had kept—the most detailed one, the one of the two of you wrapped in each other’s arms—with a stupid little smile he simply couldn’t wipe off his face.

You noticed none of it.

Not really.

You continued on normally, doing your work, sketching buildings and landscapes and Superman whenever Perry asked for him. Maybe you noticed Clark blushing sometimes, but Clark always blushed, you thought. It was part of him, like the glasses and the clumsiness. Sometimes you saw him returning from the bathroom with flushed cheeks and slightly damp hair, like he had splashed water on his face, but you barely paid attention.

And maybe, just maybe, Clark wished you actually would notice.

He wanted you to ask him why he stared at you so much. Why he always hovered close to you. Why he got nervous whenever you smiled at him.

But you were so distracted, so lost in your world of lines and colors, that you never saw what stood directly in front of you.

“It’s only three pieces of furniture,” Jimmy said one afternoon, appearing at your desk with a huge grin while leaning both hands against the edge like he was about to share a secret.

You looked up from your iPad, confused.

“And why does that involve me?” you asked, frowning slightly. You didn’t understand why Jimmy looked so excited.

“Come help us. Lois is bringing pizza, which means you’ll eat for free,” Jimmy said, wiggling his eyebrows like he was offering you the greatest deal in the world.

You thought about the free pizza. You had spent the entire week eating sandwiches at your desk because you never had time to go to the cafeteria. The idea of a hot slice sounded heavenly.

You smiled.

“Fine,” you said, locking your iPad. “But only for the pizza.”

Jimmy laughed and slapped your shoulder lightly. “That’s my girl,” he said proudly, like the two of you were longtime partners in crime.

Jimmy was a good friend. You had worked together for years. But his insistence felt strange this time. Usually he hired movers for things like this, or asked Clark to handle everything himself because he was the strongest one. Maybe, without realizing it, Jimmy had already noticed the way Clark looked at you and was secretly trying to play cupid.

But you couldn’t prove that.

In the end, you agreed with a sigh and slipped your work notebook into your bag. You put on your jacket, said goodbye to the people still working, and followed them through the streets of Metropolis toward Jimmy’s apartment.

When you arrived at Jimmy’s building, the three pieces of furniture were already waiting outside the entrance. According to Jimmy, a delivery truck had dropped them off an hour earlier after he bought them from a same-day delivery store.

There was a massive new couch upholstered in gray fabric, the kind that looked soft enough to fall asleep on while watching television. A tall wooden wardrobe with two mirrored doors. And a white refrigerator, sleek and modern, still wrapped in plastic and cardboard, sitting on the sidewalk like abandoned giants waiting to be claimed.

“Well,” Jimmy said, rubbing his hands together, “we’ve gotta get all of this up to the fifth floor.”

Lois rolled her eyes immediately. She wore a fitted skirt and heels clearly not made for carrying furniture, and the look on her face made it obvious she had no intention of helping.

“I brought the pizza,” Lois declared, lifting the large box in her hands. “My job ends there. I’m going upstairs to unlock the apartment and set the table.”

“But Lois—” Jimmy started.

“Without me,” Lois cut him off while already walking toward the building entrance, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

You looked at Jimmy, then Clark, then the furniture.

Clark was already shrugging off his jacket silently, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. His arms looked broad and strong, even though he tried to hide it by hunching his shoulders the way he always did.

“I’m not carrying anything,” you said immediately, raising both hands. “I’m an artist, not a mover. Besides, I’ve got a notebook in my bag and I don’t want it ruined.”

Jimmy sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. Go upstairs with Lois. We’ll handle it. But at least put on music or something while you wait.”

You smiled and followed Lois inside the building. The elevator was tiny, but there was enough room for both of you. Most of the ride passed in silence until Lois suddenly spoke without even looking at you.

“Clark looked at you again before you left,” she said casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

Heat rushed into your cheeks.

“Clark looks at me all the time,” you answered with a shrug. “That’s just his face.”

Lois laughed softly. “No, it’s not his face. It’s his eyes. And he’s had them on you for a very, very long time.”

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

“But hey,” Lois added while stepping out first, “not my problem. I’m just here for the pizza.”

Jimmy’s apartment was small but nice. Large windows overlooked the city, an open kitchen connected to the living room, and a narrow hallway led toward the bedrooms. Moving boxes sat scattered around the floor beside old furniture Jimmy still hadn’t decided whether to keep or throw away.

Lois set the pizza box on the kitchen table and opened it immediately. The smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce filled the apartment within seconds.

Your stomach growled.

“Want some?” Lois asked while reaching for the cutter.

“Yes, please.”

She handed you a huge pepperoni slice, and you sat down at the kitchen table where you could see the window. Lois sat across from you with her own slice, and the two of you ate quietly while listening to the distant noise of the street below and, occasionally, Jimmy’s strained complaints echoing up from downstairs.

Minutes passed.

You finished your first slice and accepted a second without hesitation. From the window you couldn’t see much beyond the entrance below, but you imagined Clark and Jimmy hauling the couch up the stairs, stopping every few flights because Jimmy got tired. Clark, on the other hand, probably could’ve carried it alone without much effort. Maybe a little sweat, but still. He had the build for it.

“How much longer?” Lois muttered mostly to herself.

At that exact moment, heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway. Doors slammed. Jimmy’s exhausted voice rang out:

“Almost there! Don’t fall asleep up there!”

Lois laughed and you did too.

It felt nice. Just sitting there together eating pizza, thinking about nothing serious.

And yet, something kept bothering you.

Clark had been looking at you differently these past few days.

And without meaning to, you had started noticing him more too.

His hands.

His back whenever he bent down.

The way his shirt clung to him when the weather got warm.

“You okay?” Lois asked suddenly, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Yes,” you answered too quickly. “Just tired.”

Lois didn’t reply, but she kept staring at you like she knew you were lying and was waiting for you to confess. You didn’t.

Instead, you stood to grab a glass of water.

That was when you heard the building’s main door downstairs slam open again. Voices followed. Jimmy complaining. Clark saying something low and calm.

You stayed beside the kitchen counter, glass in hand, and peeked toward the doorway without meaning to.

Jimmy appeared first, sweating and red-faced while carrying the back end of the couch. Clark carried the front.

The couch was enormous, yet Clark held it like it weighed no more than a pillow. His arms were tense beneath his rolled sleeves, and strands of hair had begun falling across his forehead.

You stared longer than you intended.

“They’re here,” you murmured.

The two of them carried the couch inside and dropped it into the middle of the living room with a dull thud. Jimmy collapsed onto it immediately, plastic wrap still covering the cushions, breathing like he had just run a marathon.

“That was… only one,” Jimmy wheezed. “Two more to go.”

“The wardrobe and the refrigerator,” Clark added while wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, though honestly you barely saw any sweat at all. One of his shirt buttons had popped open while lifting.

You stared at your water glass.

At the floor.

Anywhere except him.

But it was impossible not to notice him.

He stood only a few feet away, hair messy, the top three buttons of his shirt accidentally undone, looking completely different from how he looked at the office.

Bigger.

More real.

“Do you want water?” you asked suddenly, lifting your glass slightly without even knowing why you spoke.

Clark looked at you and his cheeks flushed pink instantly.

“Yes, thank you,” he said softly before walking into the kitchen to grab his own glass.

His fingers brushed yours when he reached for it.

A shiver traveled all the way up your arm.

“Let’s go get the wardrobe,” Clark said before leaving the apartment again, not even giving Jimmy time to complain properly.

Jimmy groaned dramatically while dragging himself after him, making you smile despite yourself.

When they came back again later, your eyes immediately found Clark.

Your heartbeat sped up the moment you saw his shirt.

Jimmy was panting loudly and gulping water while Lois teased him mercilessly, but your attention stayed fixed on Clark.

You kept staring.

You couldn’t stop.

Something about him felt different now. Something you couldn’t name. Maybe it was the evening sunlight pouring through the windows. Maybe it was exhaustion.

Or maybe it was because his glasses had slipped crooked from all the lifting, making his face look stronger.

More like…

Clark suddenly looked up and caught you staring.

His cheeks turned red instantly and he looked down toward the floor. You did the same, quickly finishing your water in one long gulp just to give your hands something to do.

“The refrigerator’s last,” Clark announced before disappearing again with Jimmy stumbling after him.

“If I die doing this, I won’t even get to use my furniture,” Jimmy complained miserably.

You waited.

Your gaze drifted toward your empty glass.

No. It was impossible, you thought. People resembled each other all the time, didn’t they?

Then they came back.

This time, you were already standing near the apartment entrance waiting.

Not because you wanted to help.

Because you wanted to see him up close again.

You wanted to confirm what you were thinking.

The refrigerator was enormous, white and sleek with double doors. Clark carried one side while Jimmy struggled with the other.

“Put it there,” Jimmy panted while pointing weakly toward an empty space in the kitchen. “Next to the wall.”

They lowered it into place. Jimmy nearly collapsed, but Clark adjusted the entire refrigerator in his arms and set it down smoothly.

Then he straightened up and wiped his forehead with his forearm.

His glasses slipped from his nose and hit the floor with a soft clack.

He bent down to pick them up.

But before putting them back on, he looked at you.

And smiled.

A soft smile. Calm. Closed-lipped.

Like he had nothing to hide.

Like he didn’t mind you seeing him that way—without his glasses, hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed pink, blue eyes brighter than you had ever imagined.

Your heart stopped.

Those eyes.

That deep blue you had drawn a hundred times.

That messy hair falling over his forehead exactly the way you always drew it.

That jawline.

Those lips.

Your mind flashed back to the drawings hidden in your private notebook.

Superman shirtless.

Superman with messy hair.

Superman holding a waist—your waist—while looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And suddenly you remembered something else.

In those drawings, Superman looked like someone.

And that someone was standing right in front of you now, crouched beside the refrigerator with his glasses in his hand and his chest still rising from exertion.

Clark was Superman.

Superman was Clark.

Everything clicked into place instantly.

The height. The shoulders. The smile. The way he always disappeared whenever danger appeared. The way he returned late and disheveled after Superman saved the day. The times he lifted impossible things while claiming he was “stronger than he looked.”

You stood abruptly without thinking.

Your legs trembled.

The glass slipped from your hand and rolled across the floor.

“I need to go,” you blurted out suddenly, your voice strange and uneven. Your cheeks burned.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay?”

You nodded too quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t feel real. “Yes, yes, I just… remembered something. Something urgent. At my apartment.”

“But we just got here,” Jimmy said from the couch, confused. “And you barely ate any pizza.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I really have to go,” you said while already grabbing your bag from the back of the chair.

“Want me to walk you home?” Clark asked.

His voice sounded so close it sent a chill down your spine.

He was standing again now, glasses back in place, though his hair remained messy and his eyes stayed fixed on you with an intensity you didn’t remember ever seeing before.

“No, thanks,” you answered quickly, almost too sharply.

You couldn’t look at him.

If you looked at him, you were afraid you’d point at him and scream, “You’re Superman,” right there in front of everyone.

So instead you kept your eyes locked on the door handle.

Anywhere but him.

You left the apartment in hurried steps, took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, and by the time you reached the street, the cool evening air hit your burning face immediately.

You walked fast without looking back, thoughts spinning wildly inside your head like trapped hornets.

Clark was Superman.

All this time, you had been drawing Clark without ever realizing it.

reader with networking connections to be able to join the daily planet iktr!

Shout out the daily planet for not using AI! Yesss! real art made by real artists!

Drawing Clark without guilt …….. hehehehehehehe

Reader is so organized omg I’m scared for her realization to losing her drawings.

“and you knew the next step should’ve been drawing the cape and the suit, the way you always did.

But it wasn’t.”

KDJFJEJDBFJ HERE WE GOOOO

“Too many drawings” BELOVED YOU WERE INSPIRED LET YOUR ART SHINE

“During the fight, the creature had ripped Superman’s suit along his side, exposing part of his abdomen—defined, tan, and firm. “ HELL YEAHHHH

“He snapped the notebook shut immediately afterward, like he could trap the guilt inside it.” It’s not only readers guilt notebook it’s now Clark’s too ooohhhhhh I’m having a blast with this

The whole masturbation part….. give me a moment..

Pause. Now he’s a thief!?! ….….A sexy thief.

“His glasses slipped from his nose and hit the floor with a soft clack…

But before putting them back on, he looked at you.

And smiled….

Like he had nothing to hide.”

LOCK HIM UP (I need him bad) HE IS CRAZY (god so bad) SMUG MF

You stand on top of the building just across from him, perched like a bird. He’s on the rooftop of a building beside yours, talking with another man. His hands move around in that way you always loved, he was always so passionate. You can vaguely make out their voices as they go over their plan now that the’ve hit a bump.

“I could just use my jet pack to-“ Bode cuts himself off when he sees Cal’s face. He’s stopped looking at him, hands falling back at his sides as he stares off into the distance. “Hey.” Bode waves his hand in his face, getting his attention.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head.

“Is there something wrong?” Bode asks, hands resting on his hips.

“I just-“ Cal pauses, glancing around before looking back at Bode. “Do you smell that?” He asks in a low voice.

“Yeah, the smell of Imperial dictatorship.” Bode scoffs.

“No, Bode-“ Cal sighs in exasperation.

“Okay, seriously, what’s up?” Bode’s expression grows serious when he sees how much this is affecting Cal.

“It smells like fruit.” Cal sighs, looking around frantically. “Tell me you can smell it too.” Cal practically begs as he looks at Bode. He sighs and reluctantly takes a deep breath of the air around him, finding a hint of…fruit.

“Yeah…it does smell like fruit.” Cal’s eyes widen. “What is that?” Bode grows even more confused as Cal whips himself around, searching for something…for you.

“Grapefruit and peach.” Cal whispers to himself. “Strawberry and green apple.” Bode looks at him as if he’s gone crazy.

“Are you okay? What are you saying?” You quickly grab onto the zip line beside you with your thick tactical gloves. The moment Cal hears it he jerks his head over to look at you, eyes sparkling with hope. Bode pulls his blasters out the moment he notices you.

“Bode.” Cal looks at him with narrowed eyes.

“No need to get all trigger happy.” You call out, eyebrows raising. “We’re all friends here.” You slowly step closer after Cal forces Bode to put his blasters away. “Well, you and I are friends.” You say, looking at Cal. “But I’m sure we’ll get along too.” You glance back at Bode with a wink. Cal can’t ignore the strange twist in his gut at the sight. It isn’t the same twist he’s used to, the one he feels when you get too close, when you touch him, when he can smell you, when you call him ‘Red.’

“You two are friends?” Bode asks Cal for confirmation.

“Yeah.” Cal mumbles, still staring at you in awe. “Best friends.”

“Aw, how sweet of you!” You giggle, reaching up and pulling the gas mask off your face. You shake your head a bit after it’s removed, getting used to the feeling. Cal swears he feels his heart stop for a moment. “Careful, Red-“ You say with dark eyes, stepping closer. “Keep looking at me like that and I’ll start to get the wrong idea.” There’s that familar twist.

“What is the wrong idea?” He tilts his head and smirks.

“Watch yourself.” You poke his chest before taking a step back, making his smile falter. “I was eavesdropping for a while, heard about your plan with the mayor.”

“Wha-“ Bode’s eyebrows raise as his mouth falls open.

“I’d like to offer my services.” You say with a grin.

“And what services are those?” Bode asks, looking thoroughly unimpressed. You scoff and pull your large black cloak to the side, pulling at your dual-bladed lightsaber. You hold it up and turn each blade on individually, for dramatic effect. “Yeah. Okay.” Bode surrenders and shakes his head.

“Think you’ll be able to keep up with me?” Cal jokes, smirking down at you.

“I think I’ll manage, Red.” You bite back with a matching smirk. Bode practically chokes on all the sexual tension in the air.

***

I can smell her…am I imagining it again?

It smells so strong, like she’s actually here…or was.

Where could she be though?

Am I going crazy?

Bode smells it too…she has to be here. But where?

She is here.

She looks so cool. Her walk is so sexy…how can a walk even be sexy?

Friends…

Why can’t I be more?

Why is she winking at him? Wink at me! Look at me!

Woah…she’s gorgeous. Did she dye her hair?

She’s so close to me. Is that eye makeup? She looks so hot…

I shouldn’t think about her like this…but how can I not when she looks at me like that?!

She always has the best retorts on the tip of her tongue. Every time me she calls me ‘Red’ in that tone…I don’t think I can hold myself together anymore.

***

You follow Bode and Cal back into the Mantis, holding something you hadn’t meant to find…but were glad you did.

“But how do we fix it?” Bode asks.

“Do you know anyone who could?” Cal asks you, a brow raised.

“I do, actually.” You nod, handing the device to him. “Hold on, I’ll set the coordinates.” You fiddle with the holomap and select the planet Naboo.

“On Naboo? Really?” Bode huffs out a laugh. “Aren’t they all like…fancy people?”

“Not all.” You say defensively. “A lot of them are very kind, and very intelligent.” You take a step back into the lounge and set your gas mask down.

“You know a lot of people there?” Bode asks.

“I live there.” You reply, pulling off your cloak and setting it on the seats next. You turn back to Cal and Bode, both their eyes wide and jaws dropped. Though both of their reactions come from very different places.

Cal: When did she start dressing like that? She looks so beautiful…mysterious. That dress fits her so perfectly, and those boots…stars, when did she become so enchanting?

Bode: Okay…Naboo is not all fancy people then. Apparently they have goths there too.

“You two going to stare at me all day?” You smirk, hands on your hips.

“Sorry!” Cal quickly snaps out of it and shouts, cheeks dusted pink.

“Just start flying, Red.” You playfully roll your eyes and Cal does exactly as you ask, heading into the cockpit. Bode follows him while you fix your hair and head back to the workbench.

“How long have you known her?” He asks, taking the seat next to his.

“About five years.” Cal shrugs.

“Right…and how long have you liked her?” He asks next, making Cal stutter through arguments.

“I don’t-“

“So you don’t mind if I ask her out, then?” Bode taunts, smirking annoyingly as he watches Cal’s expression.

“You’re not her type.” Is what he replies with, starting the ship and pulling out of the hangar.

“And you know her type?” Bode scoffs.

“Yes.” He growls out.

“Best friends don’t get jealous when someone asks out the other.” Bode whispers. “Only someone who’s in love would get this jealous over the mere mention of it.”

“Five years.” Cal says under his breath. “But I’ve only known for two.”

“Took you that long, huh?” Bode teases.

“I’ve never been in love…I didn’t exactly know what signs to look for.” Cal scoffs, shaking his head as they enter hyperspace.

“When did you know? How?” Bode questions, like they’re two girls at a sleepover at three in the morning.

“Do I have to answer that?” Cal cringes as he glances back, making sure you’re still at the back of the ship.

“You don’t have to.” He shrugs. “But I’d really like it if you did.”

“I knew when I saw her two years ago.” Cal starts, rubbing a hand over his face…he’s never said any of this out loud. “The old crew had been split up for a while so I hadn’t seen her. I ran into her on Tattooine.” He sighs, remembering how beautiful you’d looked. “I didn’t expect it because she hates the hotter planets. She just looked so…pretty.” He waters it down so he doesn’t sound like a total sap. “I just…knew, I guess.” He shrugs. “There was no grand revelation, I just…knew.”

“That’s beautiful, man.” Bode grins. “When are you going to tell her?” Cal looks at him like he’s gone insane.

“Never.”

“What? Why?” Bode pouts like a child.

“She doesn’t feel that way toward me, Bode. Even if she did, she deserves much better than me.” Cal finally returns to the controls as they begin their landing on Naboo. You feel the ship start to lower and the engine slow down, so you finish up and quickly rush back toward the cockpit.

“Did I miss any hot goss?” You joke as you stand behind Cal’s seat.

“No.” Cal replies before Bode can do it first. He spins in his chair to face you, staring up at you with those mesmerizing blue eyes.

“You better not be lying to me, Red.” You warn, hands grabbing his armrests as you bend down to be at eye-level with him. “You two stay in the ship, I’ll be back when the device is repaired.” You quickly snatch it from him while he’s distracted by you, only noticing when you back up again.

“Hey!” He yells after you.

“Stay in the ship!” You yell back, already walking out and onto the grass. Cal huffs and plops down in his chair, arms crossed.

“So…we’re actually staying in the ship?” Bode asks.

“Yeah.” Cal sighs. “For now.” A little smirk pulls at his lips.

***

“Miss!? What are you doing back so soon?” Your best friend and handmaiden, Samé asks.

“Here for a bit of-“ You hold up the broken device. “Technical work.”

“Right, of course! Let’s get you to your chambers before someone spots you and drags you off somewhere.” She grabs your arm and leads you down the halls.

“Always looking out for me.” You grin. You finally reach your chambers and shut the door behind you, walking with Samé over to your workbench.

“What is this dreadful outfit?” She asks, pulling at the black dress and its flowing sleeves.

“A dress.”

“A horrible one.” She huffs. “And what on Naboo are these?!” She pulls at your boots and almost makes you fall.

“Samé, knock it off! I’m working.” She scowls at you and walks over to your wardrobe.

“You’re changing.”

“Fine.” You don’t argue, because you truly do miss your colorful clothes. You’d switched to black when you started running around and trying to avoid the Empire. Samé grabs a beautiful tangerine dress, the bust being a darker shade of orange. It has three layers to the skirt, each one longer than the first until it forms a sort of train. It’s made to look a bit scrappy, the pieces of fabric for the skirt not all connected to each other and flowing off in different directions.

She grabs a pair of white tights, adorned with little stars made of lace. She grabs you a pair of clementine colored kitty heels to match your dress before rushing back over to you. She pulls everything on your body while you work on the device, ignoring her entirely. You don’t even look down at the outfit until you’ve finished fixing everything.

You pull away from the bench and look down, smiling wide. “Stunning as always.” You compliment her and chuckle when she blushes.

“Oh, knock it off.” She pushes you towards the door and walks beside you back into the halls.

***

“It’s been a while.” Bode comments. “Should we go in?” Cal looks out the front window with furrowed brows.

“Did she go into the palace?” He mumbles. “Who in the palace would know how to fix something like that?”

“Do you think she ran off with it?” Bode stands up abruptly.

“No.” There isn’t a moment’s hesitation, because he knows you. “But something could be wrong…let’s go.” He grabs BD-1 and walks down the ramp, Bode on his tail.

“What do you think happened?” Bode asks as they walk up the steps.

“I’m not sure.” Cal replies, grunting when someone pushes against his chest. He stops and looks over at the guard holding him back.

“What is your business?” The guard asks him with narrowed eyes.

“I’m here to see a friend.” Cal says calmly. “She ran in there a while ago, we’re checking to make sure she’s alright.”

“Does this friend have a name?” The second guard who’s holding Bode back, asks. Cal says your name and the guards look at each other before bursting out into laughter.

“Why are they laughing?” Bode leans over to whisper to him.

“I have no idea.” Cal says, looking very annoyed. “Look, she could be hurt. I need to make sure she’s alright.”

“Buddy, we get someone like you every single day.” The guard in front of him says.

“Thinking they have a personal relationship with the Queen.” The other guard chimes in. “Ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘Queen’?!” Bode’s eyes widen, looking over at Cal who looks just as stunned. “You didn’t know this?!” He whisper-yells and Cal simply shakes his head, staring off into the distance. “If she’s the Queen why does she have a lightsaber?” Bode asks, mostly speaking to himself but a guard hears and answers.

“She used to be a Jedi.” He says coolly. “Tried to stay true to the Jedi Code after the Purge, had been working until she fell in love.” The guard looks so pleased as he says it, like someone swooning over a romance movie.

“In love?” Cal suddenly tunes back in to the conversation.

“Oh, yeah.” The second guard nods. “Left the Order behind and struggled a bit before she wound up back here, where she was elected as the new Queen.”

“Why are we explaining this to you? You two need to get out of here.” The guard slowly starts to push them back and Cal pushes back, insisting he knows you and needs to see you.

***

You’re walking down the hallway with Samé when you hear his voice just outside the front entrance.

“I need to see her, please! You need to believe me, so I can make sure she’s okay!”

“Oh, my stars.” You gasp.

“What is it?” You untangle your arm from hers and start running, causing her to yell and rush after you. You push the doors open and run out onto the steps, finding two guards restraining Cal and Bode.

“What are you doing?!” You shout, anger rising at the sight of Cal on the ground. He immediately looks up at the sound of your voice, so relieved to see you okay. He looks down at your outfit and smiles to himself, guess you hadn’t actually changed much.

“Miss!” One guard says, standing up as he drags Bode with him. “These two were trying-“

“Get him off the ground!” You scream at the other guard, ignoring the first one’s explanation entirely. He hesitates and you blow up, storming over as your heels click against the stone. “Get him up, now!” The guard quickly lifts him to his feet, still holding his hands behind his back. “Let him go, what-!” You grip his arm and rip it away from Cal, pulling him into you and away from the guard. You look up at him with wide and concerned eyes. “You’re alright?” You whisper sweetly, eyelashes fluttering. Cal thinks he may just faint.

“Yeah…good.” He mumbles, glancing down at your lips.

“Let him go too, stars!” You huff as you yell at the other guard. He lets Bode go and he pushes the guard in retaliation. “I understand that you were both simply doing your job, and I am eternally grateful for your service.” You start, eyes dark as you stare up at the two. “But if I see you treat him like that again, see you lay a single finger on him, you will no longer have fingers.” You spit, the guards eyes bulging wide. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss!” They both yell.

“Come on, it’s dark.” You say, grabbing Cal’s arm. “We can stay here for the night.” You start leading him up the steps and he follows you mindlessly. You look back when Bode doesn’t move, brow raising. “That means you too, Bode.” He looks pleased as he runs to catch up with you.

You apologize to Samé and tell her you’ll find her later, she waves you off with a devilish smirk and a wink. You roll your eyes to yourself as you walk with Cal down to your chambers.

“Bode, there’s a room just beside mine that you can stay in.” You say, opening the doors to your chambers. “Very comfortable, you’ll like it.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” He bows and you groan. You walk inside with Cal and flick the lights back on, illuminating the room in a beautiful warm light.

“So…Queen.” Cal speaks first, making you sigh.

“Yes…Queen.” You nod along, setting the device down on your workbench.

“The guard said you…came here and were elected Queen after abandoning the Order.” He says, voice low. Your eyes go wide as you look back over at him, pushing away from where you’d been leaning against the bench.

“It’s not how it sounds, I promise.” You say. “I didn’t leave because of the dark side, or anything bad! I just couldn’t follow the rules I was meant to…And I know not every Jedi does, and since there really aren’t any left it shouldn’t matter, I just…it felt right. I never loved their ideals, so I just…” You trail off when you notice his expression and demeanor. His arms are wrapped around his torso, as if he’s hugging himself. His head is lowered and you watch him nod along to your words without really hearing them. “Cal?” You cautiously walk over to him, gently resting a hand over his arm when he pulls away.

“What’s wrong? I’m sorry…did I say something wrong?” You ask, voice breaking in a way that physically hurts him.

“No, of course not.” He shakes his head, slowly stepping away from you.

“Then what? What’s wrong? Please, Cal.” You take a few more steps to counteract his steps backwards.

“The guard said you left the Order because you fell in love.” Cal blurts out, voice raising without meaning to.

“Oh.” You take a step back now, eyes wide. “So then…you don’t want me to stay with you?” You ask, tears in your eyes as you step further away from him.

“What?” Cal looks entirely confused now, only making you confused in turn.

“You…” Your brows furrow. “I thought…do you not know who I fell in love with?”

“Obviously not! You hadn’t mentioned anything about anyone, which is a bit hurtful honestly. I was hoping you’d tell me now so-“ He stops when he hears you laughing. “What?” He looks angry.

“I’m sorry, I-“ You choke back a laugh when you notice his face. “You are angry…” Your brows furrow again. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“Then what are you laughing at?!”

“Well…okay, I was laughing at you.” He scoffs and you step towards him. “But only because you are so adorably oblivious.” You reach out for him and grab his forearm, smiling when he doesn’t pull away this time.

“Huh?” His head tilts and you grin.

“You didn’t hear me mention anyone because there wasn’t anyone.” You whisper.

“I’m even more confused.”

“I couldn’t exactly mention who I was in love with to the guy I was in love with.” You laugh, shaking your head.

“I-“ He looks baffled. “Are you saying that I-“

“Are who I fell in love with? Yes.” You nod. “I assumed you’d figured it out, and wouldn’t want me traveling with you.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you traveling with me?” He asks, like it truly is so absurd.

“Well…because-“ You pause. “I don’t know how much more confusion and miscommunication I can handle at this point.” You groan, eyes squeezed shut as you try to steady your breathing.

“Do you think I don’t love you?” Cal asks quietly, making your eyes fly open.

“Well…” You look up with watery eyes. “Yeah.”

“How could you ever think that?” He asks, pulling you in by your waist and making you squeak.

“I just-“

“I love you.” He whispers. “I’m in love with you, and I have been since I met you. I just didn’t have the guts to admit it until after I saw you on Tattooine.”

“You’ve known since Tattooine and you didn’t say anything!” You hit his chest and he huffs out a laugh.

“I was under the impression you thought of me as only your best friend. Of course I didn’t say anything!”

“You are so incredibly blind, then.” You huff. “I’ve been so obvious.”

“I’ve been so oblivious.”

“Yes, clearly.” You sigh and once again try to steady your breathing.

“Are you alright?” Cal asks, resting a hand over your chest, feeling your heart beat.

“Just…overwhelmed? In a good way but…just too many emotions all at once.” Cal nods and moves his hand to rest against your cheek, pulling your face up to meet his.

“Would a kiss help?”

“That will probably make it so much worse.” You sigh. “But I’ve been waiting five years to kiss you, and I refuse to wait a second longer.” You press your lips into his and feel him smiles against you before greedily kissing back. Your arms wrap around his neck as you pull your bodies closer. You pull away to pant against his lips, “I love you, Red.” You breathe.

You knew that he sat two rows over and one seat back. 

You knew that without even looking. 

You memorized the sound of his laugh before you knew the sound of his voice in conversation. You knew that he would lean back in his chair when he was bored, or how he would run his hand through his hair when someone was watching, or even the way he smiled differently depending on who he was talking to. 

You noticed everything about him. 

And because you noticed everything… you also noticed that none of it was real. 

Not completely. There was something hidden underneath his expressive, loud charm. Something quieter that other people didn’t seem to look for. 

But you did. 

—

Steve Harrington, on the other hand, didn’t notice things like you. 

Not the quiet girl in the third row who always had her notes color-coded, who tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, who raised her hand only when she was absolutely sure she was right.

He noticed loud things. Things that could boost his popularity. Easy things that is.

That’s what his life had always been built on. 

And you were used to that. Used to just being there.

Not invisible, just never the first thing people saw. 

So one day when your science teacher, Mrs. O’Connor said, “Partner up for the lab,” Steve of course didn’t think twice, he just turned his body, half distracted, expecting one of his friends to slide into the seat next to him.

But instead, your teacher had decided—

“Steve, you’ve been a bit distracted lately. So instead of letting you choose your own partner and turning this into another excuse to mess around, I’m assigning you to work with Y/n.”

And suddenly, he was looking at you.

You didn’t exactly look thrilled to be working with him. Rather you looked…startled. It felt like you had been pulled out of your own, small, quiet world and dropped into his. 

Steve wasn’t happy about the sudden change but he wasn’t going to be rude to you. It wasn’t your fault after all. 

“Uh—hi,” Steve said, offering a small, awkward smile. 

You noticed something immediately, his smile wasn’t the same one he used on everyone else. 

It was less automatic, more genuine.

 “Hi,” you replied, softer.

And that was it. That was how it started.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

At first, it was just lab work. Lucky for you science was always a subject you excelled at so it was not like you needed Steve’s input. It just always came easy to you. 

Steve however…well let’s just say he excelled at other things, not science and definitely not school. 

Occasionally you tried to help Steve by explaining things.                 

To your surprise Steve really did try—like really hard—to not look completely lost.

“So… wait,” he said one day during a lab, staring at the beaker like it personally offended him, “why is it… doing that?”

You glanced over, barely hiding your smile. “Because you heated it too fast.”

“I did exactly what you said.” Steve responded confused. 

“No, you didn’t.” you hold back your laugh. 

He frowned. “I absolutely did.”

“You skipped step three. See it says to ‘carefully heat the solution while slowly stirring.” 

“There is no step three, I didn’t see it.”

You tilted your paper toward him. “There is. Right there.” 

You weren’t trying to act like you knew everything—you just wanted to make things easier for him, to help him understand. 

He leaned closer. And then for a second he totally forgot what you were talking about because you were right there. 

Sitting so close to him…close enough that he could see the way your handwriting looped slightly at the ends, the way your brow furrowed just a little when you were focused.

“Oh,” he said after a moment. “Yeah. Okay. That’s… that’s on me.”

You smiled.

He couldn’t explain it, but that moment stayed with him, the way his eyes lingered on you as if he were trying to memorize every detail. Your smile, your soft bouncy hair, the way you always kept eye contact like you actually cared. 

Something about the way it wasn’t forced, like how you weren’t trying to impress anyone—stirred a strange feeling in his heart. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After that, he started noticing you more.

Not in a weird way. Not in a creepy way.

Just… in a curious way.

And that was the problem.

Because Steve Harrington wasn’t supposed to think about you after class.

But he did.

He noticed how you always had answers, but never acted like you needed attention for them.

He noticed how people didn’t always listen to you the first time but you didn’t get louder, you just got clearer.

He noticed how you laughed under your breath at your own thoughts sometimes. 

And more importantly he noticed that you never treated him like Steve Harrington.

Not ‘King Steve’ like everyone else either. 

But just… Steve, the boy who sat next to you in science. 

“You’re smarter than me,” he said one afternoon, half-joking, also half not. 

You blinked at him. “Steve, that’s not—” 

“It is,” he insisted. “I literally don’t understand half of this without you.”

“That doesn’t make you dumb.”

He shrugged. “Sure feels like it.”

You hesitated before answering quietly, “You ask questions.”

He frowned slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Most people don’t. They just go along with whatever’s happening without really thinking about it. But asking questions takes courage… It means you care enough to understand. That’s a good thing.”

He looked at you for a second longer than necessary, your words settling somewhere deep in his chest.

No one had ever said something like that to him before. Most people treated his questions like proof that he wasn’t smart enough, like struggling to understand meant there was something wrong with him.

But you didn’t look at him like he was stupid, you looked at him like trying mattered.

And somehow, with just a few gentle words, you made him feel like maybe he wasn’t lacking but instead maybe he just needed someone patient enough to see that he was trying.

Something softened in his chest then, and suddenly your opinion mattered to him far more than it should have.

And something shifted inside him. For once, it felt like someone cared enough to look past the charm and see the person underneath. You saw him for who he really was, and that simple truth felt more refreshing than he could put into words.

And suddenly he wanted you to keep looking at him like that. 

Because the truth was, somewhere along the way, Steve had fallen for you completely.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

That was when things started changing. 

After that moment, he started looking for you.

Which was weird because nothing about you was loud, nothing about you demanded attention and once he noticed you… he couldn’t get himself to stop. 

He would try not to be obvious about it. Not something anyone else would notice.

But he did.

In the cafeteria, he’d glance up just to see if you were there. In the hallway, he’d slow down a little near your locker. In class, he’d sit a little straighter when you spoke.

And it definitely didn’t help that you were so pretty.

Sometimes he’d catch himself looking at you for no reason other than the simple fact that he liked your face, liked the way your expressions shifted when you were thinking, liked the softness in your eyes when you smiled.

He just wanted to look at you, even if it was only for a second.

And so what if he noticed when you answered a question? So what if he found himself glancing toward your desk before class started? So what if hearing you laugh made the rest of the room blur for half a second?

It didn’t mean anything.

Except it did because before you, Steve had never really paid attention to the quiet things.

He noticed loud laughs, pretty smiles, the kind of girls everyone else noticed first. The girls who threw themselves at him. 

But with you, it was different.

He noticed the way you tapped your pencil against your notebook when you were thinking.

The way you smiled to yourself when you figured something out. The way your voice got a little more confident when you were explaining something you understood.

And none of it was loud but somehow it was impossible not to notice.

At some point, science stopped being the only time he talked to you, it started with little things, like questions of courage. 

“Hey,” he said one day, catching up to you in the hallway after class. “Did you get what Mrs. Duncan said about the homework?”

You looked at him, surprised for only a second before nodding. “Yeah, I wrote it down.”

“Can I see?” Steve didn’t actually really care about the homework, he just wanted an excuse to hear your voice once more. 

You handed him your notebook, and Steve stared at your neat handwriting longer than he needed to like he was analyzing it, analyzing you. 

“You color-code your homework?” he asked with a small laugh, the tease in his voice light and harmless.

You looked down, suddenly embarrassed. The last thing you wanted was for Steve to realize just how much of a nerd you really were.

“It just helps me stay organized,” you said quietly.

“No, I just mean—” he said with an easy smile, handing the notebook back to you. “That’s actually kind of genius.”

The embarrassment on your face eased, your expression softening, and after that, talking to him felt a little easier.

He started stopping by your locker between classes. 

At first it was for an excuse.

To ask about homework, to complain about class, to make some joke about science labs trying to kill him.

And every time, you gave him the same warm, honest smile that he absolutely adored. 

Then eventually, he stopped needing an excuse. He didn’t even care anymore. 

He just wanted to talk to you, to hear your pretty voice once more. 

Something about it made Steve’s day. 

And that was new.

Because Steve Harrington was used to talking for attention.

With you, he talked because he liked the way you listened, because your laugh made him feel lighter, because when you looked at him, he didn’t feel like he had to perform.

One afternoon, he leaned beside your locker while you switched books.

 “Are you always this organized?” he asked.

You glanced at him. “Are you always this nosy?”

Steve grinned. “Wow. That was mean.”

You smiled, trying to hide it. “You’ll survive.”

“Maybe. I’m sensitive.”

You laughed under your breath and shook your head and Steve swore that tiny laugh did something ridiculous to his chest.

It became routine after that.

He’d look for you after science.

Walk with you in the hallway.

Stand by your locker until the late bell rang.

And little by little, people noticed.

“Why do you keep hanging around her?” Tommy said it casually, like it was a joke.

Steve looked up from where he was shoving his gym clothes into his locker.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve scoffed. He didn’t know why Tommy saying your name bothered him so much, but it did. Something about the way it sounded coming from Tommy, careless, dismissive it just felt wrong, and Steve hated it more than he wanted to admit.

Tommy raised his hands. “Relax, man. I’m just saying. She’s just kinda… boring, is all.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “She’s not boring.”

Tommy gave him a look. “Seriously?”

Steve shrugged, trying to sound casual even though irritation was rising in his chest.

“Just because she’s not loud and desperate for attention doesn’t mean she’s boring. So just shut your damn mouth, Tommy”

Tommy smirked. “Wow. You like her.”

Steve rolled his eyes and slammed his locker shut. “Shut up.”

Steve brushed it off after that, but the comment stayed with him because Tommy was right about one thing:

You weren’t his usual type.

Not because there was anything wrong with you but because with you, it wasn’t about what anyone else thought.

There was no audience.

No popularity boost.

No image.

Just you and well… he did like you. 

And that made it matter in a way that scared him in a way he could no longer control. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Prom was getting closer.

There were posters in the hallways, girls talking about dresses, guys making plans.

And every time Steve heard the word prom, his stomach twisted because there was only one person he wanted to ask but every time he thought about actually doing it, panic set in. Asking girls out had never made him nervous before.

But asking you? That felt huge.

Because if you said no, he wasn’t just losing the chance to take you to prom. He was risking this thing between you. The easy conversations, the hallway smiles, the quiet comfort he had started to depend on.

And for the first time in his life, Steve didn’t want to ruin something good.

Besides he had no idea if you felt the same way towards him. And honestly why would you?

You were so smart and him? He was just… Steve. 

A guy who scraped by in school, who was better with a basketball than with words who spent most of his life being liked for the easy, shallow parts of himself. The hair, the charm, the reputation—things that came naturally, things that didn’t really mean much when it came down to it. 

So he waited…. and waited.

Until one afternoon, he found you at your locker after school, tucking books into your bag.

The hallway was quieter than usual, most people were already gone.

This was it. If he didn’t ask now, he never would. 

Even with every insecurity crowding his mind, he knew he had to try. Keeping it to himself hadn’t made the feelings go away, it had only made them stronger. And the thought of letting the chance pass, of never knowing what you might say, suddenly felt worse than the possibility of rejection.

He walked over casually, trying to act normal even though his heart was pounding. “Hey.”

You looked up and smiled. “Hey, Steve.”

Steve leaned against the locker beside yours. “So, uh…”

You waited, patiently. Somehow that made it worse. 

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Prom’s coming up.”

You gave a small smile. “Yeah. It is.”

He nodded like that was useful information. “Right. Yeah.”

You watched him for a second, and there was something almost amused in your expression.

Steve let out a nervous laugh. “I’m being weird, aren’t I?”

“A little.”

He smiled despite himself.

“Okay, well… are you going with anyone?”

Your eyes widened just slightly. “No.”

The question caught you so off guard that for a second your mind went completely blank. 

Why was he asking that? You knew prom was coming up—everyone knew. But prom was for girls who walked through the halls with confidence, who got noticed the second they entered a room, who never had to wonder if anyone would pick them.

Not girls like you. 

So when Steve Harrington stood in front of you asking if you were going with anyone, your thoughts scrambled to make sense of it.

Because there was no way this conversation was heading where your heart desperately wanted it to.

Your answer came so simply, but Steve’s pulse somehow sped up anyway. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.”

Steve’s eager expression was only making you imagine that maybe all the hallway conversations meant something. Maybe the smiles, the way he always seemed to find you after class, the way his face softened when he looked at you…maybe it had all been leading to this.

But hope was dangerous. Hope made fools out of people.

So even as your chest tightened and your pulse quickened, insecurity rushed in faster.

Maybe he was asking for someone else.

Maybe he was trying to be nice.

He nodded again. “Okay. Cool.”

There was a pause, he could tell you were definitely waiting for him to say something else.

Steve could feel himself losing his nerve. “So I was thinking maybe—if you wanted—you know, and if you’re not already making plans, which obviously you might be, because prom is a whole thing and—”

You smiled, trying not to laugh as he stumbled over every word.

Steve stopped and sighed. “I am making this terrible.”

Your smile softened. “No,” you said quietly. “You’re not.”

And that was all the encouragement he needed.

He took a breath. “I wanted to ask if maybe you’d go with me.” The words came out gentler than he expected.

For a second, the words didn’t fully register.

You heard them—every single one—but your mind couldn’t quite piece them together fast enough. Go with me.

Steve was looking right at you, waiting, and yet everything around you seemed to blur. The hallway noise faded into the background, the passing voices and slamming lockers becoming distant and muffled beneath the sudden rush of your heartbeat.

Because there was no way he had actually said that.

No way Steve Harrington was standing in front of you, nervously asking you to prom.

Your first instinct was disbelief. Not because you didn’t want it to be true, but because you wanted it so badly that it felt impossible.

Because believing Steve could actually like you felt dangerous. It was easier to tell yourself he was just being nice than to let yourself imagine this.

And now he was standing there proving every doubt wrong, and it was almost too much to process. 

You stared at him, searching his face for some sign that this wasn’t real, that there was a joke hidden somewhere, that you had misunderstood, that this was some cruel misunderstanding your heart had gotten ahead of.

But there was nothing teasing in his expression. No smirk, no confidence, just nerves.

Steve Harrington was nervous. 

All the reasons you had spent convincing yourself this could never happen suddenly felt fragile.

And the realization was so overwhelming that for a moment all you could do was stare, your stomach flipped. 

“Really?” you finally responded. 

Prom. Steve Harrington. You.

That combination didn’t make sense at first, like your mind was trying to fit something into a space it had never been built for. People didn’t usually pick you. You were used to being the person who got grouped with whoever was left, the quiet one in the background of plans that were already made.

So hearing Steve say your name in that sentence felt… unreal. Like he had gotten it wrong and you were about to wake up from it.

Steve laughed nervously.

“Yeah. Really.” 

He shifted his weight, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. “I mean, I get it if you don’t want to—obviously, you don’t have to, I just…”

He stopped himself, exhaling a small breath like he was trying to reset.

Your heart was still beating too fast, like it hadn’t caught up to what was happening yet.

Because this didn’t make sense.

And yet he was still standing there.

Still waiting.

A strange warmth crept up your chest, mixing with the disbelief, the fear, the hope you didn’t want to admit was there. You swallowed, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

“I’d… love to.”

For a second, nothing happened.

Steve just blinked at you, like he was making sure he heard you right. Then it hit him.

A grin spread across his face—slow at first, then completely uncontainable, like he couldn’t hold it back even if he tried.

“Yeah?” he asked, almost disbelieving.

You nodded, a small smile forming despite everything still spinning in your chest. “Yeah.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it.

“Okay,” he said, softer now. “Okay, good. Because I was really hoping you’d say that.”

And the way he said it—honest, a little shy, completely unguarded—made something in your chest loosen all at once.

“Because I really wanted to go with you.” he added. 

Your cheeks turned pink.

A quiet breath left you before you could stop it.

You looked down for a second, like you needed a moment to make sure this was actually happening, then back up at him.

Your voice came out small, softer than usual. “Yeah… me too.”

And the honesty of it made your stomach twist in the best way because he looked just as relieved as you felt.

And standing there in the quiet hallway, with the late afternoon light spilling through the windows and that shy smile on your face—

Steve realized that asking you to prom was the easiest hard thing he had ever done.

Ethan Kent had turned thirteen, and as time went on, the resemblance to his father became increasingly evident—as if that were even possible after all these years. His hair was just as unruly as his father’s, with those slippery curls that escaped in every direction and made him look rebellious without meaning to, along with his habit of frowning whenever he thought too hard about something, giving him a very Clark-like air. But Ethan was nowhere near serious or rude. Not at all. Of course, he had inherited your seriousness—that quieter, more reserved and shy part of you. That, he definitely got from you. But he was also kind, quick to smile, and respectful toward his elders. He always said “good morning” and “thank you” without anyone having to remind him. He was so good at volleyball that he was on the school team, though always careful not to reveal his Kryptonian heritage, because he knew he couldn’t do anything unusual in front of others. And he was intelligent, just like you, with that way of understanding things quickly without needing anyone to explain them twice. And his smile—even with Clark’s dimples—was like yours: wrinkling his nose and narrowing his eyes, as if he felt shy about being too happy. He was the perfect blend of both of you, as though someone had taken the best parts of each and placed them into him.

That afternoon, little Ethan had arrived home early from school because the team’s usual Friday practice had been canceled. There was no training that day, and he took the opportunity to walk home calmly, without rushing. You were in your bedroom, in the middle of a virtual meeting, wearing headphones with your computer screen glowing as you talked about work-related matters. The apartment was spacious, with large windows that let in the afternoon light, and the school was only five blocks away. Clark had bought that apartment with moments like these in mind—so Ethan could move around on his own safely. Before buying it, he had carefully checked the streets: they were always busy, full of people walking dogs, women buying bread, children playing. No dark alleys or hidden corners. That way, Ethan could learn to come home by himself when he got out early, just like today. It was part of giving him confidence, helping him become independent little by little.

When he reached the building, Ethan saw that Clark was there too, sitting in his car, parked right in front. The boy frowned and smiled at the same time—it seemed strange, but also amusing. His father never got home at that hour. He must have come early because it was Friday, and work was usually lighter on Fridays—or at least that’s what Ethan thought. He walked over to the car and gently tapped on the driver’s window. Clark nearly startled, jumping slightly in his seat before smiling when he saw him. But Ethan noticed the nervousness—the way his father grabbed his phone and quickly turned it so the screen wouldn’t be visible.

“Champ,” Clark said, in that calm voice he always used, though this time it sounded a little rushed. “Go up to the apartment. I have something to take care of, but I’ll be up in a minute, alright?” he asked, gesturing with his hand as if urging Ethan to leave quickly without making it obvious.

Ethan glanced at his father’s phone over the edge of the window. He could see that someone was talking to him—a chat open with messages. It wasn’t an unknown number; it was saved as “SH.” Ethan stared at those two letters for a second, trying to guess who it could be, but he didn’t recognize the initials. He nodded with a smile so his dad wouldn’t worry, then walked away, glancing back over his shoulder as he climbed the building’s stairs.

Ethan wasn’t one to use his powers—he had promised you, and that promise meant everything to him. You were his mother; he loved you too much to break anything you had asked of him. But then he looked down toward the street, thought about his father’s nervous expression and that “SH” on the screen. He climbed the stairs slowly, thinking. When he got home, he could hear your voice from the bedroom—you were still in your meeting, talking to other people. He couldn’t help but smile when he heard you; your voice brought him comfort. He went to the kitchen, turned on the tap, and filled a glass of water. But then, almost without realizing it, he extended his hearing. It was so sharp, so easy for him to do—like opening his eyes after blinking. He only had to focus slightly, and his father’s voice reached him clearly from the street as he took a sip and set the glass on the table.

“Yes, that place is perfect,” he heard his father say. “She doesn’t know anything, so there’s nothing to worry about. It’s better this way.”

Ethan froze, the glass halfway to the table, and looked toward the door. He saw nothing but the closed door, but he could imagine his father smiling on the other end of the phone—that smile he knew so well. Something tightened in his chest.

“I loved meeting you yesterday,” Clark continued, and Ethan heard a short, pleased laugh. “I had a really good time, and everything was easy. Can we see each other again tomorrow? At the same time, after I drop my son off at school,” Clark said, his voice almost like when he spoke to you, with that soft tone.

Ethan frowned hard, so much that his forehead hurt. No matter how hard he tried to catch the woman’s voice, he couldn’t. He heard the noise of the street, the wind, Clark’s own breathing—but the voice on the other end was only an indistinct murmur.

“Alright, then I’ll be waiting for your message,” Clark said at last. “Thank you.”

And he hung up.

Ethan stopped listening. He remained still, staring at his glass of water on the table. The water was motionless, just like him. A surge of anger rose inside him, so strong that his eyes began to burn from within. He saw a red reflection in the glass, as if someone had lit a light behind him. His eyes seemed to emit red, heated, furious beams. He exhaled deeply, clenched his fists on the table, and little by little the red faded, leaving his eyes blue again—though now filled with a lingering disappointment. Was Clark cheating on his mother and his son? Did he not love them anymore?

Ethan waited for the front door to open. You were still in the middle of your meeting, speaking to the people on your computer, unaware of what was happening in the living room. Ethan stayed on the couch, arms crossed, staring fixedly at the door, barely blinking. With every passing second, he felt more heat in his chest, more urge to shout, more need for his father to come in so he could demand an explanation. When the door finally opened, Clark stepped in with a tired smile—the kind he wore when the day had been long but he wanted everyone to think he was fine. He set his briefcase down by the entrance and walked toward Ethan, holding a box of pastries. A white box with a golden sticker from a new bakery they didn’t recognize. Ethan watched him from the couch, sitting upright, his arms crossed so tightly his fingers pressed into his skin.

“I’m home—and I brought dessert,” Clark said with a smile, lifting the box as if it were a treasure. He placed it on the coffee table, right in the center, then glanced toward the hallway where your bedroom was. “Mom’s in a meeting, right?” he whispered, placing a finger against his lips. Then he looked back at Ethan, waiting for a response—a smile, anything. But Ethan didn’t answer. There was only anger on his face, tight and unyielding. “What’s wrong, son?” Clark asked, frowning as he took a step closer.

“I heard your call,” Ethan said, his voice sharper than he expected. Clark went pale—not just a little, but completely, as if all the blood had drained from his face. He opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it again. “About the place,” Ethan continued, raising his voice slightly, feeling the anger climb up his throat. “You’re going to see a woman again. You saw her yesterday. Who is she? Why are you betraying Mom?” he asked, and this time his voice was louder, enough for the words to land like stones.

Clark glanced quickly toward your room, toward the hallway, as if afraid you might have heard. Then he moved closer and knelt in front of Ethan, bringing himself down to his level, trying to calm him. He raised one hand slightly, not touching him yet, while the other rested on the edge of the couch.

“It’s not what you think, son, really,” Clark said softly, but to Ethan it sounded false. When Clark tried to place a hand on his shoulder, Ethan jerked away as if his father’s touch burned.

“Well, it sounded like you were making plans to meet someone,” Ethan shot back, even louder, his teeth clenched. “And betraying your family, Dad. That’s what it sounded like.”

Clark tried to explain himself. His lips moved, but the words caught in his throat. He stared at his son, eyes wide and glassy, and something in his expression shifted. If he said it now, it wouldn’t be a surprise anymore. He couldn’t ruin it. Not like this. Not yet. Several long, endless seconds passed in silence. Ethan stared at him, arms still crossed, waiting. Clark looked back, biting his lip, searching for something to say—something that wasn’t a lie, but also not the whole truth.

“What’s going on?” you suddenly asked.

You walked down the hallway barefoot, your headphones still hanging around your neck, and looked at Clark and Ethan. You smiled, unaware of what was happening, happy to see them both.

“What time did you get home?” you asked, looking at Clark and then at Ethan. Ethan frowned when he saw the way you looked at his father—with that trust, that affection. He was about to speak, to say everything, to let it out like a bomb. But Clark stepped in first.

“I got home early,” Clark said, moving quickly, almost instinctively, blocking your view of Ethan with his body. He stood right in front of you, like a wall. “We were just talking about pastries,” he added, his voice nervous, higher than usual, followed by a laugh that didn’t sound like his real one.

You looked at your husband, then at your son, tilting your head slightly. Ethan was clearly angry—you could see it from miles away. His jaw was tight, his arms crossed so hard his knuckles had turned white. Clark was so pale he looked like he had seen a ghost. Neither of them was looking at the other. You stood there in the hallway, confused, unable to understand what was really going on.

“Pastries?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “And that made… Ethan look angry?” you added with a smile, trying to joke, to lighten whatever tension filled the room.

“Ethan got upset because I didn’t bring the strawberry ones,” Clark said immediately, too quickly. “And I brought the chocolate chip ones instead,” he added, nodding rapidly, as if that would make the lie more believable.

You looked at him, then at your son, searching his face for any sign. But Clark also looked at Ethan, giving him a look that said, “please, not now.” A tired, frightened look—like someone asking for a little more time. Ethan saw it. And even though his blood boiled inside, even though he wanted to stand up and say everything, something in his father’s face stopped him.

“I can’t stay,” you said at last, shaking your head. “I’m still in my meeting—it’s almost over. Don’t fight over pastries,” you added, your voice a little concerned but also hurried, eager to return to your computer.

Clark smiled, and you smiled too, though with a slight frown, not entirely convinced. You lingered a moment longer, looking at both of them, feeling that something didn’t quite add up, though you couldn’t tell what.

“Are you sure everything’s alright?” you asked without moving, now with your arms crossed as well, mirroring Ethan.

“Yes,” Clark said. And before you could ask anything else, before you could press further, he stepped forward and kissed you. Not a quick, passing kiss—but one of those kisses he used to give when he wanted you to stop asking questions. A long, soft kiss, his hand resting against your cheek.

“Go,” he murmured against your lips, eyes closed. “I’ll handle it.”

You nodded, unconvinced, lips pressed together—but you left anyway. You turned and walked back toward the bedroom, glancing over your shoulder one last time.

Clark sighed when you closed the bedroom door. He stood still for a moment, shoulders slumped, listening. He waited until he heard you sit down in your chair and begin speaking again in your meeting, with that calm voice of yours that always brought him peace. Only then did he take a deep breath, as if he had been holding it in that entire time. He ran a hand over his face, rubbed his eyes lightly, and then looked at his son. Ethan was still on the couch, arms crossed, but the anger on his face had shifted into something closer to confusion. Clark knelt in front of him again, bringing himself to his level, his knees on the living room floor and his hands resting on his thighs.

“The woman I was talking to,” Clark said in a low voice, so quiet it almost sounded like a secret, making sure you couldn’t hear from the bedroom, “is Mrs. Holloway—that’s why the initials ‘SH.’ She’s sixty-seven years old. She’s a real estate agent.”

Ethan blinked. Once. Twice. His blue eyes—those he had inherited from his father—widened, fixed on Clark as if he hadn’t fully understood what he had just heard.

“A… real estate agent?” Ethan repeated slowly, tasting the words like something unfamiliar.

“I bought a piece of land,” Clark confessed, letting out a long breath as he said it, as if carrying that secret had weighed on him for a long time. “In the countryside. I want to build a house for us. A big house, with a garden, flowers, a tree in the back. With a skylight so your mom can see the stars, because you know she’s always said she’d love to fall asleep looking at the sky. And a room for you, with an entire wall for you to paint whatever you want—no one telling you otherwise.”

Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. He looked like a fish out of water, lips moving without knowing what to say. His arms, which had been tightly crossed, began to loosen on their own.

“A… a piece of land?” Ethan asked again, as if he couldn’t believe it, as if the word itself was too big to fully grasp.

“A piece of land,” Clark smiled with relief, and this time the smile was genuine—the kind that came from his heart and showed in his eyes. “Mrs. Holloway showed me several options yesterday. That’s why I said I ‘had a good time.’ Because I found the perfect place. The right one. And I haven’t told your mom because I wanted it to be a surprise. A big, beautiful surprise—one she’ll remember forever.”

Ethan stayed silent for a long moment, staring at his father—at his sincere eyes, the slight tremble in his hands, the way he spoke about the house as if he could already see it built. His shoulders, which had been tense like pulled strings since hearing the call, suddenly relaxed, as if someone had cut the tension in a single motion.

“So you’re not cheating on Mom?” Ethan asked, his voice no longer sharp or harsh. It was the voice of a child who wanted to believe—who needed to—but still held onto a small doubt.

“Cheating on your mother?” Clark let out a soft, uneven laugh, mixed with disbelief and deep tenderness. He shook his head slowly, as if the idea itself were absurd. “Ethan, she’s the love of my life. I would never, ever do that to her. Never. Listen to me, son: my wife and my son are the only things in this world that matter to me. The only things. Everything I do, everything I build, everything I dream of—it’s for you. For both of you. There’s nothing more important. Nothing.”

Ethan lowered his gaze. His small hands fidgeted with the hem of his blue shirt, twisting and untwisting the fabric between his fingers. He bit his lip, a little embarrassed, a little relieved.

“It just sounded so strange when you said you had a good time,” Ethan murmured, head down. “I thought… Mom loves you so much, Dad,” he added, lifting his face to look at him. “I don’t want anyone to hurt her. She’s my mom.”

Clark smiled, and it was so wide, so full of love, that it lit up his entire face. He placed a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder, and this time Ethan didn’t pull away.

“And I love her just as much,” Clark said, his voice steady, certain, like a promise. “There’s no woman in this world who could ever make me love the way I love your mother. Never. Do you understand, kiddo? Mom will always be my wife. I promised to take care of her, to love her for a thousand years and more. And I keep my promises, Ethan. I always do.”

Ethan smiled. It started small, just the corners of his lips lifting, but then it grew—softer, warmer—until those dimples he had inherited from his father appeared.

“So I’m not cheating on her,” Clark added, giving his shoulder a light pat.

“Cheating?” your voice rang out behind Clark, clear as a bell in the silence.

Clark went pale. Completely. His face lost all color in half a second, as if someone had switched off a light behind him. He stood up immediately, so fast his knees cracked slightly, turning toward you with wide eyes and his hands raised as if stopping traffic.

“I heard that word,” you interrupted, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe. Your headphones hung around your neck, one eyebrow raised. “‘Cheating.’ What are you talking about?”

Ethan turned toward you, eyes wide, mouth opening to explain, to save his father.

“Mom, Dad isn’t—” he started, but Clark cut him off before he could finish.

“No, no, no—” Clark stood up so quickly he nearly tripped over the coffee table, grabbing the back of the couch to steady himself. “It’s not what you think. Ethan thought that… but I explained that… and Mrs. Holloway is sixty-seven and—”

“Mrs. Holloway?” you repeated, more confused than upset now, frowning. “Who is Mrs. Holloway?”

Clark swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed slowly. Ethan looked at him with a mix of nerves and hope. You looked at both of them, first one, then the other, waiting for an answer.

The silence stretched—heavy, uncomfortable.

Then Clark sighed. A deep sigh, the kind that comes from the soul. He ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier, and murmured softly, almost shyly:

“I bought a piece of land. In the countryside. To build the house you’ve always wanted. Do you remember? When Ethan was born, I promised I’d give you whatever you wanted. I didn’t want to put you through having another child so soon, and I wanted comfort for you. You said you dreamed of your own house, with a garden, a place that would be just ours. And now… I… with my savings, I can finally buy it. I’ve spent years saving, working, waiting for this moment.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. You opened your mouth, then closed it again—no words coming out.

“What?” you managed to whisper.

“A piece of land,” Clark repeated, a trembling smile on his lips, as if he were about to cry and laugh at the same time. “With an old barn and an apple tree. And space for Ethan to have a dog, if he wants one. And a skylight in the bedroom so you can see the stars every night—so you can fall asleep looking at the sky, just like you always said you wanted.”

You stared at him. At that big man with broad shoulders and large hands, standing there with shining eyes and a still slightly pale face, waiting for your reaction as if it were the most important thing in the world. Then you looked at Ethan, who was nodding like a pendulum, nonstop, with a huge smile stretching across his face.

“Are we really going to have a house?” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly at the end as emotion tightened your throat.

“I… tomorrow I’m meeting the owners to finalize everything,” Clark said, slipping his hands into his pockets, as if unsure what to do with them. “I was going to surprise you on our anniversary, but Ethan thought I was… I… he thought I was having an affair, and… I don’t want him thinking that,” he admitted, shrugging slightly—and you let out a laugh straight from your chest.

“An affair?” you repeated, your laughter growing, shaking your head.

“It’s because Dad said he had a really good time,” Ethan admitted, blushing up to his ears, looking down and shifting his foot back and forth. “I didn’t think it would be an older woman. Sixty-seven, Mom. That’s older than Grandma.”

You laughed harder, freely, and looked at Clark. There he was—big, a little clumsy sometimes, with eyes full of love and slightly trembling hands. You walked toward him and wrapped your arms around him tightly, pressing yourself against his chest, feeling his heart beating fast—fast. Then you looked at Ethan, still there, blushing but smiling.

“Come here,” you said, opening one arm for him. Ethan didn’t hesitate. He jumped off the couch and joined the hug, pressing himself between you both, feeling the warmth of his father and mother at the same time.

“And remember, sweetheart,” Clark said, looking at his son over your head, his voice soft but firm, “when you choose a woman, you choose her forever. There’s no going back. No second option. You choose her every day—every morning, every night—even when you’re tired, even when there are problems, even when the world gets hard. You choose her always.”

Clark looked at you then, with those blue eyes that had never looked at anyone the way they looked at you.

“Like I chose your mom,” he said, his voice filled with something so sweet it made your chest flutter.

You laughed, leaning against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Ethan looked at both of you with calm, with the peace that comes from knowing his parents truly love each other, and he smiled. The anger was gone. The fear was gone. It was just his family, together, in the living room of that apartment that would soon be only a memory.

When Ethan went off to change, with light steps and a soft whistle he didn’t even realize he was making, you stayed looking at Clark. You saw him there, with that calm smile he only wore when he was home with you. You walked toward him slowly, barefoot on the wooden floor, and when you were close enough, you reached up and gently tugged on his tie, pulling him toward you. You kissed him—deeply, with all the love you felt—and his hands found your waist instantly, as if they had always known where they belonged. He pulled you close, firm but gentle, and you smiled against his lips. You pulled back just enough to breathe, your heart beating fast, and traced his cheek with your fingertips.

“Ethan doesn’t know how much I love you,” Clark said, looking straight into your eyes without blinking, his hands still wrapped around your waist as if he never wanted to let go. You blushed, because even after all these years, he could still make you feel like the first time.

“Maybe we should spend more time together,” Clark whispered, leaning closer to your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. You laughed, gently pushing him back with a hand on his chest.

“His grandparents want him this weekend,” you said, raising an eyebrow—and Clark smiled in that way he only did when he was planning something.

“Well,” Clark said, his voice dropping slightly in that way it did when he wanted something, “we should let him spend time with family.”

You laughed as he pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, then another slightly lower, then one to your neck. His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you close, and you felt his warm breath against your skin.

“I love you,” Clark said, lifting his head to look at you again, his eyes bright, his hair so messy it looked like he’d combed it with a fork.

You nodded, unable to hide your smile.

“I love you more,” you said—and it was true.

They pulled apart just in time, because Ethan came out of his room wearing a clean shirt, his hair still damp from splashing water on his face. The three of you walked into the kitchen together, your arms brushing, the box of chocolate chip pastries still on the table. Clark would plan what they’d do over the weekend in Smallville with his son, with grandparents eager to spoil him. And you would have the entire weekend alone in your apartment—just the two of you. Clark was already thinking about it, about how to make the most of every moment, how to remind you with kisses and embraces everything you meant to him. But he kept those thoughts to himself, with a quiet, secret smile, watching you take out plates for the pastries while softly humming a song he didn’t recognize.

Gally POV

Y/N. The only girl amongst us, and the only girl medjack. Every single boy here would hurt themselves just to be seen by her. She's so 'kind' and 'careful' with everyone, but I don't buy it. Newt and Thomas swear that she's one of the best. I don't. I don't need some girl helping me out when i'm hurt, I can handle it myself. "Done staring?" Newt taps my arm. I look at him annoyed. "I wasn't staring." I move a few piles of wood to our discard pile we put in the fire. "So you're just looking at her for a prolonged period of time then?" He teases, his smile a half smirk with these knowing eyes. "It's just bullshit. She can't be that good. All the boys in here would round themselves up for her. It's pathetic." I sit down and crack a few dead twigs off the logs. "Well, she is really good. She's smart, careful, and honestly she is amazing at what she does. She healed minhos broken leg remember? He was bummed for so long, but with her help he got better. I think you're just salty that she doesn't give you attention." He leans down and I look at him and shoot up. "What's that supposed to mean?" I step close to him, he puts his arms up in defense. "Hey, not trying to be mean man. I think, you should at least try to talk to her. Maybe you wouldn't be so miserable about her." He leaves and goes to the kitchens. I look back to her, she's sitting there, wrapping up Thomas arm after he got cut running the maze. They seem to be talking about something nice considering they're both smiling and laughing together. A burning sensation in my chest makes me focus and look away from them. What bullshit. a few hours later, we're all building a fire to hang around and drink and eat. We do this almost every night now. Being with everyone, living here, and surviving together is what makes the fact that we're trapped here go away. "Gally!" I hear one of my fellow builders yell my name. "We need some help, some of the wood is wet from the rain yesterday, can you help us chop it up?" He hands me a machete. "Yeah sure." We all chop up the wood when one of them starts talking. "So. I saw Y/N earlier today." I glare at his cheesing smile. He looks at everyone else who seem to be now paying close attention. "How was it?" One of them tap his arm. "Amazing, she smells like flowers and something sweet. She gave me some medicine and helped me with some allergies I got." God the more they talk the more I want to rip out my ears. "She once gave me a bandage and her skin was so smooth." She can't be this damn good. "Yeah she is. She once had to clean a cut on my head and her eyes were so bright and she really did smell good." "Ow! Fuck!" I feel a sharp pain and then warm blood oozing down my hand. I guess I got so annoyed by them I zoned out. "Shit Gally you good?" One of them drops the wood and checks out my hand. "Shit, we gotta get you to the medjacks." "No. No I can handle it." "Gally that will get infected, you could lose your hand. Just go dude." They all nod their heads. Shuck am I doing this? "Fine." I turn and hold my bleeding hand and walk slowly toward the medjacks. I see her bent over organizing something in a drawer.

"Uh, hey." She turns her head and her eyes widen at the blood. "Oh my. Come here, sit." She guides me to a small seat and she leans down and pours some water on my hand, making it sting. "Ow. shuck woman." I say through gritted teeth. "Sorry, I just have to clean it before I help it." She leans over and grabs some medicines and a large bandage. She grabs another small chair and sits infront of me. Her hands grab my arm gently and she pours medicine on a small cotton and rubs it gently on the cut. As I breath a little raggedy, I smell it, the smell of flowers, something a bit sweet, and her skin, it was so smooth. I can't help but stare at her hands and her hair. Shit, they were right. "How'd this happen?" She asks looking into my eyes. "Uh. I was uh- ya know- helping cut some wood for the fire. I wasn't paying attention and got my hand." I can't keep eye contact with her. It's annoying. "I see, well you do have some grass bits in your hand but it's nothing to worry about. It should be good in a few days. Just make to keep this bandage on tonight and come back tomorrow night and I'll change it out." She wraps my hand carefully. "Is that ok? Not too tight?" She adjusts the corners gently and looks at me a few times.

"Yeah, yeah it's ok." I say a lot gentler than I meant to. Something about her is so calming. "Ok, good." She finishes everything and lets my arm go, making me frown slightly. "There, all better. Try not to use that hand for a while." She throws away some things and puts the extra bandages away as well as the medicine. "Yeah, ok got it, and uh, come back tomorrow night?" I reassure myself that I'll see her again. "Yeah, i'll see you tomorrow night." She smiles and I nod. My cheeks are burning hot and my legs jelly as I leave. Newt looks at me and gives me a quick nod and smile and looks away. Goddamn it. They were right.

THREE WEEKS LATER

Knock, Knock, Knock. "Hey Y/N." I smile at her standing in the entryway. She looks back and brightens up immediately. "Gally!" She runs and puts her arms around me. "What's going on today?" "Just got a cut on my leg is all, needed your magic." She grabs my hand and brings me to the seat and sits across from me. "Alright show me." She grabs medicine and the bandage. I lift my pant leg and she looks at it trying to figure out what to do. "Alright, now, may I ask what happened?" She gives me a raised eyebrow. "Ya know, wood can be quite sharp." I stare at her, her face so bright and her scent so strong. Her hands on my leg rubbing absentmindedly. "I see." She cleans and applies medicine. "The other medjacks told me you never see them, you always seem to wait and see me. What's that about?" She asks not looking away from my leg. "You've got this magic they don't have. All they do is pop on everything without care and love like you." She smiles shyly and her cheeks go bright. "Well that makes me happy." "As long as it's you, I'll let you do whatever." I say without thinking. She pauses for a moment and looks up at me. "Sorry, that was weird-" "No." She cuts me off.

"Don't worry, it wasn't" She goes back to my leg with a new found look of mischief. I sigh in relief. She finishes up my leg and washes her hands in the small fountain she made nearby.

"Alright, you're all good." She helps me up. "Thanks, and sorry for the weird comment I didn't mean it-" I get cut off again by the feel of her lips on mine. Her hand reaches up and touches my cheek. I close my eyes and lean in closer to her. Our teeth almost bumping. After a while of our heads turning and our lips swollen, we pull away. I smile and place my head on hers. "Come back and visit me anytime Gally." She rubs my cheek.