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FALL IN LOVE (AGAIN AND AGAIN)!

summary: as teenagers and young adults, you and clark were inseparable. the best of friends. then, after he graduated college and came back to smallville to celebrate, he told you he loved you and you told him that best friends were all you were meant to be. in a calculated twist of fate, one failed engagement and three years of separation later, you and clark end up in smallville at the same time for just one week - in which the two of you prove that love can be fallen into again and again. word count: 12.7k tags: afab reader, mixture of smallville!clark & corensupes!clark , outfits of reader are described [sweaters, tighter jeans, sundress, cowboy boots, etc] , martha kent is a shit stirrer , reader has had a failed engagement , clark's been yearning for years , very soft angst , fluff , making out notes: it took me way too long to write this. send help. also i watched smallville the same time i wrote this and i blended my two superman personalities so be mindful of that before thinkin' ooc clark...

Clark Kent has been duped. Manipulated. Scorned by the one woman he loves most in this world - his mother.

When Ma had called him, stating that his father was sick and she’d need some help on the farm until he got better, he’d been eager to assist. While he loved the home and the friends he had made in Metropolis, there was a sense of ease that washed over him the second he flew into Smallvile. Quiet mornings of a golden sunrise and the too-strong coffee Pa liked, the sound of tires on gravel. He even liked the sight of the stars decorating the sky despite having the ability to see them up close at will.

After debating with Perry on how much time off he could take and walking away with a whole five days plus his weekend, he’d immediately flown over, a duffel bag with a few essentials in his hand. There had been a smile on his face as he knocked on the door of his childhood home, only for it to fall when Pa, healthy as a horse and looking both confused on why he was there and happy about his sudden appearance, opened it up.

Now, Clark sees the sheepishness on his mother’s face from across the living room as he stands just a few steps from the door. The sly grin, the sparkle in her eyes. It’s the same look she had carried on his birthday when she had gotten him the action figure he’d been begging for, the same look that brushes across her face every time she brings home a “special” snack from the grocery store, even at his grown age. But a present doesn’t require her lying about a sick father just to get him to spend a week in Smallville, so he crosses his arms over his chest and he stares at Ma until the look sprouts into more mischief and her mouth finally opens. “Guess who’s in town for the next week?” She asks, fingers threading into each other as she rocks on her feet. When his staring continues and he doesn’t speak, she grins at him and says your name like it’s something to be giddy about. His fingers tighten on his biceps at just the sound of it, feet feeling cemented to the ground.

If his math is correct (it definitely is), it’s been at least three years since he’s seen you. Three years since he had heard the news that you had gotten engaged, way longer than that since he told you that he liked you (like a child on the playground despite being in his early twenties at the time) and had gotten rejected in somehow the kindest, yet most heartbreaking, way.

We’re good friends, Clark. Can’t we stay that way? Admittedly, although he’s not proud of it, he’s ignored you since the engagement, and it’s been easy. You moved out of Smallville just a few months after that ring had been slipped on your finger, following your now-fiancé. He’d been a transplant, some guy whose parents had moved to Smallville for the relaxing small town even though he craved the city life. (You weren’t happy about the move. He’d seen it on your face, clear as day, when you had told him.) With you somewhere across the country and him in Metropolis, there weren't too many opportunities for the both of you to cross paths, and he’s never been too good at texting.

The only time he ever had to worry about running into you was when the stars aligned and you ended up in Smallville at the same time. Even then, he stayed at the farm as much as possible, busying himself with finding every slightly-broken fencepost and repairing it before Pa even knew it was decaying. Martha Kent, however, is a very kind yet stubborn woman. There’s a hope in her heart that the girl her son never truly got over would always come back to him. That same hope is written all over her features as she beams at him, even as his hand raises to pinch at the bridge of his nose with a muttered “gosh, Ma.” “There’s more, there’s more!” His mother squeals, grabbing his arm and leading him to sit down in the creaky recliner. Then, she sits down on the couch, reaching out for his hands to fold them into her own. “She’s single.” The surprise must be written all over his face by the way her face lights up, grin blinding. Clark tries to dial it down, tries to seem nonchalant, leaning his elbows on his knees as he clears his throat. “What happened to her fiancé?” There’s an edge to his voice, a higher pitch, evidence of trying to hide his excitement. He has to remind himself that celebrating the end of someone’s relationship does not align with his morals.

What would Superman do? Not that! Martha sees right through him, as she usually does, releasing his hands and leaning back with that impish grin on her lips. “From what I hear, they broke up. Unsure of why, but I’m sure you could find out. You know, with the week you have off.” Her eyes sparkle as she glances away from him, as if Clark being in town was by coincidence and not by her doing.

“Ma,” he starts, clenching his eyes shut in a grimace before sighing, “I can’t just show up at her place and ask her why she’s no longer with the man she thought she wanted to marry.” Even if he really, really wants to.

Her finger raises to stop his train of thought, eyebrow quirking. “No, you can’t. But a little birdie has told me that she’s been hangin’ out at the bar downtown every night. I reckon she could use a little bit of company.” As if to make matters worse, she wiggles her eyebrows, and Clark thinks he might die on the spot from embarrassment.

For a moment, he just stares at his mother. Then, he’s saved by a warm hand on his shoulder, his father speaking softly. “Oh, Martha, leave the boy alone. If he wants to talk to her, he’ll figure it out himself. You’re not drivin’ him to prom anymore.” And while it may seem like Jonathan Kent is giving him an out, the look that Clark gets afterwards means your mother is right.

That night, when Clark’s showered and settled in his childhood bed, feet hanging off the end, he tells himself that his parents are just being hopeful. That they’re just trying to rush him into getting married, evidenced by the amount of time he calls his mother at work and she keeps him on the phone too long talking about how everyone he went to high school with was now married or expecting a child, sometimes even their second.

But then his focus shifts from his parents bugging him about you to you. There’s a vast array of questions that slam him at the mental image of you three years ago. Did your haircut change, or was it the same? Did you still have the same necklace you’ve worn since the two of you were teenagers?

Were you still wearing that god-awful ring?

That gets him out of bed.

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You’re not sure why you keep ending up at the bar.

You have only been back in Smallville for two days and each night was spent sitting in this brick building, inhaling the scent of stale cigarette smoke clinging to the wall while you nurse only a drink or two. You’ve become friendly with the older woman that serves as a bartender, Dawn, although you can tell she’s just the slightest bit concerned about your constant presence on the bar stools. Especially now that it’s a Monday and it’s mostly empty.

Every once in a while, your wordless wallowing is interrupted by someone you knew from your childhood patting you on the shoulder, cooing all about how they hadn’t seen you in forever and, even worse, how sorry they were about your failed engagement. Each time someone brought up the latter, you just gave them a wince of a smile, shoving your hand beneath your thigh and muttering your thanks for the condolences.

As someone from your high school walks away, hand perched atop a baby bump as she joins her husband in the corner, your eyes flutter back down to the ring on your ring finger. It’s nothing special. Thin white gold band, an oval-cut diamond. Not exactly what you had put into your scrapbook as a young girl, but it had been worth a pretty penny. (The man you had once called your fiancé had forgotten to throw away the receipt. Maybe that should’ve been a sign.)

It shouldn’t be such a struggle to take it off. You’ve taken off a lot of sentimental jewelry in your years. A necklace from your grandmother after it rusted near the clamp, a promise ring from a middle school boyfriend, numerous friendship bracelets from numerous doomed friendships. Plus, you ended the relationship, chose not to wear this ring any longer.

But should is a lot farther than a stone’s throw to can. Naturally, like a moth to a flame, your eyes flicker to the door at the sound of it creaking open. The first person to walk in is a farmer you don’t recognize, flannel button-up and all. You almost look away, go back to your boredom, when you see him.

Clark Kent. A home-grown Kansas man built of pure kindness, dressed in a thick corduroy jacket for the fall chill, a plain white shirt and ratty old jeans. He holds the door open for the new bartender coming in, the other hand pushing up the glasses on his nose as he smiles almost sheepishly. He takes up almost too much space as he steps inside, glancing around with wide blue eyes like he’s never been here before. (If you took the chance to think about it hard enough, you’d remember that he hadn’t.)

If you tried to scrounge up any memory of your high school years, you’d find Clark in all of them. He’d sat across from you in English class during freshman year, hunched over his desk with avid attention on whatever the teacher had been saying. His hair had been longer then, draping so low it almost covered his eyes, and his face had been softer. It’d been nervewracking to even catch eyes with him – until you were forced onto a project with him, that is.

He’d been everything. Kind, gentle, understanding. Even when you bumbled over your words or slipped up on a random fact, he’d just smiled that dizzying smile and let you continue on. Together, you’d spent time in the loft of his father’s barn (his Fortress of Solitude, as he and Jonathan called it) reading Farenheit 451 and talking about the plot points, along with getting distracted and talking about what books you’d burn simply because they were a bad read.

The Farenheit 451 project blossomed into a friendship. You’d snuck into prom together sophomore year by purchasing plus-one tickets from two random seniors, you’d traveled the same path in the cornfields so much that the grass had permanently smoothened out underneath your feet. Both of your first kisses had been followed up with telling each other all about it, along with every date and crush after that. Each memory of your teenage years was plagued with the crow’s feet around his eyes, the deep dimples that frame his full lips.

Your best friend. That’s what he had been. Until he had told you, in the dim lighting of his family’s barn with his college graduation cap on, that he had feelings for you and you had been unable to accept that anyone as good as Clark Kent could belong to you in any way. You’d told him that you were so great as friends and you shouldn’t ruin what you had with something as silly as relationships – like a fool.

Those familiar eyes land on you not even a second after you recognize him, the dimples around his mouth deepening as it stretches into a smile. Your eyebrows raise in surprise at the sight of him.

After a month or two spent in Smallville after graduating from Metropolis University, he moved to the city full-time, taking a job at the Daily Planet as an investigative journalist. Despite your blatant rejection, the two of you had still kept in touch via text and phone calls, checking in whenever you got the time. There were many nights where you stayed curled up in your bed, staring at the ceiling with your phone on your pillow, listening to whatever article he was watching at the time as you slowly drifted off to sleep.

Until you got engaged to your boyfriend of three years, agreed to move out of Smallville (against your better judgement, you loved this town) and told Clark during one of his brief visits to Kansas. After that, the phone calls slowly dissipated, the texts becoming shorter and being sent further apart in time until they completely stopped. You hadn’t blamed him - you were mad at yourself, too.

It’s been three years since you’ve seen him in person. He doesn’t look too different - same gentle eyes, same handsome face, same almost-sheepish way of moving. The most prominent difference is that he’s grown into his height, his legs, arms and chest thick and muscled. The perfectly-pressed white shirt stretched across his chest is the perfect size, squeezing the life out of his biceps. Raggedy denim jeans frame the muscle of his thighs, a bit too long and bunched up where they fall over boots.

Your eyes follow him as he walks up to the bar, trying to soothe the nerves that come with speaking to someone for the first time in a while, only for all nerves to immediately dissipate at the sight of his friendly, albeit bashful, smile.

To try to ease any tension that may be there, you speak first. “Is that the famous Daily Planet journalist, Clark Kent?” You tease, your elbow leaning on the bar as you glance up at him. He lets out a chuckle, head shaking in almost disbelief. You notice that he doesn’t look away from you. No hand waving to grab a bartender, no scan of the area to catch the eyes of the girls blatantly gawking at him, nothing.

Clark plucks a napkin out of a holder before wiping some condensation off of the wood, placing his arm there once it was dry and stretching out his legs as he leans. “The one and only,” he responds. He tries to sound smooth, really tries, but the pink tinting his cheeks gives him away.

The grin on your face doesn’t falter as you hook the toe of your shoe in the bar stool next to you, nudging it forward and gesturing to it with a tilt of your head. Once he sits, looking almost uncomfortable as his feet lay flat on the ground, you take another small sip of your drink. “What brings you to a bar on this weekday so far from home, city boy?”

He stretches out his legs to press his heels against the ground, one foot beneath your chair while the other stretches out to the side, deliciously manspreading in a way that should be considered illegal. “I am not a city boy, so we can squash that nickname right now,” he muses, one brow arching beneath a loose curl. “And my ma wanted me to visit, so I’m down here for the week. What about you?”

The bartender walks by, eyeing the both of you down, but Clark’s eyes don’t move at all. Your tongue darts out to slide over your lips as you shrug, turning to slide your straw through your dwindling ice cubes in an attempt to get that damn laser focus off of you. “Thought I’d come home for a little bit. City life gets too loud sometimes, but I’m sure you know that.”

That kind smile of his returns and you wonder when exactly he became so unbelievably attractive as you finish the rest of your drink. Was it back in high school, when he often hooked your bag over his shoulder without you asking? Or was it right after you had shown him the ring on your finger and watched the way his kindness fell for just a moment before he put up a shroud of false happiness for your sake?

His fingers raise to flag down the bartender and silently ask for another drink for you and man, you should not be having these thoughts while still sporting an engagement ring. “Yeah, I get it.” His eyes finally leave your face – just to glance down at your hand as it grasps your new glass. That smile falls again for just a moment before he looks back at you, using your face as a reminder to bring it right back.

After a moment of needless eye contact, you clear your throat, rolling your shoulders back and sitting up just a smidge taller. “You’re nosy, Kent,” you remark. His blush darkens and he chokes on just the tiniest bit of air, head shaking and curls moving along with it. “I’m not – I wasn’t –” He clears his throat, hand raising to brush his pointer finger along the tip of his nose.

“Relax.” You laugh, grinning up at him. Your left hand raises, the oval-cut glinting back at you almost tauntingly in the dim light of the bar. The words sit on your tongue for longer than a few heartbeats before you find the nerves to say them, still laser-focused on that damn band. “I broke up with him.”

You can feel Clark picking apart every movement of your face, from the sad twitch in your lip to the self-deprecating quirk of an eyebrow, but you keep going nonetheless. “Nothin’ wrong with him, of course. He was kind and had a good sense of humor and a mature grasp on life.” You bite at the inside of your cheek before glancing back at him, smiling. “But it was boring. My three years of being engaged were spent searching for the same schoolgirl crush I had on him in the beginning, but it wasn’t there anymore.”

There’s a beat where you don’t speak, unsure of how much to reveal without sounding like you were exaggerating the situation for pity. It’s almost like Clark can sense it, giving you space to come up with the words as he stares into your soul. “I think I wasn’t built to keep anything good,” is what you settle on. You take another sip of your drink, avoiding his prying eyes.

He replies almost instantly, like the words are running off his tongue before he can catch them. “You deserve everything good.” He freezes, the tips of his ears turning pink as the cogs turn behind his eyes.

Unfortunately, Clark Kent is either very good with his words or allows every thought to come out in a long stream of stuttering. This time, it’s the latter. “Plus, was he really kind? I mean, he immediately moved you out of Smallville, when you’ve said multiple times how much you love the small town and don’t want to leave your family behind. And that ring. Gosh, it’s ugly, I’m sorry.”

As soon as it's out into the air, he pauses, turning to grab his glass of water and taking a swig as if it’d cool the heat in his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all of that. Opinion is subjective. I’m sure you think it’s lovely and if you think that, then so do I. Regardless of what I just said.”

There’s another beat of silence. Then, you bark out a laugh purely out of shock, mouth agape as you look at Clark. “Tell me how you really feel.” You wait a moment to watch his flustered reaction before tapping the aforementioned ring against your class, shaking your head. “It’s okay. I like how honesty looks on you.” And everything else. You clear your throat before leaning back, moving to get out of your stool. “Listen, I have to go. Not because of that comment, though, I swear.” A grin stretches at your lips as you fish out your wallet, placing a few bills on a dry spot on the counter. “I promised my parents I’d do the farm chores while they were on vacation in exchange for letting me stay out here for the week.”

Clark practically jumps out of his seat when you finally stand, swiping your cash off of the counter and replacing it with a few bills of his own. Holding the dollars out to you, he smiles, head tilting. “I can come help out, if you want,” he offers. “Prove to you that livin’ the city hasn’t stopped me from getting my hands dirty.”

Reaching out to take the bills from him with a petulant huff, you give him a mockingly bemused smile. “Sure you won’t complain two seconds into flaking hay?” The hand that shoved the cash into your pocket reaches out to pluck at his shirt tauntingly. “Won’t get mad about the grass stains on your nice clothes?”

Those pretty eyes roll as he swats away your hand, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the door and letting you lead the way out. “You’re pulling my leg, and it’s working,” he replies in a deadpan manner. “What time should I be there tomorrow?”

You laugh as the cool air of Kansas autumn hits your face, heading straight for your car without looking back. “See you at eight in the morning, city boy!”

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On Tuesday morning, Clark borrows his dad’s truck and arrives at your family farm twenty minutes later than he wanted to, even if it’s right on the scheduled time. There’s a part of him that’s frustrated to be unable to use his super speed to get to you faster.

You open the front door to the sight of him with his hands tucked into his worn jeans, a dark blue flannel over his shoulders with a peek of a dark t-shirt beneath it. Being in Smallville, even if only for a day at this point, has already altered his appearance. His curls are less tame with the absence of any type of product, an untamed mane on the top of his head that spills over his forehead and threatens to curl over his eyebrows. He looks more relaxed, more himself, and the golden sunlight spilling over the farm makes him look damn close to angelic.

“Thought you weren’t gonna make it.” The taunt falls off your lips as soon as you get a good look at him, grinning as you lean your shoulder against the doorframe.

Admittedly, you had been stressing about his presence all morning. For example, your outfit. Usually, you stayed in your pajamas for the most part for farm chores. The cows and chickens didn’t care for a glorified appearance, only for the food you provided them. But today, you were all dolled up in an old pair of jeans that hugged your legs in the right spots and flared at the bottom, a light green sweater covering your front to keep out the chill of the morning. To keep yourself slightly dishelved, you had opted for a messy up-do to keep back your hair, letting the loose strands tickle your cheeks and jaw.

Clark seems to notice, eyebrows raising as the corner of his mouth pulls into a grin. He gives you a quick once-over before finding your eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m surprised you woke up on time. I remember you being quite a late riser.”

You roll your eyes in response, stepping out and closing the door behind you. “People grow up, Clark,” you chide playfully. A straight lie. Keeping a job was hard when the world seemed to run on a nine to five schedule, leaving you exhausted every morning and way too chipper at what was considered the end of the day for most folk.

“Not in height.” It’s a quick quip, one that makes you shove his shoulder on the way past him as his laugh erupts from behind you. It’s a good sound to hear, especially after years of not hearing it in person.

There’s nothing but silence between the two of you as you lead the way to the barn, the dew-covered grass crunching beneath your feet. You look around as you walk, taking in the farm you’ve known all of your life. Wooden and worn buildings, the not-so-nice smell of the animals (that’d take a while to get used to again) and the peacefulness of a farm morning. No honking from the road, no large buildings to block the wind, no one yelling at you for simply crossing the street.

Just you, the early morning sunlight… and Clark Kent.

While you look around at the surrounding area, at the grass that brushes against your ankles and the weeds that poke up through it, he stares at the side of your face. His hands are still tucked in his pockets like he’s afraid he might reach out and grab you, shoulders back as the wind brushes through his curly hair. “Do you miss it?” He asks, and he doesn’t even need to clarify what he means before you’re answering.

“Yes.” You say it quickly, like you had been waiting for someone to ask you for ages. In some way, you had. Whether it was for your parents to beg for you to change your mind about moving to Gotham, or for your fiancé to realize how much you hated walking crowded streets, you had always been wishing for someone to read your mind.

The two of you step into the chicken coop and you smile at the sight of little dinosaur equivalents. Persephone, the Silkie that you had hatched yourself five years ago, stands out among the Araucanas with her fluffy head and bright white feathers. Due to being a chicken, she doesn’t seem to notice, pecking at the carcass of a watermelon that you assume your parents left as a gift a couple of days before.

Clark moves like it hadn’t been a decade since he’d helped you with his farm chores, disappearing to grab the basket your family had always used to gather the eggs and sliding it over his forearm. You lean down to run your fingers over Persephone’s feathers, to reminisce in the nostalgia of the softness, before disappearing into the raddled red building.

Silently, he holds the basket as you fish out multi-colored eggs from beneath nesting hens. Your nose scrunches up and he holds back his laugh when the feisty ones throw a fit and lunge for your fingers, leaving you scowling at him when a chuckle slips through. After a moment, you swap, watching as he doesn’t even flinch, just shoves the chicken aside like a beak to the hand is a normal day for him.

Chores move by quickly with company at your side. It’s hard not to bring up old memories as you travel the same paths that you did when you were teenagers, poking fun at Clark as you point at the crooked tree he once fell out of after boasting about climbing it easily or hiding your face in your hands as he recounts the story you had told him about the worst make-out of your life in the seats of your father’s tractor.

By the time the eggs are gathered, the animals are all fed and each water dish is washed out and refilled, the sun has crawled high into the sky, taking away the chill of the morning and leaving you with sweat lining your brow. You and Clark retire into your house and let out joint relieved sighs at the feel of air conditioning brushing against damp skin.

Immediately making your way to the refrigerator, you pull out two beers before wandering over to where Clark has sunken down onto your father’s loveseat. Those taunting lips pull into a shit-eating grin at the bottle in your hand as you pass it over to him. He raises it into the air like he’s studying it, eyebrows raising in amusement. “It’s noon.”

“Five o’clock somewhere,” you volley. Gracefully, you fall onto your back on the couch, the back of your knees laying atop the arm of it as your head lays on the cushion. “I forgot how much bein’ in the sun kicks your ass.” While it wasn’t too hot outside, the sun beating down on you had managed to zap all of the effort and energy out of you, leaving you feeling boneless and sticky from dried sweat.

Still upside down, you slowly bring the lip of the bottle to your lips. Most of the sip gets into your mouth, although there’s a few drops that spill onto your chin and travel down the line of your throat. You notice, of course, but the liquid feels cool against your heated skin and so you leave it. You’d take a shower here in a few moments anyway.

Clark watches the beads of beer with intense interest before leaning forward in his seat, one arm resting on his knee. His other hand reaches out to drag the back of his fingers along the length of your neck, gathering up the droplets before they travel too far. “And you thought I’d struggle.” He teases as if he hasn’t just stolen your breath, leaving you staring at him and astonished.

You clear your throat to cover up the flush in your cheeks, sitting up to avoid any more spills, just in case he felt the need to clean up every bead that landed elsewhere. “Yeah, but you work out. My entire job requires me sittin’ at a desk all day.”

“I don’t work out.” He responds easily, falling back into the seat again and spreading out his legs until his heels are propped up on the ground. When your surprised gaze finds him, he’s oddly serious, staring right back at you.

A snort slips out before you can stop it, setting your bottle down on the coffee table after another swig. You cross your arms over your chest, fixing him with a look of pure disbelief. “Really? You’re wantin’ me to believe that all of that muscle just comes from roamin’ the streets of Metropolis? That the reason your biceps are screamin’ to get out of the confines of your shirt is from typin’ on a computer all day? Please.”

The corner of his lips pull up into a smirk over the lip of the bottle, even as pink dusts his cheekbones and the tips of his ears redden. “Didn’t realize you paid that much attention,” he remarks. Embarrassment sinks into every part of his body, however he can’t help the smugness that seeps through his tone at the idea that you’ve looked at him that closely.

“Don’t get a bigger head than you already have, Kent,” you retort. “It’s not my fault your clothes are screamin’ at me to put them out of their misery.” The words come out sounding dirtier than you mean them to, but you stand your ground, glaring daggers.

He barks out a laugh, head falling back and revealing that bitable neck. You stare at it for a moment too long before he’s glancing back down at you, a playful grin on his lips. It slowly fades as he catches your eyes, only looking away to watch your throat as you swallow. (The attraction the two of you have for each other’s necks should really be studied. Intensely. With your mouths feeling each other’s pulses and every shaky breath. You’re getting carried away.)

Finally, you clear your throat, standing up and grabbing his now-empty bottle. “Guess I’ll clean these up before I go and shower,” you mumble.

Clark just nods along, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stands up, hovering above you. His height makes it seem like he’s way too close, even if he’s at least a foot away, his chin tilted down to look at you. “Yeah. I’ll get out of your hair, go get myself cleaned up.” One hand raises to brush through his hair, even though it bounces back into the exact same spot.

After a quick detour into the kitchen to drop the bottles into the trash can, you walk Clark to the door. He stands in the threshold for a moment, a large shoulder keeping the screen door open as he turns to look back at you. “Are you comin’ to the fair tomorrow?” He asks. You don’t miss the way he seems extremely hopeful that you’ll say yes, but you do ignore the flutters of the butterflies it gives you.

Every autumn, Smallville hosts a small fair. It’s nothing special, as there wasn’t much budget for it, but it brought joy to the families. Those that sold their produce and goods were able to rent out a stand to sell from, along with a few of the townsfolk pitching in to handle activities such as pony rides, petting zoos or face-painting. You had gone every year until you had moved out of Smallville, even as you grew too old for a few of the events.

But who were you to miss out on a three-legged race or a fried turkey leg? (A loser. You’d be a loser if you missed out.)

Leaning your shoulder against the doorframe, you beam down at him and nod. “I’ll be there. Are your parents sellin’ this year?” There’s also a spark of hope in your voice. Any vegetables that came from the Kent farm were essentially promised to be the best you ever had. You had once had a habit of selling out Martha’s stall as soon as possible.

Clark’s nose wrinkles as he shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling back his shoulders. “Not this year, no. Ma says the harvest this year wasn’t good enough to have extras to bring.” He gives you an almost-sad half smile, head tilting. “I’m sorry.”

“Eh, you don’t control the abundance of the seasons.” You shrug, grinning. After a moment of simply staring at him, you finally nudge your head back towards the inside of your house, hooking a thumb over your shoulder. “I’m gonna go shower now.”

His head gives the smallest bit of shakes as if breaking himself out of a trance, a boyish smile pulling at his mouth. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nudges up his chin in goodbye before turning around to walk away.

You’re halfway back into your house when you hear your name, turning back around with raised eyebrows.

Walking backwards and somehow not tripping over his long legs, Clark gives you a genuine smile. “I liked hanging out with you today.” The statement falls off his lips without hesitation, like it was a casual comment rather than something that gripped your heart with an iron fist.

Your face heats up as you beam hard enough to make your cheeks hurt, rolling your eyes to try and push away the bashfulness. “Goodbye, Clark,” you respond with a breath of a laugh. Without waiting for his response, you turn and let the screen door shut with a smack.

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By the time you arrive at the fair on Wednesday, it’s in full-swing. The sound of children’s laughter and silly circus music fills the air, the smell of fried turkey and too-sweet funnel cake filling your nose. The early afternoon sun beats down on the families running through the fairgrounds, setting the field alight in a golden glow. A picturesque evening of normal small-town fair fun. Something you were once so used to.

Preparing yourself to see way too many people that you know and to be asked too many times about your failed engagement, you exhale a deep breath as you let your eyes travel among the clusters of people. You move to stare down at your left hand, tempted to rip off that engagement ring for the millionth time in the last three days, when a hand clasps over your shoulder. You jump, whipping around with wide eyes.

“Sorry, sorry!” Clark practically squeaks the words out, thumb pressing into the muscle of your shoulder as he tries to soothe your fright. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I called your name, but I don’t think you heard me.” That smile returns to beam down at you, blue eyes glinting with mirth.

Your palm spreads over your sternum as you let out a deep breath of relief, feeling the quicker thrum of your heartbeat beneath the bone. The thumb pressing into your muscle does nothing to make your shoulders relax, too aware of how much of your skin he can cover with just one hand. Could probably snap your collarbone in one pinch if he tried. Could do a lot more with those hands as well.

You clear your throat, ignoring the blush crawling up onto your cheeks as you give him a wobbly smile. “It’s okay. I think the nostalgia took over me too much, is all.” Your top teeth sink into your bottom lip as you glance back around, letting out a deep breath.

Finally, he pulls his hand away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It’s now that you realize he’s donned in a brown Carharrt, shoulders straining against cotton despite the original loose fit of it. “Is that…” A finger raises to touch the pocket on his chest, fingertip dragging down it. “Is that the Carharrt I got you for graduation?” Five years ago, is what you don’t add.

It had been one of your first big purchases once you had secured a stable income in your chosen field of work. A very belated graduation gift is what you had called it over the phone, listening to the excited breathing of Clark through the speaker as he rumbled through the packaging. He’d been so grateful for something so nice to belong to him, too used to hand-me-downs or things purchased at a discount.

Plus, he looked damn good in it. Even all these years later, filling it in and looking like something Herculean.

He blushes at the recognition, shoulders hunching like he could hide in the fabric. “It’s my favorite jacket.” His shoulders shrug, reaching up to scratch at the back of the neck. Then, like it never happened, he gestures towards one of the stalls a few steps away. “Face painting?”

You laugh at the idea, staring at him for a few moments to ensure that he is serious before shaking your head. “Sure. But only because you’re askin’ me.” A few steps towards the stall and you’re turning around, a playful grin spreading across your cheeks. “And I get to pick what you get.”

Clark does a little skip to catch up to you, beaming at your agreement, not at all afraid of what giving you control could result in. You wonder what other things you could convince him to do. What it’d take. “Does that mean I get to pick what you get?”

“Not a singular chance in the world, Kent.”

The line to the face-painting booth takes a while, every parent looking at you and Clark like you were crazy. Which, seing as you were the only adults standing in the line unaccompanied by a minor and you couldn’t stop giggling like schoolgirls, was very valid when you looked at it from an outside perspective. But, soon enough, you both step away from the stool, crinkling the paint on your cheeks with just how wide your smiles were.

Deciding to show just a little smidge of mercy, you had chosen tiger face paint for Clark, orange pigment spread over his forehead and cheeks with stripes of black through it. The clever artist had even put a dot of pink on his nose, outlining the bottom of his eyes with white. Unfortunately, it didn’t give you the ick you were looking for, especially with the spots missing from where he had glanced over and grinned at you in the middle of the process.

You had also surrendered and allowed him to choose what you got on your own face. He had stuck with the theme, leaving you with yellow on your face and small dark brown rosettes mixed in for a perfect cheetah appearance. To complete the look, white was smeared on your upper lip to the edge of your nose, whiskers sprouting onto your cheeks. And, at Clark’s special request, a pink nose to match his.

Once you both sported the faces of recognizable big cats, Clark dragged you along to the Gravitron, even despite your multiple complaints and threats. He had beamed as he had handed the ride operator the tickets, stringing you along with a calloused hand entrapping yours. Once inside, he’d moved you like a ragdoll, hands on your shoulders and hips to adjust you against the wall before standing beside you, shoulder brushing against yours.

And when you had grabbed his hand as you had started spinning, squeezing the life at it? He had just laughed loud enough to hear over the sound of rushing wind, giving you a singular squeeze back to assure you that he was there and present.

After, you stumble back onto solid ground, feeling way too nauseous and yet way too overjoyed. Clark watches as you fall to your knees in the grass, pressing your forehead to the dirt and letting your hair fall over your head. “The ground,” you groan dramatically. A kissing noise follows, although you don’t dare allow your lips to touch the soil.

“Okay, drama.” He laughs again, crouching down to wrap his hand around your bicep, urging you onto your feet again. Once you’re standing, he smiles at you, shaking his head with a tsk. “You’re going to ruin your cheetah spots.”

Two fingers brush against your cheekbone as he gingerly plucks the hair strands stuck in your facepaint away from your skin, blue eyes focused and soft as he tucks them behind your ear. And he must be some kind of maschoist with the way he lets his fingers trail down the side of your neck, glancing back at your eyes as if awaiting a silent invitation you weren’t aware you were sending out.

You stand there for just a moment, entranced and mesmerized, before blinking and breaking the staring contest. “I think it was the Gravitron,” you blurt awkwardly. You’re thankful that there’s yellow paint smeared across your cheeks, hiding the pink blush that dares to creep up.

Rather than seem affected, Clark just laughs, poking the tip of your nose with the pad of his index finger before taking a step backwards. The hand that’s just fondled your neck moves to point at you. “I think you just want to find a way to blame me for you havin’ fun.”

“And I think you’re an idiot, Clark Kent,” you volley. Turning around, you start to walk away from him, even with no destination in mind. Anywhere that puts space between you and him, your brain buzzing with each small touch and every word that could mean more than the baseline.

The next time you hear his voice, it’s right in your ear, voice low and cheeky. “As long as you’re thinking about me, that’s okay.”

Your brows shoot into your hairline as you glance back at him, startled. He just grins, nodding his head towards a food stand. “Funnel cake?”

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On Thursday, all of your stuff arrives on your porch by a moving team that seems to have no interest in hearing your confusion. Packed haphazardly into moving boxes or just sat there wrapped in cellophane, everything you’ve ever owned is now laid out in front of you. Your ex-fiancé hadn’t even told you he was shipping it all over – just sent it over with no note and no notice, a checkmate of who could care less.

You like to consider yourself a strong person. You’d tell anyone that break-ups didn’t mean anything after the usual ache after the words are out in the air, that items only held sentimental value until they didn’t. In fact, you hadn’t shed a single tear since leaving Gotham in your beat-up car, leaving it in the rearview on the way to Smallville with a promise to your ex-fiancé that you’d be back to grab your things in a week’s time.

It’s now that you let yourself sink into the rocking chair on the porch, hands on your knees as you stutter out a shaky gasp, looking over your life in cardboard and wondering where exactly you could go from here. Quick breaths turn to sobs before you can even stop them, a hand raising to cover your mouth as if anyone could hear you from the dirt road half a mile out.

Once you’ve collected yourself back to quick gasps, you disappear inside of your house, leaving everything behind as you search for your phone. As you brush lingering tears from your bottom eyelashes, you dial the one person you know to call – Clark.

He answers immediately, too chipper for your current mental state, and you immediately burst into tears again. Even without a single word from your mouth, he tells you that he’s on his way, hanging up just after the sound of a screen door snapping shut.

When Clark arrives at your house in record time, you’re on the porch steps. The balls of your feet are balanced on the edge of the step, knees to your chest, eyes red and irritated from wiping away tears as you stare at your life in boxes. You’re still in your pajamas, a large shirt from high school hanging off your shoulder and sweatpants rolled at the waistband. His first thought is that the only thing that’d make you look prettier is if you weren’t crying.

You don’t look away as he comes up to you, settling down beside you. A hand grabs at your thigh, hoisting your legs over his lap until you’re seated on his thighs. Another hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling your head into his chest as he holds you as close as possible. There’s soft hushes falling from his lips as you cling onto his shirt, fisting the material as you sniffle. A thumb brushes against where your pulse thrums, sending a chill up your spine that you choose to ignore.

The two of you sit there for a while, Clark rubbing your neck and murmuring in your ear as you curl tighter into the warmth of his chest. When you finally pull away with a final sniffle, brushing at your cheeks with the back of your hand, you shake your head. “‘m sorry. I look like a mess. I’m sorry.”

That beautiful face crumples in concern as he glances up at you, hand moving from your thigh to swipe underneath your swollen eyes with his thumb. “You look beautiful.” He replies with so much honesty that you can’t find the words to argue. “And it’s okay. There’s no part of me that minds.”

His head turns to glance at all of the boxes on the porch, voice softer when he speaks again. “All of your stuff from Gotham, I’m guessin’?” He looks back at you, face awash with concern.

You nod, squirming slightly in his lap when you remember that you’re sitting on his lap, your own eyes wandering. “Yeah. He sent it over this mornin’, I guess. Jus’ didn’t have the guts to tell me.” Your voice is raspier than you’d like, wincing internally at the croak added onto each word. “It’s just hard to see the last few years of my life packed up like this. Even if it is my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” he corrects briskly. Clark grabs onto your chin with a gentle touch, turning you to face him. “You did what any sensible person should do when they fall out of love, okay? You didn’t lead him on for longer than necessary, or lie to yourself or him. You broke it off, which is the best case scenario, no matter what anyone says.” He soothes the touch on your jaw with a brush of his fingers, even if it didn’t hurt, before dropping his hand.

Grabbing onto your hips, he hoists you off of his lap to stand, pulling himself up as well. You watch in bewilderment as he heads towards the piles of boxes, grabbing one of the largest ones like it weighs nothing and heading for your front door. “Clark, what are you doing?” You almost groan out the words, fingers threading through your hair and tugging at the roots.

He glances at you over his shoulder, playing innocent. “Your stuff belongs in your house, no?”

With a heavy sigh, you trudge over to him, reaching for the box like you could even handle it by yourself. Even the movers had seemed to struggle with the weight of it, although they had refused to take anything from you. “Stop. I can’t let you handle all my shit for me. Plus, I’m not living here, I’m visiting.”

Clark pivots to put his back to you, looking too damn handsome as he gives you a pointed look. “Yeah? Where are you living, then?” And, fuck, he’s got you there. He knows it, too, with the way he simpers at you before walking towards your front door again.

Deciding it was better to give in than fight a pointless battle, you sigh, running your hands through your mussed hair before grabbing a box of your own. A way lighter one, of course. It’s unlabeled, but the fragile sticker slapped on it and the soft clinking inside makes you assume it’s some glass cups from the kitchen.

The two of you work in silence as you carry everything in, leaving the furniture on the porch since it wouldn’t fit anywhere in your parents’ living room or your bedroom. After, you both stare at it, your hands on your hips and Clark’s arms crossed over his chest.

“Should I burn it all?” You deadpan, staring at a worn-down armchair like it had hurt you. “Seems… symbolic enough.” Plus, most of the furniture you hated. Your ex-fiancé considered it yours even though he had been the one that had made the sale in the furniture store all of those years ago.

Clark chuckles, glancing over at you. “I’m game with whatever you choose to do with your own things. I’m just here for support.” He raises his hands as if surrendering, although there’s amusement dancing in his eyes when you finally tear your eyes from the armchair.

That night, the two of you sit on a log, staring at a large bonfire made up of firewood and a few loose pieces of furniture. Clark’s thigh presses into yours like an anchor and his arm is slung over your shoulder, fingers clenching at your bicep in comfort as you crane your neck to watch the embers disappear into the sky.

And for now, with Clark by your side, everything feels just a little bit steadier than it did a few days ago.

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On Friday, Clark begs you to participate in bar trivia with him. He falls onto his knees on your porch, grasping at your wrists as he complains about how Jonathan and Martha beat his team every time he visits Smallvile and how sick of it he was. With a laugh and a tug at his collar, you had told him to get his ass up, which he ignored until you had finally told him yes.

You sit at one of the many tables in the bar, surrounded by Smallville residents of all ages. Clark sits at your side, knee bumping yours beneath the table, with Martha and Jonathan occupying the table to your left. They keep grinning over at you and Clark as the quizmaster prepares his questions and microphone on the make-shift stage in the dark corner of the bar.

“Oh, I’m so excited you could join us, honey.” Martha coos, reaching over to squeeze at your hand. “I think it’s about time Clark gets some help in not getting his butt kicked.” Her eyes zero in on him in a playful look, a groan echoing behind you when he registers the tease.

He leans to speak into your ear, even though his focus is stuck on his mother. “Don’t listen to Ma. She’s just lucky she has all the free time in the world.” Despite the jab, his face is nothing but amused when you turn your head to look at him, his breath brushing against your cheekbone with just how close he is.

With a laugh, you shift to look at Martha again, smiling. “I don’t know about him winnin’ this time, but everyone can be assured that I will try my best,” you assure. Your heart warms as the older woman beams at you, then flutters when Clark squeezes your knee good-heartedly.

You didn’t think the trivia questions would be hard. And when you realize that this was taken seriously, almost too seriously to take place in a worn-down bar with rips in the leather of the chairs and permanent rings on the tables, you find yourself surprised how worked up the townsfolk get. There’s cries of disbelief as someone calls the first female mayor in the country Susan Madora Salter instead of Susanna Madora Salter, causing them to lose a point. There’s taunts thrown back and forth as some teams spend a bit too long writing down their answers. Multiple spills of liquor on the floor when people throw their hands up, leading to Dawn scolding them from where she’s still working behind the bar.

By the time your cheeks ache from smiling, it’s very obvious that you and Clark are not going to be deemed the winners this time around. Clark’s parents currently hold that title, a whopping twelve points above the team behind them. You feel giddy from the press of the man’s thigh into yours, the brush of his elbow against your biceps. Luckily, you had stuck to only a couple beers, so you didn’t have to worry about getting too tipsy and doing something you shouldn’t.

A couple hours later, the both of you take a whopping loss, just behind a few teams of very inebriated young adults. Despite that, Clark’s beaming as he looks over at you, an arm slinging around your shoulder and a hand squeezing at your shoulder. “Not so much of a loss when it’s alongside you,” he murmurs next to your jaw.

Martha and Jonathan celebrate their large win with a quick peck on each other’s mouth before turning their attention back to you and Clark. Martha’s hand squeezes your knee adoringly, a glint in her eye that says more than any words could. “It was so fun having you here, sweetheart. You gotta watch some Jeopardy and then come back. I’m sure Clark wouldn’t mind.” Her eyes flicker over to her son, the corner of her lip twitching before her focus zeroes in on you again.

“Ma.” Clark’s sigh is resigned, hand reaching up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

You grin over your shoulder at him before giving Martha’s hand a squeeze of your own. “I’d love to join you all again. After I’ve gotten a bit smarter, of course.” Your eye flashes in a wink, pulling a small chuckle from Martha.

The four of you only get up from your tables when the trivia crowd starts to disperse, Martha and Jonathan bidding adieu and stating that it was way past their bedtime despite the bright light in their eyes. Once they’ve disappeared out of the entrance with a chime of a bell, Clark guides you towards the bar, waving down Dawn to get y’alls and his parents’ tabs.

You brace your elbows on the bar as he gets the receipts, his brow furrowing as he calculates tips and scribbles them down on the line beneath the total. You’re entranced as he flicks his wrist, copying down a perfect signature on both pieces of paper.

You’re interrupted from your ogling by the sound of your name, turning to lay your eyes on an old classmate. Hannah, if you remember correctly. Long, brunette hair, nails perfectly done. One of the girls that moved out of Smallville after high school and fully embraced the city life, it seems. You smile in greeting, turning away from Clark as he waits for Dawn to collect the tabs.

“How are you?” Hannah’s voice is a squeal as she gets closer, arms curling around your shoulders as she brings you into a hug. You’ve always been taller, so the hug amplifies in awkwardness, though you give her a soft squeeze around her middle anyway. “Last time I saw you, you were gettin’ hitched to that hot out-of-towner.”

She gasps as she leans back, one arm trailing down to grab your left hand, eyes zoning in on your engagement ring immediately. The lack of personal space makes your fingers twitch as you try to tug your hand back, but she’s holding too tight onto your fingers. “Are you married yet? This ring is gorgeous. A carat? Two?”

Before you can control it, your face is twitching with the emotion you’re trying to hold back. Your mother always said you had a problem with showing your thoughts on your face, and you were just proving her right now.

With an awkward chuckle, you pull your hand back, shoving it into your jacket pocket and trying to push a smile onto your mouth. “No, I’m not married.” Your thumb brushes against the metal of the ring on your finger, as if it’d soothe the uncomfortable knot tangling in your chest. “I’m not engaged anymore, either.”

“Oh.” Hannah’s face falls like it was her wedding, eyebrows furrowing for just a moment before she pushes it away. “Well, that sucks. He seemed really nice.” Her bottom lip pushes out into a pout as she says the things you had heard a million times before, head tilting just a smidge as if trying to find the reason hiding behind your face. “Plus, he was handsome.”

When someone takes the liberty to compliment your ex-fiance straight to your face, there’s not much you can do. You can play nice, plaster a smile on your face and agree before getting out of there as soon as possible. You can throw a fit, snap about how you really didn’t need to be told how hot the man you stared at daily for three years was. A perfect mix is usually what you go for, choosing to smile and cut off the conversation in a way that is not always the nicest.

Luckily, you don’t have to choose this time. Clark leans over your shoulder, chin just a few inches above your collarbone as he looks at Hannah. “Sorry to steal her, but we’re leavin’. Nice to see you again, Heather.” And then his fingers are pressing into your hip, pulling you away from the bar and steering you until you’re completely out the door. He doesn’t even look back as Hannah calls out her actual name from behind the two of you.

Once the cold winds hit your cheek, you finally allow yourself to let out a groan, stopping in your tracks to turn and glare at Clark. “I hate her. I hate that.” Your hands raise to tug at your roots, growling. “Why can’t someone just ask me how I am without wondering about the man that used to be in my life? Why does everything have to come back to me being married or being engaged?”

You raise your hand to look at that mocking glint of a diamond, lip curling in disgust. How hypocritical of you, to not be able to take it off and yet hate the existence of it on your finger. You pinch it with your index finger and thumb, twirling it around as if you could rip it off like a bandage, but nothing happens.

Clark’s hand covers yours, pulling your hand away from angrily fidgeting. “Why don’t you take it off?” He asks. It’s not judgmental, just a soft question. You couldn’t ever imagine a day where Clark would judge you on something that’s serious.

He guides your hand into the pocket of his Carhartt, his own hand still wrapped around yours as he tries to make your fingers a little less icy in the autumn air. You stutter over your words before you’re able to settle your nerves, holding his hand and letting yourself enjoy the warmth. “I don’t know. Probably some sick psychological thing about not wanting to admit that part of my life is over. I-I mean,” you exhale heavily, vapor curling out of your mouth in the cold, “I don’t have anywhere to live. I’m on leave from my job, but I don’t know if I want to go back to the city.”

Your eyebrows pinch before you wrinkle your nose. “No. I know I don’t want to go back to the city.” He squeezes your hand to help you simmer down your irritation. It works, a little bit. “I hate it there. It’s loud and it always smells bad and majority of the people you meet have been fucked over in one way or another because of being in the city. God, even most of the coffee there sucks.”

To your surprise, Clark’s face moves into one of amusement, blue eyes taking in your features. “Sorry to tell you, sweetheart, but you don’t have to tell anyone that you hate the city. It’s very obvious.” The hand not holding yours reaches out to fold over the collar of your jacket, knuckles brushing against your carotid. “And you don’t have to go back there if you don’t want to. I’m sure your parents are fine with you hangin’ out until you can find your own place.”

There’s a slight tremble in your hand at the idea of making a firm decision, although all irritation has slowly flowed out of you and left you to an almost terrifying calm. You sigh as you give his hand one more squeeze before untangling yours from his, pulling it out of his jacket pocket to rub against your chest. “I don’t know. I-I… I don’t know.”

“And you don’t have to.” He slides an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side to press his lips to your temple before patting your bicep. The other arm reaches out to open the passenger door of his truck, hovering over you as he looks down. “Because even if you don’t choose to be here permanently, you’re still good to stay as long as you want, and I know everyone’s happy to have you. My parents can’t stop gushin’ about you.”

You laugh as you grab onto the handle of the door, lifting yourself up into the cab and sitting down on the seat. “They’ve always liked me more than you,” you tease.

“Can’t say I blame them.” One eye closes in a quick wink before he’s shutting your door, leaving you shaking your head.

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Saturday night, after a day full of farm chores and time alone for your thoughts, you join Clark for a movie at the drive-in. It was like he was trying to make you relive your high school days, with the festival and the farm chores and, now, the drive in, but you couldn’t say that you minded. It reminded you of a time when things were simpler and the biggest worry you had was what dress to wear to prom.

Clark insisted on planning everything, which only made your nerves worse. Was this a date? Because it felt an awful lot like a date. Him planning, him picking you up, a drive-in theater where it was just you, him and whatever played on the screen. You didn’t even know what movie was playing tonight, and he had made you promise not to look until you got there.

Dressed in comfy sweatpants and a tank top with a cardigan over it, you laugh as you and Clark pull into the drive-in, grinning as you see what’s playing. “Sixteen Candles?” You question, looking over at him. “You know that this movie brings out a different side of me.”

“One that I very much like to see.” Clark grins as he looks over at you for just a moment, manuvering the car into a spot so that the bed of the truck was facing the screen. His elbow presses into the center console as he turns to face you. “I mean, who else is going to get so worked up about a well-loved film from the 1980s?”

You groan, reaching up to cover your face with your hands. “The underwear thing is just something I can’t get over. It’s so gross. I know that it could happen in real life, I really do, but did we really have to show it in a movie about a girl finally getting her crush to notice her?” You peek through your fingers at him, eyes narrowing.

He chuckles as he reaches into the cramped back seat, pulling out a couple of blankets and handing them over to you. “Come on. I’ll let you complain to me the entire night, if you want to.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he pleads with you with his eyes.

There’s a soft grumble as you unclick your seatbelt, although you’re still grinning as you take what he gives you and climb out of the truck.

The both of you work together to make a cozy spot on the newly-cleaned bed of the truck, laying out blankets and pillows. A basket of drinks and snacks lay between your legs as you lean back against the cab, shoulder brushing against Clark’s as he sprawls out beside you. For a moment, you snicker about how he looks more comfortable in the bed than he did in his childhood bed.

At first, the two of you are quiet as the movie starts, one hand each dipping into a bag of popcorn. You try to focus on the movie, even if it makes you feel like raising a fuss, but Clark being so close is still just as distracting, even despite the constant closeness he’s had to you all week. He’s dressed cozy today, a soft sweater beneath that same damn Carhartt. There’s a part of you that realizes he’s probably worn it more this week than any other time, but you choose to let it slide.

The point of the matter is that he looks way too good to just be sitting next to you, eating popcorn and so unbelievably focused on this teenage romantic comedy on what looks like a date from an outside perspective. Especially after being close to you all week, providing you comfort in this unstable time of your life.

Frustrating, is what it was.

But you manage to get through most of the movie, interrupting it multiple times to chatter about things both on topic and off topic. Once the snacks are done and the basket is pushed away, you only end up closer, his thigh completely against yours and your shoulder overlapping his. The scene with Caroline, Jake and Ted hits the screen and you can’t take it anymore, focus completely gone from the film.

“Can I ask you something?” You blurt, rolling your head to look over at him.

He perks up like a dog, hand pausing halfway to bringing popcorn to his mouth as he nods. “But if it’s the same question as always, about how someone could like everything about this movie, I'm not sure I can answer differently than I have in the last ten plus years.” His head tilts tauntingly.

“Ha-ha,” you deadpan. “Be serious for one second, please?” Nerves are still running rampant in your chest, even despite knowing that the man next to you would never intentionally embarrass you. Nevertheless, you’d probably crawl into a hole and die if you read this situation wrong in any way.

The amusement falls off of his face at the question, pivoting to look at you directly. “Okay.” His fingers fold together on his lap, perfect eyebrows furrowing in a flash of concern.

You wring your fingers as you turn to face him, letting them lay in your lap after a moment so that you didn’t seem as hopeful and childish as you felt. “Is this a date?” You left the words spill out before you can mull over them anymore, trying not to show the grimace on your face. A failure, as usual. “I mean, it just feels like one. So, I thought I’d ask. No secrets, you know?”

You’re rambling. You’re already embarrassed. A blush joins the pink from the cold on your cheeks and nose. Jake is catching his drunk girlfriend cheating on him with a teenager that refers to himself as Farmer Ted. What a sequence of events you’ve found yourself in.

At first, Clark seems surprised. Then, he grins like a cat that caught the canary, pressing his back against the side of the truck until his shoulders are perpendicular with yours. He bends a leg so that he doesn’t kick you in the thigh, blue eyes locked in. His face shifts as he tries to hide his glee, clearing his throat. “I mean, I don’t know.” He speaks like he’s hiding a secret, those deep dimples still just as taunting. “Do you want this to be a date?”

His leg completely folds beneath the other, hand bracing on the bed of the truck as he leans forward. It’s like he’s telling you a secret, eyelashes fluttering as she takes a good look at every nook and cranny of your voice. “Because you’re the one still wearing a ring. You’re the one still throwing it in my face that someone got to you before me.”

There is no telling when in time Clark Kent got so confident, so smooth. Your face burns like he just lit it on fire, suddenly feeling too warm beneath the two thin blankets and puffer coat shielding you from the icy winds. There’s a guilty feeling stirring in your gut, even though you know there’s nothing to feel guilty about. You hadn’t wanted to ruin your friendship with Clark. You had loved your fiancé, once upon a time.

You try to start speaking, the words caught onto a twisted tongue. Clearing your throat, you nod, the movement just barely there. “I want – yes.” The word comes out as a breath, shoulders relaxing as if admitting your attraction to your best friend of over a decade took a heavy weight off your chest.

For a moment, he just stares. There’s an almost cocky grin on his face as he tries to fit your face, in this moment, to memory, still a few inches away from you. Your anxiety is written all over your face and, for a moment, he tries to ponder back to the last time he ever saw you this jittery. It fills him with more joy than he thought imaginable.

“Take off your ring.” It’s still gentle, a soft coax, but there’s a lilt of command in there. You shudder, but you are no longer cold.

Your eyebrows furrow together, a small dimple forming just above your left one. “What? Why?”

Clark sighs like it’s obvious, hand reaching out to grab onto your sweatpants. He uses a small pinch of the baggy fabric to drag you closer to him, warm hand smoothing along the back of your knee once you’re settled, every part of you touching every part of him. “Because I am about to kiss you for the first time, and I’d like to burn it into my memory. But I cannot do that if that ugly thing draws my attention every time.” His jaw clenches for a moment, chin tilting up in a gesture. “Take it off.”

There’s a taut knot forming where your throat meets your collarbone, doe-eyed as you stare up at him. You’re waiting for some shoe to drop, like a laugh as he pulls back or for his guilty conscience to suddenly sink in and apologize for something you weren’t even offended about, but it doesn’t. He just stares at you expectantly, like he knows you’re going to do what he says.

In the past week or so, you haven’t seriously thought about taking the ring off. You’ve thought about how much you hated it on your finger, about how much you wish you could just take it off, but you’ve never fully committed to the idea of even trying to take it off. But, now? You pull your eyes away from Clark’s to stare down at it, palm pressed against his chest from when you had tried to balance yourself.

With a gulp, you pull your hand away from his chest, fingers trembling slightly from pure nerves. Your eyes flicker to him hesitantly as you close your index finger and thumb around the metal, but he just raises his eyebrows at you. A test. Well?

Fuck it. Anything for a kiss with Clark Kent.

You tug the ring off before you can overthink anymore, watching as he unfurls his hand to show you his palm. Brow furrowing, you place the ring right in the middle.

He sighs as his fingers furl into a fist around it, head lolling in relief. “Thank gosh.”

There’s a slight clatter as Clark tosses the ring to the end of the truckbed. He doesn’t give you a second to even think about complaining about potentially losing it before that steady hand is curling around the back of your neck, pulling you into him abruptly. He kisses you to silence the gasp that leaves your lips, swallowing the sound.

It’s not nice or shy. It’s not tentative. Clark has wanted to kiss you for what seems like eons, and he’s not afraid of taking advantage of this moment to make up for it. His hand travels from the back of your neck to your spine, sending a shiver all the way down to your toes. Rough fingertips press into your hip before he’s clasping them around the back of your knee, hoisting your leg over his own.

He’s everywhere. The heat from his body sinks into your own until you’re unsure where he begins and you end, his hands traveling along every bit of clothed skin he can reach. His hand slides beneath your jacket and pushes up your sweater just enough so that his fingertips can brush along the bare skin of your back, a delighted noise rumbling up from his chest at the touch.

If anyone saw you right now, you’d be mortified. You’re living high school all over again, except in the right timeline. Making out with Clark Kent in the back of his truck as Jake and Sam kiss to If You Were Here by the Thompson Twins.

Once the cold finally settles back in and all of the breath is stolen from your lungs, Clark finally pulls away, eyes hazy and cheeks rosy. His tongue draws along his lower lip before he nods, glancing over your face. “Yeah. Worth the wait.” He breathes, vapor forming between your mouths.

There’s a soft groan of embarrassment as you bury your face into his neck. He laughs, curling an arm around you to pull you into him as he rolls onto his back, situating you directly atop him. There’s a beat of silence where he just runs his hand along your spine, feeling the line of it when he presses down gently.

Then, he speaks. “My parents aren’t going to let me live this down.”

#koolie’s tbr #12.7k of pure greatness i know it #this trope is very gorgeous to me #fic recs: clark kent #fic recs: superman 2025

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