this wasn’t the first time he’d done this. and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

you knew where he was. who he was. you’d learned to recognize the excuses before he said them. he was out there saving people. being the hero. the symbol of hope.

just not here.

not with you.

you loved that about him. god, you did. you’d never wanted to be the thing that pulled him away from the world. but love didn’t make waiting hurt less. it didn’t make missed birthdays sting quieter. it didn’t make standing alone at a table meant for two feel noble instead of humiliating.

you’d almost broken up so many times because of this.

eventually, you paid the bill yourself.

now you’re sitting on his couch, the pretty dress you picked out just for him wrinkling beneath you. your fingers drum against the fabric as your eyes stay fixed on the blank tv. you left his window open, hoping he’d come back soon. hoping he’d choose you this time.

the wind rushes in from the open window and you look up.

clark is there, standing by the window like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to be here. hair slightly messy, suit rumpled. he looks like he got there as fast as he could.

for a moment, you just stare. unsure whether to feel relief or anger. the waiting, the hurt, the almost breakups all settle heavy in your chest.

“i… hey,” he says softly, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing.

“you didn’t show up,” you say as you stand, crossing your arms. “again.”

he flinches but steps closer, careful, like he’s approaching glass he doesn’t want to shatter. “i know,” he murmurs. “i’m sorry. i got held up. i didn’t mean to—”

you start pacing before he can finish.

“jesus christ, do you know how embarrassing it was being there alone?” your voice rises. “waiting for you like an idiot?”

clark freezes. his expression softens when he really looks at you.

“i told you,” he starts gently. “something came up—”

“something always comes up,” you snap, spinning to face him. “you think i don’t get it? you think i don’t know who you are?”

your voice drops, quieter but sharper. “i know, clark. but what i don’t know is why i’m always the one left waiting. why i always feel like a backup plan.”

he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“i asked you to do one thing,” your voice cracks as you step closer. “i asked you to show up. you promised me. you looked me in the eye and promised.”

your voice breaks and a tear slips down before you can stop it. loving him feels like trying harder and harder just to stay in the same place.

you shake your head slowly. “i never wanted to be the girl who makes you choose. but i’m tired of showing up alone. i’m tired of feeling like i’m the only one fighting for us.”

the silence is heavy. his guilt is written all over his face, but you’re too tired to comfort him through it.

you scoff. you’ve had this fight before. too many times. it’s exhausting how familiar it feels.

“clark, i think we should—”

“no.”

the word cuts you off, firm and desperate.

you roll your eyes, sinking back onto the couch. “you do this every time.”

he’s kneeling in front of you before you can move away, hands wrapping around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“please,” he says again, softer this time, like the word hurts on the way out. “i’ll do better. i swear. i’ll take you out tomorrow. anywhere you want. just… don’t say it.”

his eyes are blown wide, blue and frantic, like the thought of losing you is doing something ugly to his chest. “don’t say it. please.”

you stare at him, jaw tight, heart pounding. you hate how fast you fold when he looks at you like that. hate how badly you want to believe him.

but you nod anyway.

clark exhales like he’s just been pulled back from the edge of something terrible. his hands slide up your sides, fingers curling into your shirt as he leans in. his mouth finds your neck, slow and deliberate this time, not careful anymore. his lips drag, linger, press harder, like he’s trying to ground himself in you.

you let out a quiet sound before you can stop it.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs against your neck. “i hate that i keep hurting you.”

his mouth moves again, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make your breath hitch. one hand slips under your shirt, palm warm against your bare waist, thumb tracing like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, right against your throat.

his grip tightens just slightly, not hurting, just enough to say don’t pull away. “i know i messed up. i know.”

he pulls back only an inch, just enough for you to feel his breath on your lips. his forehead presses to yours, noses brushing.

“let me make it up to you,” he whispers. not a promise. a plea.

and you hate how your body leans into him before your head can argue.

because this is how it always happens.

because he knows exactly how to touch you.

because wanting him has never been the problem.

his forehead stays pressed to yours, breath uneven. the room feels smaller, like all the air is caught between your bodies.

“tell me you’re not walking away,” clark whispers. not strong. not heroic. just a man on his knees in front of you.

you swallow. your hands curl into his shirt, knuckles white. “you always do this,” you murmur. “you mess up, and then you touch me like this and suddenly i forget why i’m mad.”

his jaw tightens. “i don’t want you to forget,” he says quietly. “i want you to stay.”

his hands slide up your thighs, slow, like he’s asking permission with every inch. when you don’t pull away, his thumbs press in just a little, anchoring you to him.

the tension is unbearable now. it sits between you, tight and restless, making it hard to breath.

“you can’t keep fixing things like this,” you breathe, even as your body leans forward.

“i know,” he admits, voice rough. “but right now i just need you. please.”

he stands, towering now, and for a second you think he’s going to step back. instead, he cages you in, hands braced on either side of the couch. his presence is overwhelming.

your breath stutters when his mouth hovers near yours, not touching. waiting.

he pauses, eyes searching yours, hand brushing your hip softly, as if asking permission without words. the silence is heavy, filled with everything unsaid—the anger, the hurt, the longing.

you don’t pull away.

his lips finally meet yours, slow at first, then deeper, like weeks of frustration are pouring out through one kiss. it’s messy. desperate. not tender at all. his hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“this doesn’t fix everything,” you murmur against his lips.

“i know,” he whispers, kissing you again, softer, careful this time.

your hands move over him without thinking, over the chest you know so well, over the lines of his body. his lips trail down your neck, over your collarbone, leaving fire behind.

everything about this is messy, but it feels right. you let yourself sink into it, letting go for just a little while.

“are you sure?” he whispers, voice low, eyes searching.

you nod, letting your body answer, letting the feeling of him wipe away the words you couldn’t say.

you press a last soft kiss to his chest, just for a moment, before leaning back slightly. everything still hurts a little, and everything still matters, but right now, this is enough.

and what can you even say… it’s clark.

lois is staring at you.

not subtly. not politely. she’s leaning one fist against your desk, coffee in her other hand, eyes narrowed like she’s trying to solve a crime.

you pretend not to notice, fingers clicking against the keyboard like speed might save you. like if you finish this article fast enough, she’ll leave it alone.

she doesn’t.

you know exactly why she’s looking at you like that.

you called her last night. your voice had been shaky. you told her clark stood you up again. how you sat alone at your favorite thai place, pretending you weren’t counting the minutes. how you waited longer than you should have. how you almost said it this time.

lois has heard this story before.

too many times.

she takes a slow sip of her coffee, still watching you over the rim. “so,” she says eventually, dragging the word out. “you were ready to break up with him last night.”

your jaw tightens. you don’t look at her. “i didn’t say that.”

she hums, unimpressed. “you didn’t have to.”

you delete a sentence. retype it. delete it again. your shoulders creep up toward your ears.

“it was a false alarm, lois,” you say, a little too fast. “we talked. everything is fine. we’re fine.”

she snorts softly. “you always talk.”

that one lands.

you exhale through your nose, rubbing your thumb against the space bar. she’s right, and that’s the problem.

“look,” lois says, setting her coffee down on your desk like she’s settling in, “clark is an amazing guy. genuinely. i know that better than anyone.”

you finally turn toward her, defensive. “then what’s the issue?”

“the issue,” she says calmly, “is that every time he disappears, you act like it doesn’t bother you. and it does”

you open your mouth to argue, but—

“you cried on the phone last night,” she adds flatly.

your throat tightens. “i was just— frustrated.”

lois raises an eyebrow. “you don’t cry when you’re just frustrated.”

before you can respond, there’s a rush of movement behind her.

a familiar one.

clark comes in late, breathless like he jogged the last block, hair messy, tie loosened and crooked. he’s holding two cups of coffee, scanning the bullpen until his eyes land on you.

his face softens instantly.

he walks over with that big, hopeful smile that always undoes you. “hey, sweetheart.”

he leans down, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and sets the coffee down beside your keyboard. exactly how you like it. extra cream. no sugar.

your lips betray you, curving into a small smile despite everything. “hey,” you murmur, still typing, but you glance up at him anyway.

lois exhales slowly.

“i’m gonna go before i say something i can’t take back,” she says, grabbing her coffee.

she doesn’t look at clark as she walks away.

she looks at you.

and that look says you deserve better than waiting.

clark shifts awkwardly once she’s gone, hands rubbing together like he’s suddenly not sure where to put them. “is she… mad at me?”

“she’s always mad at you, babe,” you say lightly, forcing a smile. it’s easier than explaining. easier than admitting lois might be right.

he laughs, sheepish, leaning his hip against your desk. “okay, fair.”

he hesitates, then brightens like he’s remembered something important. “so—movie night at my place? we can finally finish harry potter. i swear i won’t fall asleep this time.”

your fingers still.

just for a second.

your eyes drop back to the screen, but the words blur. all you can see are memories of sitting on his couch alone. of checking your phone. of telling yourself five more minutes.

“i… don’t know,” you admit quietly.

clark notices immediately. his smile fades, replaced by something softer.

“hey,” he says gently. “what’s wrong?”

you swallow. “you know what’s wrong.”

he nods, slow. “yeah. i do.”

there’s a beat. then he leans closer, lowering his voice like the rest of the newsroom doesn’t exist.

“i’ll be there,” he says. no jokes this time. no charm. just earnest. “i promise.”

you study him, really study him. the hopeful eyes. the sincerity. the man who would cross the world for strangers but sometimes struggles to stay still for you.

“we’ll see,” you say finally, a small smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself.

his relief is immediate. “deal,” he says, grinning. “and i’ll even make popcorn.”

you shake your head, smiling, even as something in your chest stays guarded.

because this is how it always goes.

because loving clark kent has never been about doubting his intentions, only about wondering how long you can keep believing his promises.

clark was a no-show again.

you keep checking the time, the bowl of popcorn you made sitting untouched in your lap, already cold. the movie menu glows on the screen, stuck on the same page you’ve been staring at for too long.

the blankets you laid out for him are still neatly folded at the end of the couch. the extra pillow you grabbed just in case he wanted to stay over sits empty beside you.

you don’t even feel surprised.

you saw this coming.

you stand, setting the popcorn down harder than you need to, shoving the blanket away like it personally betrayed you. you grab your bag because staying here feels stupid now. you don’t want to be here anymore. you don’t want to keep doing this.

you head toward his bedroom to grab the few things you’ve left there. a sweater. your charger. little pieces of a life that suddenly feels one-sided.

maybe this really is it. maybe if he can’t even show up for this, then what’s the point of being together at all?

then—

a loud thud echoes from the living room.

you freeze, heart jumping into your throat, before running back out.

clark is standing there.

not in his glasses. not in his soft sweaters. he’s in the suit, torn and burned and streaked with blood like he barely made it out of something alive. his chest rises unevenly, breaths shallow, like he ran himself into the ground just to get here.

his face lights up the second he sees you.

relief. real relief. like the world settles because you’re still here.

“hey, sweetheart,” he says, trying to smile like everything’s normal, like he’s not bleeding in his living room. “i’m here. i’m not that late, right? we can still watch the movie.

“look, i can still make the popcorn—” he starts, taking a step forward.

he barely makes it before he groans, hand flying to his side. his eyes flick down, then to the coffee table.

“oh,” he says softly, almost hopeful. “you already made some.”

your chest tightens.

you really look at him then.

the suit is torn at the shoulder, dark with blood along his ribs, scorch marks trailing down his side. his breathing is shallow, uneven, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

“clark—” you gasp, dropping everything as you rush toward him. “you’re hurt.”

he opens his mouth to argue, because of course he does, but the moment you reach him, his knees buckle just slightly, weight shifting into you before he can stop it.

“i’m okay,” he lies gently, voice strained. “just… took a little longer than i planned.”

and god, you hate how even now, he’s apologizing for being late instead of bleeding.

“no, you’re not.” your hands are already on him, guiding him down. “sit. now.”

you push him lightly but firmly onto the couch. he tries to argue.

“i’ll be fine. i just need some sun in the morning. come on, we can still watch the movie—”

“you’re bleeding all over the couch,” you whisper, voice shaking despite yourself. “jesus, clark.”

that shuts him up.

you rush to the bathroom, grabbing the med kit you practically forced him to buy. you know he heals fast. you know he doesn’t need this. but you need to do something. you need to help.

when you come back, he’s shifted, sitting a little straighter like he doesn’t want to look as bad as he feels.

you kneel in front of him and open the kit. neither of you says anything.

you press the gauze to his side, careful but firm.

he flinches.

you hate that he flinches.

“i’m sorry i was late,” he says quietly. his eyes drift around the room, taking in everything you set up for him, everything he almost missed.

your jaw tightens, but you keep working.

“i was really going to come,” he adds. “i swear. i just—something came up.” he stops himself, swallowing. “i’m trying. i really am. no matter how fast i get here, i’m still not there when you need me.”

he takes a breath, looking down. “it feels like—” he swallows again. “we’re drifting apart.”

your hands slow, then steady again. you glance up at him, giving him a small, tired smile as you clean the blood from his skin.

“yeah,” you say softly. “i fucking know, clark.”

there’s a long stretch of silence as you clean him up.

you focus on the task like it’s the only thing holding you together: gauze, pressure, tape. anything to keep your hands busy so your mouth doesn’t say the thing you’ve been circling all night.

clark doesn’t say anything either. he just watches you. the way your jaw tightens. the way you won’t quite look at him.

he knows that look.

you finish wrapping his side, making sure the bleeding has stopped, making sure he’s stable. making sure there’s no excuse left to keep touching him.

when you finally lean back, that’s when he sees it.

the bag on the floor.

your bag.

his heart stutters. you can hear it in the way his breath catches.

“were you—” he starts, then stops, like saying it out loud might make it real. his voice comes quieter this time. “were you going to leave?”

you don’t answer right away.

because the truth is yes. you were ready to reached for the plug. and somehow, like always, he showed up. not exactly on time, but close enough.

you glance back at him, tired eyes soft but resolute.

“i didn’t want to,” you say honestly. “but yeah. i was thinking about it.”

his hands curl into the couch cushion. panic flashes across his face and you hate that you caused it, hate that it means something still matters this much.

he always gets like this when he knows he’s losing you.

“please,” he blurts, voice tight, almost trembling. “i’m sorry. i love you. i… i’ll fix this. i’ll make it right.” he swallows, struggling for the words. “i can call the justice gang, whatever you want. i’ll do it. just… don’t leave.

you raise an eyebrow. “…the justice gang?”

he winces. “okay, first of all, i didn’t name it.”

you can’t help but snort, a tiny, incredulous laugh escaping you.

“of course you didn’t,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“it was green lantern,” he adds quickly, looking almost embarrassed. “he’s obsessed with the name, not me.”

you roll your eyes, but the tension loosens a little. only a little. you hate how easily he still pulls at something soft in you, even when your brain is yelling at you to be mad.

clark shifts, gaze locked on you. “i don’t want to lose you,” he says quietly, voice steady but raw. “i know i keep messing up. i know saying sorry isn’t enough. but i love you. i can’t… i won’t be the reason you walk away.”

“i was a few minutes late,” he says, voice quiet. “but this is where i wanted to be. with you. i just wish i was better at getting here on time.”

the words repeat in your head, over and over, until your chest aches. you don’t even realize you’re smiling until your face starts to hurt.

you’re still kneeling in front of him when you lean forward, resting your head against his knee. you eyes fall shut, exhaustion finally catching up to you as his hand slips into your hair, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast.

clark is everything you ever dreamed of. he’s never been a bad boyfriend. and no one else could compete with him. no one ever has.

that’s why you love him.

sure, he never shows up on time. it gets under your skin, makes you think about all the nights you’ve waited. but none of that matters right now.

you shift, resting your cheek against his knee and looking up at him. his hair is a mess, curls falling into his eyes. his face is still marked with cuts and scratches, reminders of the life he lives when he’s not here with you. he looks down at you with those blue eyes.

“you’re so sweet to me, clark,” you mumble.

his thumb brushes your cheek, and he hums quietly, like the sound belongs just to you.

“so… you’re not breaking up with me?” he asks, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

you shake your head.

the sigh he lets out is pure relief, and it makes you laugh softly despite everything.

you reach up, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. “but can we at least have date night once a week?” you say. “i don’t want you to stop being a hero. i just… i want you here.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

“i can do that,” he says immediately. “i swear.”

you shift a little closer, still kneeling between his knees. your hand moves without you really thinking about it, resting on his thigh. your thumb brushes back and forth.

“are you still hurt?” you ask quietly.

clark shakes his head at first, instinctive. “i’ll be fine,” he says, then pauses when your hand stills. he looks down at you. “just sore. mostly tired.”

you hum, your fingers resuming their slow motion, tracing the muscle beneath his skin. familiar. grounding. you tug lightly at the fabric of his suit, just enough for him to notice.

a quiet cue.

clark exhales through his nose, something like a laugh but softer. “bossy,” he murmurs, but there’s no teasing edge to it, only fondness. he shifts carefully, wincing just a little as he reaches up and peels the suit down from his shoulders.

you help him where you can, slow and careful, fingers brushing warm skin instead of torn fabric. real skin. him. he watches you the whole time, eyes never leaving your face.

you shift closer, still kneeling between his knees. your hand settles on his thigh again, thumb brushing back and forth in that same slow rhythm. his breath changes. you feel it before you see it.

“are you sure?” he asks quietly, still gentle, still clark.

you nod, leaning forward, pressing a soft kiss to his thigh.

“i love you,” you whisper, like a promise instead of a plea.

his hand tightens briefly in your hair, a quiet sound leaving him. “i love you,” he murmurs back, his thumb traces your cheek, reverent. like this is enough. like you are enough.

tomorrow, you’ll probably circle this conversation again.

tomorrow, you might almost break up again.

but tonight, he gave you his whole heart.

and you chose to stay.

“are you okay?” he asked, eyes wide with concern.

you nodded, biting back tears. he didn’t believe you.

so he ran inside, came back with a damp washcloth and a band-aid, and gently cleaned the dirt from your knee like he’d done it a hundred times before. you were eight.

it wasn’t the last time though. after that day, you started finding reasons to “fall” in front of his yard, little scrapes, dramatic tumbles, anything just to see him again. and from that day on, you and clark became best friends.

he was the kind of kid who always carried extra snacks in case you forgot yours. the one who held the swings still so you could climb on, who walked you home when it got dark, even if it meant being late for dinner.

you grew up side by side. he was your first sleepover, your science project partner, your prom date when no one else asked. people always assumed you were together. teachers paired you up without asking. neighbors smiled knowingly when you sat a little too close on the porch swing.

you never noticed.

to you, it was just clark. the boy who always looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in the world. the boy who made you laugh until your stomach hurt and always knew when something was wrong without you saying a word. but now, here you are, older, quieter, still orbiting each other like you always have.

it’s a slow monday morning in clark’s apartment. you’re curled up on his couch in one of his old flannel shirts that’s way too big on you, sleeves falling past your hands. the tv hums softly in the background with some random show you barely remember turning on.

you smell pancakes.

in the kitchen, clark is making breakfast, flipping them with one hand while pouring coffee with the other, like he’s done it a hundred times. like it’s natural. like this is normal.

and maybe it is.

because this isn’t new. the sleepovers that turned into staying over for days. the late nights talking until one of you drifted off. the way you wear his clothes without thinking. the way he always makes two cups of coffee, yours just the way you like it.

“breakfast is ready,” he says, his voice gentle, a little raspy from sleep. he places your plate on the counter, right in front of your usual spot.

you get up from the couch and walk over to the kitchen island, sliding into the seat. clark leans against the counter across from you, mug in hand, but doesn’t make a move toward his own plate.

“you’re not eating?” you ask, tilting your head.

he shakes his head and takes a slow sip of his coffee.

“not yet.”

you pause, fork in mid-air. “why not? you know you can’t save the world hungry, right?”

“i’m fine,” he says. “i just wanted to make sure you eat.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart stumbles in your chest anyway. because it’s always been like this. he always takes care of you. always has.

“you know,” you say between bites, “if you keep making me breakfast like this, i’m going to start thinking you’re in love with me.”

you mean it as a joke. kind of.

clark chuckles, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “guess i better stop, then.”

you look up at him, raising a brow. “wow. not even gonna deny it.”

“i’m just saying,” he grins, “don’t fall for me just because i know how to make pancakes.”

you smirk. “too late.”

he laughs again, the sound echoing through the kitchen, but there’s a split second where something shifts in his face, just the smallest pause before he brushes it off. you’re not sure if he caught the way you said it. you’re not sure if you meant it.

you stab another bite of pancake. “you used to be way worse at cooking.”

“you used to cry every time you lost at uno.”

“i was eight.”

“you were sixteen.”

you throw a bottle at him, and he catches it without even looking.

“stupid reflexes,” you mutter.

“eat,” he says, nudging the plate closer to you, his voice a little softer now. “we’re gonna be late for work.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing the fork from the table again. “we’re always late.” you say, you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips.

clark was right.

you’re late.

ridiculously late.

you’re both speed-walking, well, more like half-jogging—down the sidewalk, the city buzzing around you. his hand brushes yours every few steps, and neither of you quite pull away.

clark’s glasses are fogging up from the sudden burst of movement and the heat of his coffee still clutched in his hand.

“i told you,” you laugh, a little breathless, trying to keep up. “we’re always late.”

he grins, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his knuckle. “you didn’t have to finish all your pancakes, you know.”

“they were good!” you argue. “you made them!”

“you say that like i had a choice.”

you glance at him sideways. “you did. you always do.”

he looks at you then, like he wants to say something—but he doesn’t. just smiles instead, a little softer this time.

you finally reach the daily planet, breathless and slightly sweaty. as you walk through the doors, lois is already standing near the bullpen, arms crossed.

her eyes narrow, lips twitching into a smirk.

“well, well,” she says, voice echoing just enough to make you both flinch. “look who decided to show up.”

clark clears his throat, pushing his foggy glasses up again. “traffic.”

he heads straight to his desk, setting his things down and reaching to straighten the small framed photo sitting beside his monitor. it’s the halloween picture—him in a half-falling vampire cape, you in a crooked witch hat, both smiling at the moment.

you walk in behind him, dressed properly now, your work blouse tucked in, your coat slung over your arm, but your hair is still a little messy, your cheeks a little too flushed for a monday morning, and there’s something about the way you smell faintly like his soap.

you pass lois’s desk, and she doesn’t even pretend not to notice.

she slides out of her chair smoothly, catches you by the arm before you can make it to your own desk.

“did you spend the night at his place?” she whispers, eyes narrowed in playful accusation.

your head snaps toward her. “what? no. why?”

she smirks, leaning in just enough so clark can’t hear.

“you smell like him.”

you blink. “how would you even—”

“girl,” she says, rolling her eyes. “i’ve worked with the man for years. i know what kind of shampoo he uses. don’t insult me.”

you glance over your shoulder. clark’s at his desk, flipping through papers, sipping his coffee, clearly pretending he’s not listening even though his ears are a little red.

you sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “it’s not like that.”

lois hums, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she leans back against her desk. “whatever you say.”

she lets you go, but her eyes linger on you for a second longer. not judging. just… knowing.

lois isn’t stupid. she’s seen it from the beginning. the way clark looks at you like he’s watching the sunrise. the way your whole face softens when you talk about him.

at first, she thought it was cute. a little childhood crush thing. harmless. sweet.

but then weeks turned into months. inside jokes. matching coffee orders. you fixing his tie in the elevator without thinking. him walking you home every night like it was instinct.

still, you weren’t together. not officially. not out loud.

lois sighs, sitting back down at her desk and muttering to herself, “idiots. both of you.”

you finally reach your desk and sit down, stealing a glance at clark. he’s already looking at you. like he always is.

you smile. he smiles back.

and still, nothing is said.

star wars is playing episode v the empire strikes back clark’s choice of course. the lights are off except for the soft glow of the screen and the city outside your window.

you’re on the couch your legs tossed lazily over his lap a bowl of popcorn balanced between you. clark’s hand rests on your ankle his thumb moving in slow absentminded circles against your skin.

“clark this doesn’t make sense,” you say eyebrows scrunching as you stare at the screen. “how is leia suddenly in love with han like weren’t they just yelling at each other two seconds ago”

clark smiles without looking away from the movie.

“that’s how it works sometimes.”

you scoff. “no it’s not. people don’t just go from arguing all the time to falling in love.”

his thumb pauses for just a second before it starts moving again a little slower now.

“i don’t know,” he says. “maybe they always loved each other. maybe they were just scared to admit it.”

you go quiet turning your head just enough to look at him. he’s still watching the screen but there’s something in the way he says it. like he’s not really talking about leia and han.

you open your mouth to say something but you don’t.

because this moment is safe. this moment is soft. this moment is the in between space you and clark have lived in for a while now.

and if you say the wrong thing maybe it all changes.

so you don’t say it.

instead you toss a piece of popcorn at him. “you’re such a nerd.”

he laughs catching it mid air without even looking.

show off.

“you’re the one watching star wars with me for the third time this month.”

“only because you promised pancakes again.”

he grins. “i always do.”

and his thumb keeps tracing gentle circles on your ankle.

and you let him. and maybe that’s the scariest most comforting part of all.

okay, okay. obviously you love clark.

as a friend, of course.

who wouldn’t love clark?

he’s clark.

he’s the guy who always puts everyone else first. who never hesitates to help someone, a stranger, a neighbor, a friend. who brings soup when you’re sick, who offers his coat when it’s cold, who notices things like the way you like your coffee or when you’ve had a hard day, even when you don’t say a word.

he’s the kind of person you want to be around.

which is probably why you’re here all the time.

you’re the one helping him now. you’re the one looking out for him, because you’ve started to notice that he doesn’t even consider helping himself. he never stops to ask what he needs.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s part of why your heart aches a little whenever he smiles at you.

because you know you’d do anything to protect that smile. you’re not gonna deny that there are probably some feelings there. some soft, stupid, long standing feelings that have been hiding.

like the first time you had a sleepover at his place.

he insisted you take the bed. he slept on the floor. and before he turned off the lights, he plugged in a little nightlight he found in a drawer because he remembered that you were afraid of the dark.

what he doesn’t know is that you aren’t. not when he’s there keeping you safe.

or like that time you both went to prom together.

you didn’t have a date, and neither did he. no one else wanted to go with you, and you almost didn’t go at all. but clark just said, we’ll go together. easy.

like it was the simplest thing in the world.

and okay, fine. you also can’t deny how good looking clark is.

he’s tall. like, really tall. and his hair, all soft and curly, always falling into his face in that annoying, perfect way.

you hate how easy it is to look at him. and you hate even more how easy it is to fall for him.

but the worst part? you’re not sure if he even sees it.

and the fact that you’re the only person he ever runs to after saving the world?

yeah. that’s the part that gets you.

sometimes he just shows up on your couch, bloody, bruised, half conscious. you never ask what happened. you don’t need to.

you just pull him in, patch him up, wipe the blood from his face, try to keep him awake long enough to heal. even half-asleep, he can tell you’ve been waiting for him, hoping he’d come back safe.

so it isn’t a surprise when you walk into your apartment tonight and see him there again.

your bag drops from your shoulder before you even realize it, landing on the floor with a thud. you rush to the couch, falling to your knees beside him.

“clark,” you gasp, your keys hitting the floor with a loud clatter. “what the fuck.”

“hey, pretty,” he says with a half smile, eyes barely open. like he’s just come home from a long day at the office and not from the edge of death.

you shake your head and press your fingers to the side of his neck, checking his pulse even though you don’t need to.

he’s warm. too warm.

“i’ll be fine,” he mumbles. “just gotta wait till morning.”

“you’re bleeding all over my couch,” you whisper, voice cracking. “jesus, clark.”

you run to the bathroom, grabbing your little med kit, the one you keep stocked just for him.

when you come back, he’s shifted slightly, trying to sit up straighter like he’s worried about staining your couch more than the hole in his side.

you kneel again and start working in silence. you just need to do something.

you press the gauze against his side, careful but firm.

he flinches a little. you hate that he flinches.

“anywhere else hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head.

you know he’s lying.

you keep going anyway.

he watches you quietly, eyes soft despite the pain. like he’s more worried about you than the blood or the bruises. like he’s memorizing every movement of your hands.

“you scared the hell out of me,” you say finally, not looking at him.

“i know.”

“no, you don’t,” you snap, louder than you meant to. your hands pause. “you didn’t call. you didn’t text. i thought…”

your voice wavers. you swallow hard.

“i thought maybe this time you weren’t coming back.”

clark blinks slowly, like he wants to speak but doesn’t know how.

“i just…” you swallow again. “i hate not knowing if you’re okay.”

a pause.

“i came home,” clark finally says.

“to what?”

“to you.”

you let out a shaky breath, then lean forward, forehead pressed lightly against his. you stay there for a moment, not moving. just breathing him in. just feeling him here, alive, in your arms.

then you pull back, brushing his sweat damp hair from his forehead.

“i’m staying here,” you tell him quietly. all night.

he smiles again, something soft and sleepy and completely clark.

“i like when you do,” he murmurs.

you stay beside him. you don’t get up. you pull a blanket from the back of the couch and gently lay it over him, tucking it around his shoulders.

you slide down to the floor, curling up beside the couch, knees tucked to your chest.

just close enough to hear him breathing.

just close enough to reach out and brush your fingers lightly over his.

you don’t think he notices.

but a moment later, his fingers twitch and curl around yours in the faintest squeeze.

that’s when you realize.

you are in love with clark kent.

and now that you know, it feels like the most obvious truth in the world.

clark shifts above you. his brow is furrowed slightly, a strange look on his face, like he’s trying to remember something or maybe figure out how he feels even in half sleep.

“y/n,” he murmurs, voice soft and rough with exhaustion.

“yeah, clark?” you whisper, tilting your head up.

he blinks slowly, still not fully awake, and then, almost without thinking, he says,

“you’re my best friend.”

the words hang there. small. simple.

you can feel the certainty in them, even if he doesn’t seem to fully know what he’s saying.

you smile softly, brushing a hand over his arm. “i know,” you murmur. “now go to sleep.”

he hums, letting your words sink in, finally relaxing, the strange look fading as he drifts back into rest.

you lie back down, thinking nothing of it at first. just clark, half asleep, being clark.

you don’t realize it yet.

but one day, when you think back to this night, the way he said your name first, like it mattered, like it came before everything else, it will finally click.

he wasn’t confused.

he wasn’t rambling.

he is in love.

you wake up in your bed.

that’s the first thing that doesn’t make sense.

the second is that you’re still fully dressed, shoes off but everything else on, and there’s an ache in your back like you slept curled up on the floor, which you did.

you sit up fast.

the living room. clark.

you swing your legs over the bed and rush out, heart thudding. but when you reach the couch, it’s empty.

clean. like nothing happened. like he was never there.

except you know better.

there’s something resting on the arm of the couch. a neatly folded blanket. and just under it, a small piece of paper with your name on it, scribbled in that familiar handwriting you’d know anywhere.

you unfold it.

hey. you fell asleep. i didn’t want you to wake up on the floor with a stiff neck, so i moved you. hope that’s okay. couch is clean. figured i owed you that much. didn’t want to leave, but i’ll be back after work. i promise.

- clark

P.S. you still mumble in your sleep. it’s cute.

you stare at the note for a moment. then you bite your bottom lip hard and try not to smile.

you fail.

your fingers curl around the paper like it’s something fragile. something important.

-

you’re trying to focus. really, you are.

there’s a half-written story on your screen and an empty coffee cup beside you, but all you can think about is clark.

he isn’t here today-off doing superman things, saving the world, or whatever it is he does when he disappears without explanation.

you try not wait for his text. try not to think about the way he looked on your couch. the note he left. the way your fingers had brushed.

you’re in love with your best friend.

great.

“hey.”

you jump in your chair. lois is leaning against your desk, smirking like she knows everything. she’s holding a fresh coffee in one hand and trouble in the other.

“jesus, lois,” you mutter, snapping your laptop shut like that’ll hide the crisis looping in your brain. “personal space?”

“don’t need it,” she says, setting the coffee down. “you’ve got that post-kent glow.”

you blink. “that’s not even a thing.”

“it’s so a thing. i can tell.” lois tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she watches you squirm.

you scoff. “you’re literally making stuff up right now.”

“oh, come on,” she groans. “we all see it. me and jimmy made a bet.”

your eyebrows shoot up. “a bet?”

“yeah-to see when you and clark are finally gonna get together. i said by the end of the month.”

“you guys are stupid,” you say, trying to laugh it off, but your voice falters near the end. “that’s never going to happen. i mean… he’s my best friend.”

you say it slowly, like maybe if you drag the words out they’ll sound truer. like maybe you won’t think about how long you’ve been friends. since you were eight.

how he always finds his way back to you. how last night changed something and you don’t know how to un-feel it.

“it would ruin everything,” you add, almost to yourself.

lois watches you quietly for a second. then she says,

“right… well. too bad for you.”

you glance up. “what’s that supposed to-”

“because he’s literally walking toward us right now.”

you spin in your chair. and there he is. clark kent. looking like a walking heartache in a slightly wrinkled shirt, his tie crooked, hair still damp from wherever he just came from.

“hey,” he says with a smile just for you. “sorry i’m late.”

your heart’s already racing. you stand up-for no real reason-and before you can even say hi, clark leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“thanks for taking care of me last night,” he murmurs, voice soft and close. “i owe you.”

you freeze. your breath hitches. you can feel the heat crawl up your neck.

“i’m just- i’m going to the bathroom,” you blurt, grabbing your phone like it’s your lifeline. you don’t wait for a response. you just turn and practically sprint away.

clark watches you go, confused, brow furrowing slightly. he glances at lois like maybe she has some kind of explanation.

she does not. she just rolls her eyes and takes a long sip of her coffee.

“you are both so dumb,” she mutters.

you’ve been ignoring clark for a couple of days.

not completely. not in the cruel, radio silence kind of way. but in the subtle, painfully obvious kind of way.

the kind where every time he walks toward your desk, you suddenly need to call someone, or get coffee, or your personal favorite go to the bathroom.

you went to the bathroom ten times in one day.

ten.

even lois started keeping count.

and clark? well, he noticed.

of course he noticed.

he’s clark.

he noticed the shift in your smile. the way your replies got shorter. how you stopped teasing him when his tie was crooked, or how you avoided looking him in the eye every time he tried to start a conversation.

he didn’t do anything wrong.

that’s what makes it worse.

you just didn’t want to ruin anything. not the years of friendship, not the safety of knowing he’s always there, not the quiet, constant feeling of being known by someone who’s been by your side since you were kids.

but ever since that night when he showed up at your door bleeding, bruised, and falling asleep on your couch with your hand in his, it hasn’t felt the same.

you haven’t felt the same.

because something changed.

because you’re in love with him.

because now, when he smiles at you, your heart flinches in a way it never used to.

so you hide.

poorly.

lois cornered you yesterday by the elevator and said,

“you look like a middle schooler avoiding her crush. just go make out already.”

you responded by getting on the wrong elevator.

and clark?

clark finally decides to stop waiting.

you finally got home after a long day at work.

clark wasn’t at the office today, which if you’re being honest was a bit of a relief. one less person to avoid.

one less excuse to make up. he had sent you a few texts throughout the day, checking in, asking if you were mad at him.

you answered each one with something short and vague.

you miss him.

god, you miss him. it physically hurts not being around him, not hearing his voice or seeing that ridiculously warm smile he always saves just for you.

you unlock your door, lock it behind you, and slip your shoes off. you were heading for the bathroom, but something catches your eye clothes. clark’s clothes. draped lazily over the back of your couch.

you don’t remember when he left them here. but then again, he’s always leaving things behind. like it’s his second home.

you scoop them up without thinking. even now especially now you love wearing his clothes.

after a hot shower, you slip into one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. his scent clings to the fabric warm, clean, a little like vanilla and something else that’s just him.

and it makes you want to kiss him.

it makes you ache for him.

you towel off your hair, pad out of the bathroom barefoot, and head to your bedroom.

the room is dark, lit only by the faint orange glow from the streetlights outside. the wind dances through the cracked window, making the curtains flutter.

and then you see him.

clark.

he’s sprawled across your bed like he owns the place.

one arm tucked under your pillow, tie long gone, hair a little messy, glasses resting on your nightstand. his stupidly long legs are hanging off the edge of the mattress because, as always, he doesn’t quite fit.

you sigh softly, but not in surprise.

of course he’s here.

of course he’s in your bed.

you quietly shut the window, then walk over and gently shake his shoulder.

“clark.”

he doesn’t move.

you try again, brushing your fingers against his arm.

“clark.”

he flinches just slightly, eyes blinking open. he squints up at you in the dim light and then, he smiles. soft. sleepy. like he’s home.

“hey,” he mumbles.

you cross your arms. “what are you doing here?”

he shifts, sitting up slowly. rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “i was waiting for you.”

you raise a brow. “you fell asleep.”

“i know.” he yawns, blinking again. “i figured if i stayed here, you couldn’t keep avoiding me.”

your chest tightens.

you never wanted to hurt him. you never wanted him to feel like this.

“i wasn’t avoiding you, clark,” you lie, voice small, eyes darting to the floor.

he gives you a look. gentle. knowing.

“we’ve been best friends for years, y/n. i know when you’re avoiding me. you do it when something’s on your mind.”

he pats the empty spot on the bed beside him. you hesitate for just a moment, then crawl in.

he watches you settle in, tucking one leg under the other, the hem of his shirt brushing your thighs.

“so,” he says softly, “tell me, pretty… what’s going on in that head of yours? did i do something? i’ll fix it. just tell me. i don’t want you mad at me, okay? i can’t-“

“clark.” you stop him, but you’re smiling. you can’t help it.

even now, with your heart a mess and your brain screaming at you to stay quiet, you still smile when he talks like this. still want to kiss him when he looks at you like that.

you couldn’t help but stare at his eyes. big, blue, and impossibly soft.

your gaze flicked down to his mouth. his lips. the ones you’ve thought about more times than you’d ever admit.

silence hung between you. the kind that buzzes in your ears. you felt your heart thudding, fast and nervous and loud enough that you know clark hears it. and the worst part?

he’s looking at you the exact same way.

you can barely breathe.

“i’m not mad at you,” you whisper, breaking the silence.

your eyes drop again to his neck. and there it is.

the necklace.

the tiny, handmade necklace you gave him when you were eleven. it’s still there. the cheap string hasn’t snapped, the colors are faded, and the little charm you picked out the one that’s supposed to mean strength is still hanging on by a thread.

your fingers move before you can stop them. you reach out and touch it. touch him. the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips makes your chest ache.

he still wears it.

he never stopped.

even after all these years.

you feel him suck in a breath when your fingers brush his neck.

this isn’t the first time you’ve touched clark. not even close. you’ve shared beds. laughed till you cried. held each other through heartbreak. this kind of closeness it was normal.

but this?

this feels different.

“y/n,” he says, and your name sounds like a prayer coming out of his mouth.

you look up to meet his gaze, but you don’t even get a word out

because clark leans in and kisses you.

his lips crash into yours like he’s been waiting forever.

like he’s been holding back for years and he just can’t anymore.

and you kiss him back like you’ve wanted this for just as long.

after a moment, you both pull back, breath mingling in the quiet space between you.

“you…” you whisper, still a little dazed. “you kissed me.”

clark doesn’t move right away, like he’s giving you space to run if you want to.

but you don’t.

you’re too caught in the feeling his hand still brushing your wrist, the way he’s looking at you like he’s seen this moment a hundred times before in his head and never stopped hoping for it.

“i’ve been wanting to,” he says, voice low, rough with sleep and something gentler.

“for a long time.”

you blink at him. “since when?”

he smiles quiet and a little crooked, like he doesn’t expect you to believe him.

“since you fell in my front yard.”

you let out a small laugh, breathless. “that wasn’t even on purpose”

clark raises a brow. “the first time wasn’t. but after that?” his head tilts, teasing and tender. “you kept doing it. scraped knees. that dramatic limp you did even when you weren’t bleeding.”

you go still, heart thudding loud enough for him to hear.

“and i knew,” he says softly, gaze never leaving yours.

“but i still waited for you. every day. with a bandaid in my hand.”

something cracks in your chest.

“i thought maybe if i was ready… you’d keep coming back.”

you can’t say anything. your throat’s too tight. your heart’s too full.

then, gently, his fingers brush against yours.

“so don’t avoid me like that again, okay?” he murmurs.

“not when i’ve been waiting for you this long.”

and that’s when it hits you he wasn’t just talking about this week. he was talking about years.

you nod, eyes shining. “i love you,” you say quietly, before crawling into his lap, your arms wrapping around his neck.

clark doesn’t hesitate.

“i love you too,” he breathes against your lips, and then he’s kissing you again.

you really are in love.

But it’s hard when you see him every day — when your shoulder brushes his in the hallway at work, when his voice cuts through the noise of the newsroom, when Superman flashes across the news and you’re reminded that he was yours once, in ways no one else will ever know.

You try so hard to act like you don’t miss him. To laugh at the right times, to look busy, to pretend your chest doesn’t twist every time his name slips into conversation. But it’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. Everyone can see right through you.

Which is why Lois dragged you out tonight, with Cat in tow, insisting that a bar would be the cure.

You don’t know how many glasses you’ve had. Too many. More than you should. You know you should stop, but every time you close your eyes you see Clark’s stupid tie, his soft smile, the way his voice softened only for you.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Cat mutters to Lois over the pounding music.

“Well, I didn’t think she would be drinking this much,” Lois whispers back at Cat, though it’s not much of a whisper with the music thundering around you.

“You know I can still hear you guys,” you slur, grinning at the two. Or was it four? You squint, trying to steady your gaze, but the room tilts and shifts. Double vision. Figures.

Cat folds her arms, unimpressed. “See? She’s gone.”

You squint, grinning at them. “You guys are plotting against me, I can feel it,” you slur, swaying on your bar stool. “Evil masterminds.”

Cat rolls her eyes. “We’re not plotting. We’re just… making sure you don’t throw up on yourself or try to text Clark.”

“I’m fully capable of texting Clark,” you insist, waving your hands dramatically. “He’ll miss me. He’ll cry. He’ll—he’ll—” Your head flops onto the bar.

Lois sighs, leaning over to pluck the half-empty glass out of your hand. “You’re gonna hate yourself in the morning.”

“Too late,” you mumble, resting your chin in your palm.

The truth is, no matter how blurry the room gets, his face stays sharp in your mind. Clark. Always Clark.

“Do you know how much I loveeeeee you, Lois?” you slur, giving her a playful bop on the nose.

Lois pushes your hand away, sighing. “Yeah, I know. But seriously, we need to get you out of here before you start yelling at the bartender or something.”

“I… I want Clark,” you hiccup, letting your head flop back on the table. “I want to go home to Clark.”

Lois groans and leans against the bar. “It’s been three months. Don’t you think you should try… move on?”

You blink at her in disbelief. Move on? How could you move on from someone like Clark?

“Wait—why? Is he—” you gulp, voice shaking. “Is he seeing someone? You want me to move on because he’s seeing someone??” You nearly topple off your chair.

Lois lets out a long sigh, clearly regretting she said anything. She’s a good friend—Clark’s a good friend—and she knows what’s going on with him, but she refuses to tell you. She thinks it’s better this way… for you to heal without knowing.

“No! That’s not what I was trying to say,” Lois says, gripping your arm so you don’t actually hit the floor.

“I mean… you practically did,” Cat cuts in, and Lois shoots her a sharp side-eye.

“But Clark…” you trail off, heart sinking. Clark… with another girl? You feel a queasy twist in your stomach.

Then the word Superman blares through the TV. Instinctively, you jump to your feet, stumbling a little, eyes glued to the screen. There he is—Clark—perfect, infuriating. Your chest tightens. You miss him.

“Okay, okay, you look like you’re about to jump through the TV,” Lois groans, reaching for you. You shove her hand away, making her groan louder.

You blink trying to focus. “Bathroom… mission. Solo. No… follow.”

“Do you want us to come?” Cat asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” you say firmly, swaying slightly. “Stay out. Guard the bar. Don’t die.”

Lois and Cat exchange a look. “Fine,” Lois mutters. “We’ll be right outside. Try not to collapse into the sink.”

The bar feels hotter now. The chatter, the clinking glasses, the music—it all hits you at once. You stumble down the hall and shove open the bathroom door. It’s quieter in here. You lean against the wall, phone clutched like it’s the only thing keeping your chest from twisting entirely.

You know this is a bad idea. Really bad. But your thumb hovers over Clark’s name anyway. Fuck it. You’re drunk. You probably won’t remember this tomorrow.

You click his contact and press the phone to your ear, resting your head against the stall door.

It rings. Rings. Rings. Just as you’re about to hang up, he answers.

“Hello?” Clark’s voice is calm, confused.

“Clark!” you slur, grinning like an idiot. “Heyyy… how are you? Hic—been… missed you.” You lean back, almost tipping over.

“Sweetheart… are you okay?” His tone softens. Your chest twists. He hasn’t called you that in months.

“Yeah, yeah! Fine, silly.” You hiccup and flop forward, burying your face in your hands. “I just… missed you. Do you… still… love me?” The words come out sloppy, but your heart is in them.

“Are you drunk?” His voice raises an eyebrow, even through the phone. You hear the wind; you know he’s flying.

“No… are you?” You giggle, because yes, somehow this is funny. “Flying around… are you drunk…?”

“I’m not drunk.” His voice is patient, careful. “Where are you?”

You roll your eyes. “All these questions! Making my head hurt.” You rub your head. “I’m with Lois and Cat. At a bar. Drinking. I think.”

“What bar?”

“I dunno… some bar… with drinks.” The phone slips from your hand and clatters to the floor. You mutter a swear, picking it back up.

“Sweetheart… you there?”

“Yeah… fine. Totally fine.” You wobble, trying to keep the phone from slipping again.

“Are you alone right now?”

“Wow, Clark. If you wanted phone sex you could’ve just asked,” you joke, tilting your head back, letting a hiccup escape.

“Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.” he says, ignoring you.

“But I didn’t send you my—” The line goes dead. You stare at the phone, blinking. “Clark…” you whisper, flopping back against the wall. “Fuck.”

Despite everything, you can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Clark is coming to get you.

Phone still clutched in one hand. Your legs wobble as you make your way back to the main part of the bar.

Lois and Cat are waiting, eyes narrowing.

“I did something bad,” you announce, swaying a little as you stand in front of them.

Lois groans, throwing her head back. “See? I told you we should’ve gone with her.”

Cat raises an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“Clark… is coming to get me!” you say, grinning like it’s the best news in the world.

Lois groans again, louder this time. “Ohhh no. You called him.”

“What? I missed him! Is there something wrong with that?” you protest.

Lois and Cat exchange a look, half exasperated, half amused.

“Do I… look good?” you ask, pawing at your hair like it matters. There isn’t even a mirror in the bar, but that won’t stop you from trying.

“I think you always look good,” a calm, familiar voice says from behind you.

You freeze. Your eyes widen. Slowly, you twist to look, wobbling as you do. There he is. Clark. Standing there. He’s in the Superman suit. His cape still catching air, his hair a mess like he flew straight here. You stumble right into him, and his hand catches your elbow, steadying you with that impossible gentleness.

He clears his throat, dropping his voice lower, like he’s putting on a show. “Hello, ladies. Clark wasn’t able to make it, so he sent me here to pick up this beautiful woman.”

You giggle instantly, the sound bubbling out before you can stop it. His fake-deep voice is ridiculous, and you know it.

“Right,” Lois mutters, shaking her head. She doesn’t even bother hiding the eye roll—of course she knows.

“Wow, Superman!” Cat gasps, practically glowing. She leans forward, starstruck. “It’s so good to see you! So you’re really friends with Clark?”

Lois buries her face in her hands. You’re too drunk to hide your grin. And Superman—Clark—just stands there, holding you up like he always has, pretending he’s someone else.

He adjusts his cape like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Yes, Clark and I go way back. Best pals. He trusts me with very important things—like making sure she gets home safe.”

You laugh so hard you nearly topple over, and he steadies you quickly with a firm hand on your elbow.

“Wow,” Cat gushes, practically swooning. “That’s amazing. Clark must be, like, the luckiest guy alive—being best friends with Superman.”

Lois groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh, for god’s sake.”

“Yup,” Superman says, clearing his throat. “So… we’ll just be on our way.”

Clark—well, Superman—slips an arm around your waist, guiding you carefully toward the door as you stumble. Your heart flutters at the touch, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Stay safe!” Lois calls from across the bar. Clark flashes her a quick thumbs up before pushing the door open.

Once you’re outside, he doesn’t even hesitate—he scoops you up bridal style. You gasp, looping your arm around his neck as instinct takes over. He knows you can’t walk, not like this.

Sometimes, when you were drunk, you used to fake stumbling just so Clark would pick you up and carry you the whole way home. You’d wanted the closeness, the safety of him.

“I don’t want to fly,” you pout now, burying your face against his neck. “Flying’s scary.”

“We’re not flying,” he murmurs, voice softening in that way that makes you feel safe all over again. “Not unless you want to throw up everywhere.”

You nod against his shoulder, letting yourself sink into him as he starts walking. Each step feels steady, protective.

“I knew you’d come,” you mumble, words slurred but true. “You always do.” A small smile tugs at your lips. Clark. He’s always there—even if you aren’t his anymore.

The silence stretches as he carries you down the quiet street toward your apartment. It isn’t a long walk, but your heart sinks with every step closer to home. Closer to being without him again.

“Can we…” you hiccup, voice barely above a whisper.

“Go to your house instead?”

You feel the hesitation in him, the way his chest rises with a sharp inhale. For a moment, you think he’ll say no. But then he nods, tightening his grip around you, and turns down the street toward his apartment.

It wasn’t long before you two arrived at his apartment. Clark gently set you down on his bed. The walk had been quiet; you’d been half-asleep the whole way, leaning into him for support.

“I don’t want outside clothes on the bed,” you mumbled, fumbling with the straps of your dress.

Clark’s eyes widened, but he stayed calm. “Okay… let me help.”

You struggled a little with the zipper in the back, and he slowly moved behind you, carefully sliding it down. Step by step, he helped you out of the dress until you were in just your bra and underwear.

Clark’s gaze was steady but soft, obviously holding back a flush. He disappeared for a moment and came back with one of his shirts. Gently, he helped you pull it over your head.

You were there, in his clothes, in his home. The soft fabric smelled like him, the room felt like it always had—safe, familiar. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed. You were home again.

He slips into his bathroom and comes back a few minutes later he carries a small bottle and a few cotton pads. It’s yours. Your stuff. He still has it.

Neither of you says anything. Clark kneels beside you, still in his Superman suit, holding the cotton pads and makeup remover.

You let him guide your head carefully as he wipes away smudged mascara and traces of lipstick. His touch is slow, steady, protective—exactly how you remember him.

He finishes, quietly tossing the cotton pads into the trash.

“I’m going to shower,” he says softly. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

You lift your head lazily, hair falling in messy waves across your face. “Can… can I join?” you slur, a playful pout tugging at your lips.

Clark freezes for a second, caught off guard, then shakes his head with a small, soft laugh. “Not this time. I need to get cleaned up. You stay here, okay?”

You slump back against the pillows, pretending to pout but smiling anyway. “Fine… but don’t take too long.”

Clark kneels beside you for a brief second, brushing your hair from your face. “I won’t. Stay right here, safe, alright?”

You nod, eyes half-closed, letting yourself sink into the bed. As he disappears into the bathroom, you stretch out and bury your face in his pillow, the faint scent of him lingering. You wait, sleepy and vulnerable, knowing he’ll come back to you soon.

You can’t help but look around his room. Nothing’s changed. You glance at his nightstand and notice a framed picture of the two of you—taken back in Smallville with his parents. You can’t help but smile.

You stare at the ceiling, waiting for Clark. The room spins slightly, and you don’t even know how long you’ve been waiting.

You don’t hear him come out of the bathroom and head to the kitchen, but soon he returns with a glass of water.

“Here, drink this,” he says, holding it for you. You take a careful sip.

“Wowwwww,” you say, eyes widening, licking your lips.

“This is so good, Clark! How do you make this?” you slur, taking another sip.

He can’t help but smile.

“It’s… water, sweetheart,” he says quietly, amused.

“Well, it sure is good!” you declare, grinning, your words slow and dreamy.

Clark sits beside you, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “It’s just water. No magic powers involved.”

“Mm… nooo,” you slur, licking your lips and smiling up at him. “It’s powers… your powers. Everything tastes better with your magic powers.”

Clark’s chest warms at your words. He sits back slightly, keeping his distance, just watching you curl up in his bed, half-asleep, completely relaxed. His hand lingers near yours, but he doesn’t move closer—he knows you’re drunk, and he’s careful not to push anything.

After drinking the so‑called magic‑power water, you hand the glass back to him so he can put it on the nightstand. Slowly, you lie down, tugging the blankets up over yourself—and over Clark, too—as he stays sitting upright against the headboard. You roll onto your side, resting your head on the pillow facing him.

The room goes quiet except for your soft, uneven breaths. Your eyes flutter open and closed as you stare at him.

“Why did you break up with me?” you ask suddenly, voice blunt and unsteady.

Clark freezes at the question, his gaze dropping to the sheets between you.

“Do you not love me anymore?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Clark takes a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “No, I still—” he falters, eyes flicking away from yours. “It’s complicated.”

“You really broke my heart,” you say, your voice cracking, eyes glassy with tears.

“I know.” His reply is barely a whisper as his fingers slip into your hair, smoothing it back gently.

“I hate you so much,” you mumble, the words tumbling out like a confession.

Clark doesn’t answer. He just sits there, eyes downcast. He knows he deserves it. He also knows you need space, even if you don’t realize it now.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” he says quietly, starting to rise from the bed.

But your hand shoots out, weak but desperate, fingers curling around his arm. “No, stay. Please.” Your eyes plead with him. “I won’t say anything anymore… just stay.”

Clark looks at you for a long moment, the fight leaving his shoulders. Slowly, he sits back down, then lies beside you, careful not to crowd you.

“I’ll stay,” he murmurs. “Just sleep, okay?”

You nod, curling instinctively toward him, your forehead brushing his chest. His arm hesitates in the space between you before he finally lets it fall across your back, holding you just enough to make you feel safe.

The smell of pancakes pulls you out of sleep, warm and sweet, but the pounding in your head makes you wince. You groan softly, lifting yourself up on shaky arms.

This… isn’t your room.

Panic spikes for a second, and you sit up slowly, rubbing your temples. That’s when you notice the nightstand next to the bed: a small glass of water and a few pills, neatly placed.

Oh.

Your stomach twists. Your head pounds even harder. You let out a groan. Picking up the pills. You swallow them down with a sip of water.

You shift under the blankets, and that’s when you notice—his shirt hanging loose on your body, soft cotton brushing your bare skin. Your stomach twists.

His clothes.

Memories flood back in pieces—struggling with your dress, his hands steady as he unzipped it, the oversized shirt slipping over your head, the warmth of his voice telling you to rest.

You clutch the hem of the shirt in your hands, face burning. God, what did you do?

The other side of the bed is empty, sheets still faintly warm where he had been lying.

From down the hall, you hear the faint clatter of dishes, the sizzle of a pan, and his voice humming low under his breath. Clark.

You slowly lift the blanket off of you, the oversized shirt slipping against your skin, and slip into his bathroom.

The light flickers on, and your chest tightens immediately.

Your toothbrush is still there. Right where you left it, sitting in the cup by the sink like nothing had changed.

Your throat burns. For a second you just stare at it, frozen, before reaching for it with a shaking hand. You press a little toothpaste onto the bristles and brush your teeth.

The familiarity of it makes your heart ache. Standing in his bathroom, wearing his shirt, brushing your teeth like you never left—it feels too easy. Too natural. Like you belong here.

You spit into the sink, gripping the counter, muttering to yourself. “What did I do… what did I do…”

You take a deep breath and push yourself away from the sink. The short hallway feels longer than ever as you make your way toward the kitchen. You got this, you tell yourself. Just slip out the door before he even notices.

When you reach the kitchen, you spot his back turned, broad shoulders moving as he stirs something on the stove. Your eyes dart to the front door. Okay. Slow and steady. Just walk there. Who needs a phone or shoes? Escape now, regret later.

You tiptoe toward freedom, but before your hand can even brush the doorknob, his voice stops you cold.

“Oh—you’re awake.”

You freeze, then let out a laugh that sounds way too high-pitched to be normal. “Yup. I am. Totally awake. And, uh… I was just gonna go.”

“Without your stuff?” he questions, glancing at your empty hands. His eyes on you make your chest twist, and you nervously nod, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his oversized shirt.

There’s an awkward silence—you both know what else to do around an ex?

“I made breakfast,” he says finally, a small smile tugging at his lips, trying to break the tension. “Come sit.”

He sets your plate on the counter, right in front of your usual spot—the spot you always claimed was your favorite when you two were together.

You shuffle over to the kitchen island, every step heavy, knowing you probably should leave, but unable to tear yourself away.

Clark leans casually against the counter across from you, mug in hand, yet he doesn’t touch his own plate.

Your eyes land on the pancakes. Blueberries, just like you always loved.

“You’re not eating?” you ask, tilting your head, trying to mask the flutter in your chest.

“I—I just… uh… just want you to eat first.” he says, voice stiff, fiddling with the mug. He clears his throat, glancing down at the counter like he’s suddenly very interested in it.

You snort softly, shaking your head. “Clark, you’re such a dork.”

Clark was always like this—making sure you had everything first, making sure you were taken care of before he ever thought of himself. It was one of the reasons you loved him.

Which only made the question sting sharper in your chest.

If he was always like this, if he always put you first… then why did he break up with you?

There’s a pause. You pick up your fork, stabbing a blueberry pancake. He watches you, jaw tight, hands folded in front of him. Every movement feels calculated—like he’s trying to be casual.

“Wow,” you say softly, taking a bite. “These are… perfect. As always.”

Clark shifts on his feet, clearing his throat again.

“Good. Glad you… uh… like them.”

The silence stretches. Neither of you moves much, both stiff, both aware of the weirdness between you. The pancakes are warm, sweet, and comforting—but so is the quiet tension that hums in the kitchen, reminding you both that you’re… still close, still tangled, even if everything else is messy.

You can’t decide if it’s sad or funny. Maybe a little of both.

“Yesterday, you asked why I broke up with you,” Clark says bluntly, finally cutting through the quiet.

You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth, and glance up at him. His eyes meet yours, steady and serious.

Well, shit. Here we go, you think, your stomach twisting.

You swallow slowly, trying not to let your nerves show, and wait.

Clark sets his mug down on the counter with a soft clink. “I didn’t want to break your heart, sweetheart. You mean everything to me. I didn’t want to put you in danger. I don’t know what I’d do if you ever got hurt.”

You blink, chewing on your lip. “You broke up with me… because you didn’t want me to be in danger?”

Clark nods, quietly, almost painfully.

“That’s not your decision to make, Clark,” you say, voice trembling, the mix of anger and hurt catching in your throat.

He swallows, stiff and awkward, like he always does when he doesn’t know what to say. “I know… I just… I thought I was doing the right thing. Protecting you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

You stare at him, your hands gripping the fork a little too tightly. “Clark… you made the choice for me. You didn’t let me decide. And that… that hurts more than anything.”

Clark shifts, unsure, his hand brushing against the counter as if for balance. “I thought… I thought I was keeping you safe. But I see now… I hurt you instead.”

The silence that follows is heavy, You pick up your fork again, pretending to eat, but your hands tremble just slightly. Neither of you says anything else, the quiet stretching between you—awkward, familiar, and charged with the history only the two of you share.

“I missed you,” Clark finally says, his voice low, almost breaking. “I was hell without you.”

Your heart skips a beat, hammering fast in your chest.

“And when you called—” he begins, but you cut him off.

“I honestly didn’t think that you’d pick up when I called you,” you say, giving him a small, nervous laugh.

Clark exhales slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. His eyes soften as he watches you fidget with your fork. “I… I always hoped you would,” he says quietly. “Even when I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

You blink at him, heart still racing, unsure if you should laugh, cry, or both. “Clark…” you murmur, voice small.

He shifts awkwardly, running a hand through his hair like he always does when he’s nervous. “I didn’t know how else to… show you I care,” he admits, voice catching slightly. “I thought… maybe keeping my distance was better, but it wasn’t. Not for me. Not for us.”

You swallow hard, trying to process the confession, the lingering warmth in your chest, the quiet ache from last night. “So… you missed me too,” you whisper, almost to yourself.

Clark gives a small, stiff nod, but it’s enough. Enough to make the tension in the room crack, just a little, letting something fragile, real, and honest start to creep through.

You glance down at the plate of pancakes in front of you, then back at him, and can’t stop the tiny, shaky smile that slips onto your face. “I guess… we’re both idiots, huh?”

He lets out a small laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “No,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “Just me.” His voice is steady, like he’s thought about this a hundred times. “You didn’t mess us up. I did.”

The words hang between you, heavier than you expect. He really believes it. He really blames himself.

And for the first time in months, it feels like maybe, you can start figuring out how to be close again.

Clark slowly walks toward you, stopping beside you. His presence is warm, grounding, and impossible to ignore.

“I’m sorry I broke your heart,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently tilt your chin up with his finger so your eyes meet his.

You stare into his big, blue eyes, feeling your chest tighten.

“Do you think… we could start over?” he asks softly, his voice careful, hopeful.

You bite your lip, hesitating for just a moment before teasing, “Only if you promise to never make your own decisions again.”

A small, awkward smile tugs at his lips, and he leans down slowly, brushing yours with his in a gentle, teasing kiss.

“I promise,” he whispers, before fully pressing his lips to yours, soft and warm, like coming home.

And maybe, drunk calling your ex isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Or the small transfer he’d sent to your account last week to cover rent, just so you didn’t have to stress. Or maybe it’s the way he cleaned up your entire apartment last week, whistling while he folded your laundry like it was no big deal.

The truth is…the little things he does turn you on more than anything else ever could.

And now he’s standing in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, doing your dishes.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the way his big hands fumble with the soap bottle, how he hums softly under his breath while stacking plates with ridiculous precision. He looks over his shoulder and flashes you the softest smile, and suddenly your stomach flips.

“Almost done in here,” Clark says cheerfully, like it’s totally normal for Superman to spend his evening scrubbing your plates.

God. You’re doomed.

“You know you don’t need to do my dishes,” you said, leaning your head against the wall. “I was about to do them.”

He turned off the water, grabbed a rag, and looked at you. No glasses, no hiding—just those ridiculous blue eyes that always saw right through you. You bit your lip without meaning to. Fuck.

“I know,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing. “I just wanted to… you know, take care of you.”

God. That simple sentence should’ve been harmless. But it wasn’t. It made your stomach twist. Made your thighs ache.

“You really make it hard for other men to even exist,” you muttered, walking closer.

He smiled, scratching the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. “I’m just glad you’re home. You looked tired this morning.”

Of course he noticed. He always noticed.

You step closer until you’re standing in front of him. On your tiptoes, you press a soft kiss to his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

His hands find your waist, pulling you in, kissing you back. He breaks away a few moments later, cheeks flushed, a small smirk playing on his face.

“What was that for?” he asks.

You glance up at him, feeling that ache coil in your stomach. “Just… missed you today,” you murmur, leaning in for another kiss.

“I missed you too,” he says between kisses. “But I know you didn’t eat much today.”

He presses one last lingering kiss to your lips before walking toward the counter and picking up his phone. You can’t help but frown.

“Let’s order your favorite—Thai, right?” he says, scrolling through the menu.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders move as he scrolls, the small crease in his brow when he concentrates. Every little thing he does—just being Clark—is suddenly impossibly hot.

A few days later, Clark decided it was time to assemble the new IKEA chair he had bought for you. He walked in carrying the boxed chair—and a small bouquet of your favorite flowers tucked under his arm.

You froze for a second, blinking at him.

“Are you serious?” you asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

He set the box down and handed you the flowers with a soft smile. “Just thought you could use these.”

Of course he would think of this—thoughtful, sweet. And somehow, all of it was making you ache. You took the flowers from him and carried them over to the kitchen counter, placing them carefully in a vase.

Then you sat down on the couch, resting your head on your palm, practically drooling as you watched him. Every movement, every bend, every small frown of concentration had you biting your lip, thighs clenching, and cheeks burning.

“Uh… I think this goes here?” he muttered, holding a piece awkwardly in his big hands.

You leaned closer, unable to tear your eyes away.

“Yeah… I think so. Do you want me to help?”

Clark shook his head, smile shy but determined. “Nah, I got this. Just sit there and look pretty.”

Your stomach flipped. He didn’t even realize how ridiculously hot it was that he was doing this for you—just bending over the chair, muscles flexing slightly with every movement, focused on making something for you.

“Need a screwdriver?” you asked, but your voice came out softer than you intended, and Clark looked up at you with that wide, clueless grin.

“I… actually, yes. That would help,” he said, and when you handed it to him, your fingers brushed. Just a brush, but enough to make a shiver run up your spine.

He didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t. He never did. But you? You couldn’t look away. The way he worked, the way he laughed softly at himself when a screw slipped, the way his shirt clung just slightly to his shoulders… it was driving you wild.

“Almost… done,” he muttered.

You leaned a little closer than necessary, trying to be helpful but really just trying to watch him, your heart racing. “You’re doing great,” you said softly.

He flashed that gentle smile that always made your chest tighten. “All for you.”

Your knees went weak. “Clark…” you whispered, breath catching.

He looked up instantly, concern flashing in his eyes. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

You froze for a second. And then he added softly, “I can hear your heartbeat… it’s really fast.”

You swallowed, heat blooming across your cheeks. Of course he could hear it—he’s Clark, he’s Superman… And your body betrayed you, trembling slightly despite yourself.

No, nothing was okay. He was too good, too sweet, too responsible. And it was making you lose your mind.

You got up and straddled his lap, brushing against his chest, and tugged gently on his tie. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now, do you?”

Clark blinked, confused. “I—I’m just… working on the chair?”

“Exactly.” Your voice dropped low, teasing. “You, being all… responsible. Taking care of me. Clark, it’s unfair how hot that is.”

His ears went bright red. He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Only you would say that being competent is—”

He cut himself off when you kissed him, hard enough to make him stumble back a little, though you stayed straddling him. The Allen wrench clattered to the floor, forgotten.

“Chair can wait,” you whispered against his lips, hands tangling in his hair. Clark’s hands found your waist instantly, pulling you closer, still a little stunned.

But Clark… finally understood how much he affected you without even trying.

And if you told anyone that, no one would believe you. You two barely even look at each other during work hours. He treats you like any other coworker polite, distant, professional. And you’ve gotten pretty good at pretending you don’t stare every time he rolls up his sleeves or adjusts his glasses.

But now? Now it’s been three months. Three months of pretending you don’t notice him when he walks past your desk with his tie slightly loosened and a coffee in each hand, only placing one on Lois’s desk.

Three months of pretending you’re not dating the guy who texts you goodnight with terrible emojis and kisses your forehead like he’s scared he’ll break you.

And somehow, it still feels like everyone knows.

Maybe it’s the way Jimmy gives you a look every time Clark walks by. Or how Lois asked, very casually, if there’s someone special in your life. Or how Clark, bless him, keeps sneaking glances at you when he thinks no one’s looking.

Working with Clark Kent is exhausting.

You don’t see Clark, but you know he’s late. Again.

You’re standing by the printer near his desk, waiting for your files to finish printing. It’s the closest you’ve been to his chair all week, and it still feels too close. He’s usually already here by now tie straight, glasses slightly fogged from the rush in. But today, his desk is empty.

Or… it was.

While you’re focused on the machine slowly spitting out paper, you don’t notice him quietly slipping in behind you. You only hear the sound of his bag hitting the floor.

“So this guy flew into Midtown and started attacking people, demanding Superman show up?” Lois says, her voice sharp and curious.

You freeze, your hand hovering over the warm stack of papers. You don’t turn around. You can’t. You already know exactly what they’re talking about. Clark had come to you right after scuffed up, hair messy, eyes tired. He held you for a long time and whispered, “I’m okay.”

Now he’s here, in clean clothes and calm glasses, like none of it happened.

“Yeah,” Clark replies easily. “It’s all there in my article.”

You can’t help it, your lips twitch into a small smile. His voice is warm, smooth, and steady. Totally unbothered. Like he hadn’t just saved the world again.

You force your attention back to your papers, trying to ignore the twist of jealousy in your stomach. Lois is always talking to him. Laughing with him. She has no idea.

You’ve just collected the last page when you hear someone call your name.

“Hey, Y/N!”

You turn instinctively, and freeze.

Jimmy’s smiling at you from across the room. So is Lois. And so is Clark.

All three of them are watching you, but it’s Clark’s eyes you notice first. There’s a flicker of something behind his glasses. That soft, familiar look he gives you when no one else is around. The one that says, I see you.

You swallow hard, cheeks warming. You pray no one notices.

“Uh—yeah?” you say, pretending like your heart isn’t racing.

Jimmy grins and waves you over. “We were just talking about the Superman situation. You saw it, right?”

You nod slowly, trying not to look at Clark. “Yeah. I saw some stuff online this morning.”

“Total chaos,” Lois adds, crossing her arms. “Guy shows up out of nowhere, starts attacking people.”

Jimmy leans forward, eyes lighting up. “So what do you think of him, Y/N? Superman, I mean.”

Your brain short-circuits. You know they’re just making conversation, but suddenly it feels like the room is too bright, too quiet, like Clark’s staring straight through you.

What do you think of Superman?

You think he’s brave. You think he’s gentle. You think he makes you pancakes at 2 a.m. and wraps you in his arms like you’re the most important person in the universe.

But you can’t say any of that.

So you shrug, and hope your smile doesn’t look as nervous as it feels.

“I mean, he’s cool. I guess?” you say, casually, maybe too casually.

Clark lets out a soft chuckle behind you. Just one little laugh—but you hear it loud and clear.

“Just cool?” Jimmy raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this.

You blink, flustered. “I mean, do you want me to stand here and praise him for what he does?” you say, half-laughing. “He’s Superman. He’s already got enough fan clubs.”

Lois smirks. “So you’re not a fan?”

“I didn’t say that!” you rush to add. “I just—he’s fine. He does good things. Very… heroic.”

You feel Clark’s eyes on you. You know he’s trying not to smile.

Jimmy grins like he’s cracked some secret code. “You’re totally hiding a crush.”

Your eyes widen. “What? No. Nope. Not at all.”

“Okay, okay,” Lois says, waving it off, “let her live. We’ve all got our opinions.”

You mutter something about needing to get back to work and shuffle away, heat blooming across your cheeks. You don’t dare look at Clark as you pass him—but he leans in just slightly as you go by and murmurs, barely audible:

“Just cool, huh?”

You don’t even look at him. But your smile gives you away.

Your hair’s a mess, your shirt’s half-unbuttoned, and your bag is slipping off your arm. You don’t even bother turning on the lights as you shut the door behind you with your foot and toss your keys somewhere near the counter.

You drag yourself into the kitchen, already reaching for the fridge.

You let out a loud scream.

“Holy shit, Clark!”

Because there he is. In your kitchen. Like it’s totally normal. Shirt sleeves rolled up, glasses off, standing barefoot in front of the stove like he hasn’t just scared ten years off your life.

He glances over his shoulder, completely calm. “Hey.”

“Babe, next time text me you’re coming,” you say, hand still pressed to your chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says as he turns off the stove and walks toward you, warm and soft in every movement. “I just know how stressed you’ve been lately, so I wanted to make your favorite—breakfast for dinner.”

You set your bag down and walk toward him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“That’s your favorite,” you reply.

He grins, dimples and all, those dimples.

“No… last time I checked, you love breakfast for dinner,” he teases, slipping his arms around your waist.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders with a quiet laugh. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re adorable,” he murmurs before leaning in to kiss you, soft and slow like he has all the time in the world.

Then, without warning, he picks you up effortlessly and sets you on the kitchen counter. You squeak a little, grinning against his lips.

“I thought you were tired,” he says, voice low and amused.

“I was. Then you showed up looking like this,” you tease, tugging playfully at his rolled sleeves.

Clark lets out a hum and starts kissing your neck, slow and deliberate, like he has nowhere else to be but here with you.

“You know,” he whispers between kisses, his lips brushing just under your jaw, “I think we’re doing pretty good at hiding our relationship.”

“You think?” you breathe out, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Pretty sure your friends have been looking at me weird.”

He smiles against your skin. “Let them look.”

His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skimming your waist. “They don’t know anything.”

You tilt your head back slightly, giving him more access, your voice barely a whisper. “They know something.”

Clark pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, dark, soft, and burning with something heavy. “Do you want to stop?”

Your pulse stutters. “No.”

His mouth meets yours, deeper this time, and when he lifts you off the counter and starts walking you toward the bedroom, you forget about Jimmy, Lois,—everything except him.

The newsroom hums with the usual clatter phones ringing, typing, someone arguing near the printers. You step off the elevator, pretending like everything’s normal. Like you didn’t spend the night in Clark’s arms. Like your shirt doesn’t still smell faintly like his cologne.

Clark walks in behind you, a minute later. Casual. Professional. His tie’s slightly crooked.

You brush past each other in the hallway. Barely. Not even enough for anyone to notice—

Except Jimmy.

Jimmy, sitting at his desk with a half-eaten bagel, tracks the interaction like he’s watching a spy movie. His eyes squint. He leans over toward Lois, lowering his voice like he’s about to break the biggest story of the year.

“How long have they been dating?” he asks.

Lois doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even glance away from her computer.

“Three months.”

Jimmy chokes on his bite. “Wait, what?! You knew?!”

Lois finally looks up, unimpressed. “Jimmy. Please. Clark literally smiles now. He’s writing down his so-called funny jokes and he’s wearing cologne. You think he does that for himself?”

Jimmy blinks, stunned. “I thought he was just… glowing.”

Lois rolls her eyes and goes back to typing. “He’s in love, not radioactive.”

“What the…?” you murmured, crouching to pick up the bouquet. It was heavier than you expected, the delicate scent of roses filling the air.

Closing the door behind you, you carried the flowers into the living room, setting them down on the table. Shoko, now leaning against the kitchen doorway with a steaming mug of coffee in hand, raised an eyebrow at the sight.

“What’s with the flowers?” she asked, taking a sip.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, still staring at the extravagant bouquet. “Maybe they’re for you?”

Shoko shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t think so. Check for a note.”

Spotting a small envelope tucked among the flowers, you pulled it out and opened it. Your stomach flipped when you read the words.

“thought these were almost as stunning as you let me know if they compare – sukuna”

You felt your heart skip a beat as you stared at the note. Sukuna? Your brow furrowed in confusion. Why would Ryomen Sukuna, of all people, send you flowers?

“Sukuna?” you repeated aloud, more to yourself than Shoko.

“How does he even know where we live?” you asked, a mix of confusion and suspicion in your voice.

“Oh… I may or may not have taken Geto home the other night. And he might have told Sukuna where we live.”

Your head snapped toward her, eyes wide. “What?! You hooked up with Geto? And you didn’t tell me this?”

Shoko shrugged nonchalantly, setting her mug down. “It didn’t seem relevant at the time. It was just a fling. No big deal.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “No big deal? Shoko, this guy knows where we live! Do you know how creepy that is?”

“Relax,” Shoko said with a chuckle, clearly enjoying your distress. “It’s not like he’s lurking outside your window or something. He just… sent flowers.”

You groaned, sinking into the chair next to the table. “Great. Just what I needed. First he buys me snacks and now he’s sending me flowers? What’s his deal?”

“Maybe he likes you,” Shoko teased, her grin widening.

You shot her a glare. “That’s not funny.”

“No, but this whole situation is.” She chuckled, You had barely had time to response when your phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with an incoming message from Ryomen Sukuna.

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers hovering over the screen. Was he really texting you already? What could he possibly want now?

You unlocked your phone, bracing yourself as you read his message.

12:20PM Sukuna Ryomen: so how’d you like the flowers?

You frowned. So he’s really going to go there? You glanced over at Shoko.

“Shoko… Sukuna just texted me.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your discomfort. “Well, well, look at that. He’s not wasting time.”

You glanced back at the message, unsure whether to ignore it or respond. You couldn’t help it, this was unexpected. After a few seconds, you typed out a reply.

12:20PM You: why did you send them? what do you want?

You hit send and sat back, unsure whether you’d made the right call. It felt a bit too direct, but you didn’t care.

Your phone buzzed again, and you jumped slightly, then glanced down at his response.

12:20PM Sukuna Ryomen: no need to overthink it i just thought you deserved something nice

“What does that even mean?” you muttered aloud.

You typed out another reply, trying to keep your cool.

12:21PM You: just a random act of kindness then? what’s the catch

You waited, feeling the tension rise as you glanced at Shoko, who was still watching with amusement.

The text pinged almost immediately.

12:21PM Sukuna Ryomen: no catch just thought you might like them unless you don’t then I’ll send you something better

You stared at the message, your stomach doing a strange little flip.

“Okay, now he’s just being cocky,” you said, shaking your head, showing shoko the text.

Shoko stares at your phone, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “That’s the fun part. He’s definitely interested.”

You let out a sigh, running a hand through your hair. Great. What was happening here? You barely knew Sukuna. Sure, everyone on campus knew who he was, the tall, cocky heartbreaker, but you’d never even had a proper conversation with him.

Now, suddenly, he was everywhere. Sending flowers, finding excuses to cross your path, and even inviting you to parties. It wasn’t normal.

Your chest tightened at the thought. Something is definitely going on… and you don’t like it.

What did Sukuna even want? Was this just another conquest for him? Another name to add to his list?

“Earth to you,” Shoko’s voice broke through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality.

“You’re overthinking again.”

“I’m not overthinking,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “I just don’t get it. Why me? He could have anyone on campus, and he usually does. So why is he suddenly obsessed with showing up in my life?”

Shoko shrugged, but her smirk didn’t waver. “Maybe he finally met someone he can’t figure out. Guys like Sukuna hate not being in control. You’re probably driving him insane.”

“Good,” you shot back quickly, but the unease in your chest didn’t go away. Sukuna wasn’t just annoying—he was persistent, calculating, and way too good at getting what he wanted. And right now, you were in his sights.

And that was a problem.

"Shoko, please, I don't wanna go," you begged, standing at the doorway of your room as she rummaged through your closet. The hangers clinked together as she shifted through your clothes, her focus unwavering.

"I swear, if you don't go to this party, I'll never let you live it down." Shoko's voice was light, teasing, but there was a persistence behind it that you knew well.

She wasn't going to give up until you were dressed and ready to walk out that door.

You flopped down onto your bed, burying your face in your hands. "I already went to one party yesterday, and nothing happened. What's the point of going again?"

Shoko pulled out a short black dress and held it up, eyeing it with approval. "Except this time, you've got Sukuna inviting you."

You threw your arms up in frustration. "Yeah, so what? It's not like he actually cares. He's probably just doing this to mess with me. I'm not his type, and I'm definitely not falling for whatever act he's putting on."

Shoko leaned against the wall, unbothered by your complaints. "I'm not saying you have to fall for him, but you're not going to get anywhere by avoiding him. He's clearly paying attention to you, and you're not going to know what he's really about unless you go and talk to him."

You sat up on your bed, staring at her in disbelief.

"Why does it matter? I don't want to deal with him. I don't want to go to another party just to have him act like he's the center of the universe."

Shoko grinned like she knew exactly how to push your buttons. "Because, whether you like it or not, you've got his attention. You're not going to find out anything if you keep running from him. Plus, if you don't go, he's just going to think you're scared."

You slumped back onto your bed, exhaling deeply. "I just don't want to make a fool of myself."

Shoko walked over and sat next to you, nudging your shoulder. "Look, I know he's a pain. But you're strong enough to handle him. If you don't go, you'll just be left wondering what could have happened, and that'll drive you crazy. You don't want to keep playing the ‘what if' game forever."

You stared at her, your frustration building. "So, you think if I go, he's just going to magically be less of a jerk? What if he's just messing with me like he does with everyone else?"

Shoko chuckled softly, standing up and holding up a dress. "I'm not saying he'll be perfect, but you'll never know unless you show up. And if he really is that bad, then you'll have the satisfaction of knowing you weren't the one falling for it."

You sighed, the thought of facing Sukuna again making your stomach turn. But part of you couldn't help wondering what his deal really was. "I just don't want to deal with him."

Shoko raised an eyebrow. "Then don't deal with him.

“Go, enjoy yourself, and don't let him have the power to bother you. He invited you for a reason, and if you don't show up, he'll just just bother you even more."

You hesitated, chewing on your lip. You didn't want to go, but the idea of leaving things unresolved with Sukuna was nagging at you. "Fine," you muttered, finally giving in. "But don't say I didn't warn you when I end up miserable the whole time."

Shoko grinned, practically bouncing with excitement.

"I knew you'd come around! Now, get ready. We're going to show him how hot you are!"

You stared at the dress in your hands, running your fingers over the sparkly fabric. It was shorter than anything you'd ever worn before, the tightness of the material hugging your curves in a way you weren't used to.

With a deep sigh, you headed to your bathroom to change. The tight fabric clung to your skin as you slipped it on, the black dress glimmering with every movement. You didn't feel like yourself in it, but there was no turning back now. The dress barely reached mid-thigh, the hemline sitting just above your knees.

It showcased your hip dips, and the sparkle caught the light, making you feel exposed.

You stared at your reflection, arms crossing over your chest as you tried to will the discomfort away. The dress was beautiful, but it felt like it was wearing you instead of the other way around. You pulled at the fabric slightly, wishing it were a little looser, but it was perfectly fitted-almost like it was designed to demand attention.

You turned back to the door, hearing Shoko's voice coming from the other side. "You almost done?

“Come on, hurry up!"

You sighed and opened the door, stepping out into your bedroom. Shoko immediately turned to face you, a pleased grin crossing her face as she took in your appearance. "See? you look fucking hot.”

You glared at her. "I hate how tight this thing is," you muttered, tugging at the edges. You still couldn't get over how exposed you felt.

Shoko tilted her head, her eyes scanning you up and down. "You look sexy. And don't even try to pretend like you don't know it. The dress is doing all the work for you."

You shot her a side-eye, clearly not convinced. “It's too... much."

"It's not "too much,” she said with a playful smirk, grabbing the black heels she'd given you. "It's exactly what you need. Go, have fun, and let Sukuna see that how hot you are. You're owning this look, whether you want to or not."

You hesitated, staring at your reflection one last time.

The dress did make you look... different. More confident. Maybe it was the sparkle that made you feel like you could shine, even if you didn't want to.

You slipped on the heels, feeling your posture shift as you stood taller. You looked at Shoko.

"You better not make me regret this.”

Shoko grinned, “I won't promise. Now, let me put on some makeup.”

The music was already thumping when you and Shoko walked into the house, the bass rattling the floor beneath your heels. The place was packed, people swaying to the beat or crowded into clusters, shouting over the noise. You tugged at the hem of your dress, still feeling self-conscious as you followed closely behind Shoko.

Shoko grabbed your wrist and pulling you off to the side, away from the thick of the crowd. "Listen," she said, her tone softer now. "If you're not feeling it, just let me know, and we'll leave. I'm not going to make you stay if it gets to be too much, okay?"

You hesitated, her seriousness catching you off guard.

"Okay," you muttered, glancing around the room. “But don't disappear on me."

Shoko grinned, patting your arm. "I won't. You've got this."

Before you could say anything else, a familiar voice cut through the noise, making your stomach drop.

"Well, well, you actually showed up."

You turned to see Sukuna. He looked really good, dressed in a fitted black shirt that showed off his toned arms and just enough of his tattoos to make him look effortlessly cool.

You immediately stiffened, your guard going up.

"Unfortunately," you muttered under your breath, but he heard it, the smirk on his face only growing wider.

"Don't sound too excited, sweetheart," he teased, his eyes briefly flicking to Shoko before returning to you.

He let his gaze sweep over you, slowly, his tongue running over his lips as he did. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me."

"Maybe I was," you shot back, folding your arms over your chest.

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and infuriatingly self-assured. He took a step closer, his gaze dipping ever so slightly to take in the curve of your dress before flicking back up to your face. The way he looked at you, slow and deliberate, made your skin heat—though whether it was from irritation or something else, you weren’t sure.

“Can’t blame you,” he said. “But you’re here now, and that’s what matters, right?”

You narrowed your eyes, refusing to let him get under your skin. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not here for you.”

“Sure,” he drawled, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. “You just happened to show up to the party I invited you to, wearing that.”

Your jaw tightened, and you squared your shoulders. “What I wear has nothing to do with you.”

“Doesn’t it?” His voice dropped, the playful edge replaced with something darker, more intense. His eyes roamed over you again, lingering just long enough to make you want to punch him.

“Don’t test me, Sukuna,” you snapped, your voice sharp enough to make Shoko glance between the two of you with raised brows.

He grinned, utterly unbothered by your tone. If anything, he seemed more amused, like he enjoyed riling you up. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just saying you look good.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

“No,” he said easily, his smirk widening. “But you’ve got it anyway.”

Shoko cleared her throat, her expression caught between amusement and concern. “Well, this is fun,” she said lightly. “But I’m going to grab a drink. You good?”

You gave her a tight nod, watching as she disappeared into the crowd. The second she was out of sight, Sukuna closed the gap between you, his presence immediately overwhelming

Sukuna glanced at Shoko walking away, then back to you, his gaze softening just a little, but the cocky smile never wavered. “She didn’t get you a drink?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

“No,” you replied dryly.

Sukuna stepped closer, his closeness almost making you take a step back, though you tried to stand your ground. “I could get you something. Whatever you want.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, your voice tight. “And I didn’t ask for anything from you.”

“Sure you didn’t.” He chuckled, and there was something almost teasing in the way his eyes lingered on you. “But that dress? You’re asking for something.”

You tensed, resisting the urge to snap back. “I came here to hang out with my friend, not to be ogled by you.”

He stepped back, feigning mock hurt. “I’m just admiring your taste in fashion. But I’m guessing you didn’t come here to be sober all night either.”

And he was right, you knew how annoyed you’d be with Sukuna, so you figured you’d need something to take the edge off.

You gave him an unamused look. “I’m not your project to fix.”

“Maybe not.” He shrugged. “But I’ll be around if you change your mind.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, a girl approached from the crowd, her voice dripping with flirtation.

“Sukuna,” she said, her voice laced with sweetness as she placed a hand on his arm. “I missed you last night. You just left without saying goodbye.”

Her gaze shifted toward you, and her smile faltered for just a second, her eyes narrowing slightly as she sized you up. “Is this your girlfriend?”

Sukuna simply shrugged. “Nah,” he said dismissively, like it didn’t matter. “Not my girlfriend.

The girl didn’t seem to care, her smile staying in place as she leaned a little closer to him. “Well, maybe tonight, you’ll stick around longer,” she said, her voice sweet as she twirled a lock of her hair.

But Sukuna didn’t seem all that interested in her attention. With a casual flick of his wrist, he lightly pushed her off his arm, not even looking down at her. “You’re in my way,” he said, completely nonchalant.

The girl blinked in surprise but quickly recovered. She didn’t seem to know how to react, standing there for a moment before scoffing and walking away, muttering under her breath.

You couldn’t help but notice how effortless Sukuna had been in dismissing her. He didn’t even look bothered, and it almost seemed like the girl was just an annoyance to him.

Turning his attention back to you, his smirk was back, as if the whole encounter had been nothing more than a brief interruption. “Jealous?” he asked, his voice low and playful.

You arched an eyebrow, trying not to let your annoyance show. “Not even close,” you replied, crossing your arms.

He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing just enough to show that he wasn’t buying it. “That’s a lie, sweetheart. You’re not fooling anyone.”

You stepped back, uncomfortable under his gaze, but refused to let him win this little game. “I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing,” you said firmly, your voice steady.

Sukuna tilted his head, studying you for a moment. “I’m not playing a game,” he said softly, the words almost too quiet for the music around you to drown out.

The tension between you two was noticeable, thick enough to cut through the noise of the party around you. And for a moment, neither of you spoke, just standing there, locked in this strange, unspoken understanding.

Before you could respond, Shoko suddenly appeared next to you, a drink in her hand. “You okay?” she asked, looking between you and Sukuna.

You let out a breath, forcing yourself to relax. “Yeah, just fine,” you said quickly, turning your attention to your friend.

Sukuna didn’t seem bothered by the interruption. In fact, he just nodded, as if he was used to things playing out this way. “Don’t let her scare you off,” he said casually to Shoko, though his eyes were still on you.

Shoko shot him a playful look before leaning in closer to you. “I’m just here to make sure you’re not falling for his charm,” she whispered, making sure Sukuna could hear. “But you seem to be handling it just fine.”

You smiled at her, grateful for the brief distraction. Sukuna didn’t say a word, but the look in his eyes said everything. He wasn’t done with you yet. With a scoff, he turned and walked away.

“Here,” Shoko said, handing you the drink. “You probably needed this.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, still feeling a little intimidated from Sukuna’s attention.

Shoko noticed this. “What happened? Was he being a little too much?”

You sighed and leaned against the counter. “You could say that.”

“Is it really that bad?” she asked, leaning in to talk more quietly. “I don’t know. I think you’ve got him curious.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m interested,” you shot back quickly.

Shoko shrugged, not at all fazed by your response. “I know, I know. But still… he’s kind of hard to resist, right?” She gave you a sly smile. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you about Geto. He’s been texting me all day. I’m honestly not sure what I’m doing with him anymore, though.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I thought you two were just having fun?”

“Well, we are, but… you know how it is.” Shoko waved her hand in the air dismissively. “Sometimes he acts all detached, and then he’ll show up out of nowhere like everything’s normal. He’s confusing, honestly.”

You didn’t know how to respond. Shoko had always played it cool, but it was clear she was a little unsure of where things stood with Geto. You didn’t press the issue, though, since you knew she’d tell you when she was ready.

Before you could respond, Gojo’s voice cut through the noise of the party, casual and upbeat as usual.

“Well, look who it is. The mysterious Shoko!”

You turned just in time to see Gojo walking over, his sunglasses perched on top of his head and that ever-present grin plastered on his face. He had the kind of confidence that was almost irritating, but you couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Hey, Gojo,” Shoko said, barely looking up from her drink. “You know I don’t like being called mysterious.”

Gojo chuckled, leaning in a little too close as he looked at you. “Oh, and who’s this?” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Shoko, you’ve been holding out on me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Not at all,” you said, keeping your tone light but firm. “I just don’t usually run in the same circles.”

Gojo let out a loud laugh. “Fair enough. But, if you ever decide to upgrade your circle, you know who to talk to.” He flashed a wink, then finally noticed your drink. “I’ll get you something better,” he said, turning toward the bar.

“Don’t bother,” you replied dryly. “I’m fine.”

Gojo just gave you a nod, understanding, and turned toward the crowd, disappearing into the throng of partygoers.

“Sorry about him,” Shoko muttered.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, shaking your head. “He’s harmless.”

Just then, Geto appeared, his presence a quiet different to Gojo’s loud antics. His gaze immediately found Shoko, and his expression softened, the tension you saw earlier melting away as he moved closer. Without saying a word, he slid an arm around her, pulling her in gently.

“Hi, babe,” Geto said quietly, his voice carrying just the right amount of affection.

“Hey,” Shoko responded, smiling up at him. “You surviving the chaos?”

“Barely,” Geto replied with a chuckle. “But it’s worth it now that you’re here.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the two of them. Even though you’d only just found out about their ‘relationship’, it was nice to see them together

“it’s good to see you,” Geto said, finally turning to face you fully. His smile was polite, but it didn’t reach his eyes the way it did when he looked at Shoko. “Shoko’s mentioned you a few times.”

You nodded, unsure how to respond. “She probably talks a lot about you, too,” you said, knowing it was a lie. Shoko had only mentioned him once.

Geto chuckled, though his expression was unreadable. “I’m sure she does. She’s not the type to hold back.”

Gojo cut in, grabbing a drink off a nearby table and offering it to you with a bright smile.

“Come on, take it,” he insisted. “I’m trying to make sure you’re having a good time.”

You glanced at Shoko, who gave you an almost unnoticeable nod, as if giving you permission to go along with it. After a brief moment of hesitation, you took the drink from Gojo.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice steady despite the slight tension in the air. Gojo grinned, completely unfazed by the moment.

“Anytime,” he said, his eyes glinting with playful mischief. “Just don’t let Shoko keep you all to herself, alright?”

You nodded at his words, glancing away as your eyes searched for Sukuna. It was strange that he wasn’t with his friends. As you scanned the room, you finally spotted him in the corner with a girl. Before you could make out what was happening, Geto let out a small cough, drawing your attention back. His voice was quiet but steady as he spoke again. “So, how have you been? I don’t think we’ve really had a chance to talk much.”

You blinked, surprised by his sudden shift in tone. “I’ve been fine. You know, the usual stuff. School and all that.”

Geto nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like you’ve got things under control.” His gaze lingered on you for a moment, as if he was taking in more than just your words.

“Yeah,” you replied, unsure if there was more he wanted to say. It felt strange, like you were both trying to navigate the boundaries of something unspoken.

Gojo, sensing the shift, decided to add his usual touch of chaos to break the tension. “Alright, enough serious talk. We’re here to have fun, not talk about boring stuff. Right?”

Gojo leaned back casually against the wall, sipping his drink and letting his gaze wander around the party. “So,” he started, his grin mischievous as ever. “What’s it like living with Shoko? I imagine she has some… red flags.”

Shoko smacked his arm, rolling her eyes. “Don’t even start, Gojo. I’m a delight.”

You smirked. “She’s not lying. Living with Shoko’s pretty chill. Except for when she leaves coffee mugs everywhere.”

“Not everywhere,” Shoko interrupted. “Just… places.”

“You left one in the bathroom last week,” you deadpanned, and Gojo let out a loud laugh.

“Classic Shoko,” he said, shaking his head. “I bet Geto didn’t know you were a coffee hoarder.”

Shoko shot him a sharp look, her cheeks coloring slightly. “He’s not here to hear about my habits.”

Geto chuckled softly, watching the two of you with an amused expression. “It’s fine. I’ve seen worse.”

“Oh, so you’re saying you’ve already seen her coffee-stash phase?” Gojo teased, raising an eyebrow. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

Shoko groaned. “Ignore him. He gets worse the longer he’s at these things.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” Gojo countered, his grin widening. His attention turned to you again, and he pointed at your drink. “You’re keeping up, right? No slacking.”

You raised the cup slightly in mock acknowledgment. “I’m pacing myself. Someone has to stay sober.”

“Smart,” Geto commented, his tone measured. He looked over at Shoko, then back to you, as if debating whether to say something. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter now. “So, how’d Shoko convince you to come out tonight?”

“She gave me a pep talk,” you replied, casting a faint smile at Shoko. “I guess I just needed a break.”

“She’s good at that,” Geto said, his voice carrying a warmth that made Shoko glance at him, her lips curving into a small smile. “Pulling people out of their routines.”

You nodded, sipping your drink. “She’s definitely good at that.”

The moment felt oddly intimate, even with Gojo’s constant interruptions and the background noise of the party. You could feel Geto’s gaze linger just a little longer than expected, and Shoko seemed acutely aware of it, though she said nothing.

Gojo, never one to let things settle too long, broke the moment with a loud laugh. “Well, I’d say tonight’s shaping up to be interesting. Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up actually having fun.”

“Don’t jinx it,” you muttered, earning another laugh from him.

“Alright, alright,” Gojo said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll behave, for now.”

Geto shook his head, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “That’s the best we can hope for.”

Shoko nudged your arm lightly. “Come on. Let’s find a spot to sit before Gojo gets us dragged into something.”

You nodded, grateful for the escape, but as the two of you started to move away, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Geto’s gaze following you.

You glanced back briefly, only to catch Geto and Gojo talking in hushed tones, their expressions unreadable. Whatever they were saying, it wasn’t meant for you to hear.

Shoko was nowhere to be found again, and you were left alone in the kitchen, trying to collect your thoughts as the weight of the party surrounded you. You hadn't planned to drink much, but somehow you found your cup refilled a few times, the alcohol making your thoughts blurrier and your resolve a little weaker.

That's when you felt it again, his presence. Sukuna.

He was never far, it seemed.

You could feel the pull of his eyes from across the room, and before you knew it, he was standing beside you, leaning casually against the counter.

"You're still here?" he asked, his voice low, almost teasing. He gave you a look that told you he knew exactly what was happening.

You rolled your eyes, trying to maintain your composure. "Would you leave me alone already?"

“So,” Sukuna ignored your words, his voice taking on a slightly softer tone. “What did you think of the flowers?”

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of confusion in your voice. “I thought I already told you.”

Sukana replied, his tone casual yet with an underlying intensity. “Yeah, but you didn’t seem genuine over text. Just wanted to make sure you actually liked them.” You didn’t respond, still confused about what he was asking.

“The flowers,” he repeated, crossing his arms. “The ones I sent you. Did you like them?”

For a moment, you couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or setting up another one of his smug remarks. “They were… nice,” you said cautiously.

“Nice?” he echoed. “I think that’s the most lame reaction I’ve ever gotten.”

“I didn’t ask for them,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “So forgive me if I don’t fall at your feet in gratitude.”

Sukuna tilted his head, watching you with a glint in his eye that made you feel both irritated and slightly uneasy. “You’re hard to impress, aren’t you?”

“That's because I’m not interested,” you replied firmly.

“Right,” he drawled, his tone skeptical but not unkind. “So that’s why you kept them.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his observation. “How do you know I kept them?”

He grinned, and he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make the moment feel more intimate. “Because if you didn’t, you would’ve told me by now. You’re not shy about speaking your mind, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you hated the way he always seemed to find a way under your skin. “Maybe I did throw them away,” you muttered, looking away.

Sukuna's lips twitched into a smile, clearly amused by you. "What a shame," he said, leaning closer, his body just inches from yours. "Because I could've sworn you were warming up to me."

You shook your head, trying to clear the fog from your mind, but it wasn't working. The alcohol had already taken its toll, and you could feel the way your body reacted to his nearness, even though you were determined to stay in control.

"I'm not warming up to anything," you muttered. The alcohol was making your thoughts slow, and the way Sukuna was looking at you made everything feel like it was happening in slow motion.

He smirked, leaning in a little further until his breath was warm against your ear. "You sure about that?" His voice was a husky whisper, sending a shiver down your spine. "Because I can't help but notice the way you keep glancing at me. You want to be close, don't you?"

Your eyes met his in a gaze that held all the unspoken tension between you. "You think you know everything, don't you?" Your voice came out quieter than you intended, and you weren't sure if you wanted him to pull away or pull you closer.

Sukuna didn't answer you. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm as he stepped in even closer. His lips barely brushed the skin of your neck, and the sensation made your head spin.

"Don't fight it," he murmured, his hand now resting at the small of your back, pulling you gently toward him. "I can tell you want this just as much as I do."

Your head was spinning a little, but you couldn't deny the truth in his words. The attraction was undeniable, and no matter how much you tried to ignore it, it was there, tugging you toward him.

With a slight sway, you felt your body move closer to his, the alcohol making you bold, making everything feel a little more... daring. Before you knew it, your arm slid around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, your face just inches from his. You could feel the heat of his skin, the tension in the air thickening with every breath.

He gave you a half-smirk, one eyebrow raised, the challenge in his eyes clear. "Kiss me," he murmured, his voice velvet against your ear, the words hanging between you like a promise. "I know you want to."

For a moment, you almost gave in. The alcohol, the tension, the undeniable pull between you, it all felt too strong. You could feel his lips just a breath away, your eyes fluttering closed. But then, you stopped yourself. You couldn't do this. Not with him.

You pulled back quickly, pushing against his chest to create some distance. Your breathing was heavy, and your thoughts were clouded.

But before either of you could say anything, the door to the kitchen swung open with a sharp creak.

"Really?" Shoko's voice cut through the moment. You both snapped back in an instant, startled, as she leaned casually in the doorway with her arms crossed. Her eyes scanned between you and Sukuna, amusement dancing in her expression. "I leave you alone for five minutes, and this is what happens?"

You froze, heart pounding in your chest, as Sukuna remained unfazed, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

Shoko raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered. "Guess we're skipping the 'will-they-won't-they' phase tonight, huh?" She chuckled and shook her head. "Let's go. I'm getting you out of here before you do something you'll regret."

You wanted to protest, to stay, but the tension in the air was thick, and you could feel your head spinning from the alcohol. As you turned to follow Shoko, you heard Sukuna's voice, low and teasing. "See you later, sweetheart."

You wanted to punch yourself. You hated Sukuna, so why the hell had you almost kissed him? You knew it was the alcohol talking over you, but still… why did it feel so damn good?

He leaned against the counter, watching you disappear into the crowd, your figure disappearing behind a few people. Sukuna's smirk deepened. Day two and he already had you exactly where he wanted.

another note: it felt a little weird making them almost kiss in only the third chapter but i remembered sukuna would probably try to make a move on her like kissing or sleeping with her because he thinks that’s how she’ll fall for him it just makes sense for his character! also was listening to ‘that’s so true’ by gracie abrams and that song is so sukuna and reader

His account was exactly what you expected.

Post after post of candid photo, Sukuna at some party. A drink in his hand and his arm slung casually around a girl who looked like she’d won the lottery. Sukuna leaning against his car, looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine.

He had thousands of followers. The comments were full of heart emojis and flirty compliments. He had only followed 20 people, mostly his friends and family.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the growing curiosity. He didn’t follow anyone unless they were important, so… why was he following you?

Ignore it, you told yourself, he’ll get bored eventually.

As your stared at his profile, a second notification popped up.

Sukuna Ryomen sent your a message.

Your stomach flipped.

2:40AM Sukuna Ryomen: took you long enough to notice me

You scowled, your fingers itching to respond. He was so full of himself that it was almost comical.

2:40AM You: is this part of some weird social experiment?

His reply came almost instantly.

2:40AM Sukuna Ryomen: what me following you? nah just curious

2:41AM You: curious about what?

2:41AM Sukuna Ryomen: about what kind of stuff you post don’t worry i won’t judge… much

You rolled your eyes, leaning back against your headboard. the nerve of this guy.

2:41AM You: wow, lucky me

2:41AM Sukuna Ryomen: relax sweetheart i’m just here to see if you’re as boring online as you are in person

Your jaw dropped. He had to be kidding. You stared at the screen, debating weather to let the conversation die or put him in his place.

2:42AM You: bold words for someone who posts the same three poses over and over

This time, there was a pause before replying. When it came it was shorter than you expected.

2:42AM Sukuna Ryomen: touché

For a moment, you almost smiled.

2:42AM You: now that you’ve satisfied your “curiosity” you can go ahead and unfollow me

2:42AM Sukuna Ryomen: nah i’ll stick around

You sighed, swiping away from his message leaving him on seen. You stared at the screen, the notification still visible: Sukuna Ryomen started following you.

You glanced at his profile one more time. The same images, the same cocky smirk in every picture.

With a deep breath, you pressed follow back.

For a moment nothing happened, you set your phone down and let out a slow exhale, almost feeling dumb for replying to him.

Just as you were about to close the app and convince yourself it doesn’t matter, your phone buzzed.

2:50AM Sukuna Ryomen: i knew you couldn’t resist

You rolled your eyes, a smile hugging at the corner of your lips.

2:50AM You: don’t get too cocky

2:50AM Sukuna Ryomen: too late already am

2:50AM You: your unbearable

2:50AM Sukuna Ryomen: only when i’m around you

You stared at the screen, for a moment, unsure how to respond. He was good at this, good at getting under your skin, making you react, and you had to admit it was starting to feel like he wasn’t just messing around.

2:51AM You: we’ll see how long that lasts

2:51AM: Sukuna Ryomen: i’ll be around as long as you let me.

A little shiver ran down your spine at his words, but you pushed it aside. You weren’t ready to admit how much you were starting to look forward to whatever this way.

Sukuna was following you everywhere. You meant it everywhere.

It doesn’t matter if you were grabbing a coffee, sitting in class, or heading to the library, whatever you were doing he was there. Sometimes he would be leaning against the wall, staring at you as you walked by, other times he would be scrolling through his phone like he just happened to be in the same place.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. After all, it wasn’t like you owned the campus. But by the fourth time in a single day? Yeah, no. He was definitely following you.

You were midway through highlighting your notes when the chair across from you scraped against the floor. The sudden sound made you glance up, and there he was. Sukuna Ryomen.

“Are you stalking me now?” you asked, glancing back to your notes.

“Stalking is a strong word,” Sukuna's voice drawled, too close for comfort. “We just happen to be in the same place at the same time.”

You sighed, as you spun back to face him, he’s leaning back casually on the chair, one arm draped over the chair next to him.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

You crossed your arms. “Pretty sure we already had that conversation. Last night.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Yeah, but you didn’t say anything interesting, figured I’d give you another chance.”

You let out a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.” there was something about the way he was staring at you, like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve. “Why are you even bothering me? you’ve got half of the campus eating out your hand, and i’m not interested in joining the club.”

Sukuna leaned forward, just enough to make your knees touch. “Because you’re the only one who doesn’t care.” his tone was softer now, the change caught you off guard.

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “how tragic for you.”

he grinned. “See that’s why I like you.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding harder than you wanted to admit. What was he even talking about? he didn’t know you.

“You don’t even know me,” you said, your voice quieter now.

“Not yet,” he said simply, as if the answer was obvious.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do.” you said bluntly, closing your notebook with a snap.

You stood up, gathering your things quickly, but Sukuna wasn’t done. As you walked away, his voice followed you. “See you around, sweetheart.”

“I’m telling you, he’s obsessed. First, he’s showing up wherever you are, second, he’s following you on Instagram. classic Sukuna move.” Shoko says as you guys are seated at a small table in the student lounge.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah, and now he’s everywhere I go. It’s like he’s trying to prove something.”

Shoko raises an eyebrow. “Maybe he is. I mean, it’s Sukuna. He doesn’t exactly follow people around for no reason.”

You scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean? He follows around half the campus trying to get in their pants.”

“Yeah, but those girls usually throw themselves at him. You…” Shoko gestures vaguely at you. “…don’t. He’s probably intrigued.”

you snort. “Well, he’s wasting his time. I’m not interested.”

Before Shoko can respond, Sukuna’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Ouch. That hurts.”

Both of you look up as Sukuna strolls over, his signature smirk firmly in place. He’s holding a small paper bag in one hand, the other resting casually in his pocket.

Shoko grins and leans back in her chair, clearly ready to enjoy whatever’s about to happen.

“Talking about me?” His voice carries just the right amount of smugness as he stops by your table. “I can feel the love from here.”

You glare up at him, unimpressed. “Love? please your delusional.”

Ignoring your sarcasm, Sukuna slides the bag closer to you. “Here. Thought you’d like this.”

You looked at the bag like it might explode. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“Open it,” Sukuna says, leaning back in his chair, watching you carefully.

You side-eyed him before reaching for the bag, you’re fingerings brushing against the paper as you peek inside. Your favorite snacks are in there.

You looked up at him confused. “How did you know these are my favorite?”

Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, “I have my ways.”

You narrowed your eyes, a mix of suspicion and frustration bubbling up inside you. “That’s not an answer. Are you really stalking me?” It all felt too strange to ignore. First, he found your Instagram without you ever mentioning it. Then, he seemed to show up wherever you were. What was next—was he going to start lurking outside your house?

He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt. “Stalk you? What kind of guy do you think I am?”

You don’t buy it for a second. “The kind who’s trying way too hard.”

“Or the kind who pays attention,” Sukuna counters smoothly, his voice dropping a fraction as he leans forward.

The words hang in the air for a moment, and even Shoko raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the show.

You stiffen but recover quickly, crossing your arms again. “You really think this is going to work? Snacks and flirty comments?”

“It’s a start,” Sukuna says with a lazy grin, standing up. “By the way, there’s a party tomorrow night. You should come.”

You don’t hesitate. “Not interested.”

Sukuna shrugs, completely unbothered by the rejection. “I wasn’t asking. I’ll see you there.”

He winks, turning and walking away without waiting for your response

Shoko finally speaks, her tone laced with curiosity. “What was that?”

You rolled your eyes, stuffing the bag into your tote. “Nothing. He’s only doing this to try to get me into his bed. It’s his thing.”

Shoko studies you for a moment, her voice thoughtful. “I don’t know. That didn’t seem like that to me.”

You huff, shoving your drink away. “Whatever. I’m not falling for it.”

Shoko grins, standing up and grabbing her bag. “You don’t have to fall for anything. But we’re going to that party.”

Your head snaps up. “What? No, we’re not.”

“Oh, yes, we are.” Shoko pulls her chair back, already starting to walk away. “I need to see where this goes. Plus, free drinks. You’re coming, no arguments.”

You groaned, grabbing your things to follow her. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me for it,” Shoko calls over her shoulder, grinning.

Sukuna didn’t realize how hard this was going to be. Day one of the challenge, and you were already proving to be unlike anyone he’d dealt with before.

It was frustrating and intriguing.

He had done his research, of course. Stalking your social media was step one, but even that had been harder than he expected. Your profiles were understated. No attention-seeking selfies, no overly revealing posts. Just snapshots of books, obscure playlists, and the occasional candid photo with friends.

“I can’t figure her out,” he had muttered late one night, scrolling through your feed for what felt like the hundredth time.

That’s when he realized he needed help.

“You really don’t know anything about her?” Geto had asked, his tone laced with amusement as he leaned back against Sukuna’s desk.

“She’s invisible,” Sukuna muttered, tossing his phone onto the table. “No parties, no drama, no clue what she’s into. It’s like she’s living on a different planet.”

Geto smirked. “Sounds like someone’s not used to working for it.”

Sukuna shot him a glare, but Geto just shrugged. “Relax. I’ve got this.”

The next day, Geto cornered Shoko during a break between classes. He made it look casual, of course just two old friends catching up. But Geto had a knack for reading people, and Shoko wasn’t hard to crack.

“She’s into the little things,” Shoko had said, blowing out a puff of smoke from her cigarette. “You know, stuff that actually matters. Like, she’s not going to fall for some big, flashy gesture. She likes thoughtful things her favorite snacks, a good book, stuff like that.”

By the time Geto reported back, Sukuna had a plan. It was subtle, sure, but he could work with that.

After handing you the snacks, He strolled back to his usual spot with Gojo and Geto, settling down next to them with a frustrated sigh.

“So, any luck with her?” Gojo asked, not missing a beat.

Sukuna set his drink down, running a hand through his hair as he slouched in his chair. “Not as easy as I thought. You guys are right—no amount of flashing a smile and throwing out my usual charm is going to work on her.”

Geto smirked, leaning forward. “She’s in your head, huh?”

Gojo chuckled, propping his chin on his hand. “This is new. Sukuna Ryomen, struggling to win over a girl? What’s next, you’re gonna write her a love poem?”

Sukuna shot them both a glare, his jaw tightening. “Laugh it up,” he muttered. “But I’m not backing down.”

Geto raised a brow. “You sound almost impressed.”

“Maybe I am,” Sukuna said, a glint of determination sparking in his eyes. “And maybe that’s what makes this fun. I invited her to the party.”

Geto and Gojo both blinked, momentarily stunned by Sukuna’s straightforwardness.

“You invited her to the party?” Gojo asked, leaning forward in surprise. “Bold move. What’s the plan there? Just charm her in front of the whole crowd?”

Sukuna shrugged, but there was something sharper in his expression now. “It will work. I don’t think she’s the type to fall for a big scene, but if I show her I’m not like the others, she’ll bite eventually.”

Gojo chuckled. “You’re really going for the slow burn, huh?”

“Exactly.” Sukuna’s lips curved into a confident grin. “She won’t see it coming.”

Geto raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “You’ve got, what, few more days to make this work? Good luck, man.”

Sukuna smirked, not looking away from you as you stood up, chatting with Shoko. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

Later that night, you were lying in bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, trying to forget the strange encounter with Sukuna earlier. Your mind kept drifting back to the way he’d smiled when he handed you your favorite snack, the way his eyes seemed to linger on you just a second too long.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glanced at the screen, and your stomach flipped when you saw his name. Hesitating for a moment, you opened the message.

11:30PM Sukuna Ryomen: hope i see you at the party tomorrow sweetheart wouldn’t be the same without you

Attached to the text was the party’s address.

You groaned, tossing your phone onto the pillow beside you. Why did he have to be so persistent? And You told yourself you wouldn’t go—there was no way you were giving him the satisfaction.

But as you stared at the message again, a small part of you couldn’t help but wonder… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go.

“This is a disaster,” you muttered as you reached the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Shoko handed you a bottle of water before pouring herself something that smelled suspiciously strong.

“It's just a party,” she replied.

As she took a sip, she leaned against the counter, her eyes scanning the room again. “There he is,” she said, nudging you with her elbow.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Your gaze followed hers, landing on a familiar figure sprawled out on the couch in the corner of the living room. Ryomen Sukuna.

He was sitting on the couch like he owned the place, his long legs stretched out, one arm casually draped over the back of the sofa. He was wearing a white shirt, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the toned muscles underneath. His eyes scanned the room with practiced boredom, like none of it was worth his time.

A girl was sitting on his lap, twirling her hair around her finger and giggling as if he’d just told her the funniest joke in the world. She leaned closer, whispering something in his ear, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention. Instead, his gaze drifted and then locked onto yours.

He grinned, a slow, cocky smirk that made something in your chest tighten not with attraction, but with irritation. It was the kind of grin that said he knew exactly the effect he had on people and loved to watch them crumble under it. He tilted his head slightly, as if to say, Caught you staring

As you looked away, you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. But you didn’t turn back. You weren’t interested.

“Great,” you muttered, taking a long sip from your water bottle. “Now I have to burn this memory from my brain.”

Shoko laughed, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Oh, come on. You’ve got to admit, he’s hot.”

“He’s insufferable.”

“Hot and insufferable. The best combination.”

“I’ll leave right now.” you turned heel, but Shoko grabbed your arm, stopping you from your track.

“Relax, I’m just teasing you.”

Your jaw tightened, but you stayed put, watching as Sukuna leaned back even further, his eyes still fixed on you. The girl on his lap pouted, clearly annoyed at his lack of attention, but he didn’t seem to care.

“I hate him,” you muttered under your breath. The words came out bitter, but they were true. “Did I mention that before?”

“Yeah, like hundreds of times,” She replied, laughing “You really hate him, huh?”

“I just don’t get how people fall for his act,” you said.

Shoko shrugged. “Like I said, he’s hot. People like hot.”

“Hot doesn’t excuse being an asshole,” you murmured, crossing your arms. “What’s his deal, anyway? Does he just sit there all night waiting for people to grovel at his feet?”

“Pretty much,” Shoko said with a shrug. “But he’s good at it. Watch.”

As if on cue, another girl approached him, drink in hand. She leaned down, her lips close to his ear as she said something you couldn’t hear. Sukuna smirked, his attention finally shifting away from you, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“See? he’s harmless,” Shoko said.

“Harmless,” you repeated, your voice with sarcasm. “Sure.”

“You know, you’re the only one who doesn’t fall for his charm.”

“Good,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “I’m not about to start. I don’t need someone like him in my life.”

“You gonna keep her there all night?” Suguru asked, nodding towards the girl on Sukuna’s lap.

Sukuna smirked tilting his head back. “why not? She's comfortable here.” the girl giggled again, clearly tipsy, but Sukuna's attention has already wandered. His eyes scanned the room lazily, taking in the usual suspect, drunk athletes, and the occasional out-of-place loner. Until it landed on you.

You stood in the kitchen, keeping your distance from the chaos, leaning against the counter with your arms crossed. Your eyes roamed over the room, observing, until they met his. He caught you looking, and a smirk tugged at his lips. When you quickly looked away, he let out a low chuckle.

His friends noticed this.

“You’ve been staring at her for the last ten minutes, what’s the deal?” Geto voice cut thought Sukuna’s thoughts, and he glanced over at his friend.

“I’m not staring,” Sukuna retorted smoothly, his tone laced with nonchalance as he effortlessly lifted the girl off his lap. She let out an irritated groan, before stalking off in a huff. “Just observing,”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Geto teased, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve seen the way you're staring at her, that’s not the ‘I’m observing’ look you usually give what’s going on with you.”

Sukuna’s gaze flickered to you once more. “She’s different,” He had noticed you around campus—the way you never spared him a second glance when you passed by, completely unaffected by his presence. Once, he’d even tried to strike up a conversation, but you had brushed past him without so much as acknowledging him, as though he were invisible.

Gojo chuckled “Different? Dude, that girl is the only one who doesn’t drool over you.”

Sukuna’s lip curled into a sly grin. “So what?”

“So,” Suguru continues, crossing his arms, leaning against the couch. “you’ve never met a girl who doesn’t fall for your charm, right? You’ve been with everyone but her? she couldn’t care less.”

Gojo snorted. “And she’s probably the only one on campus. That’s gotta sting.”

Sukuna scoffed, leaning forward slightly. “Please. She is probably playing hard to get.”

Geto exchanged a glance with Gojo, and then a mischievous grunt flashed his eyes. “All alright, how about we make this interesting? We give you ten days.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, “Ten days?’

“Yeah,” he said with a sly smile “Ten days you make her fall in love with you.”

Sukana let out a short laugh, but the challenge already sounded fun to him. He never was the type to back down from a game. “You think I need ten days?”

Suguru shrugged, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “It’d be easier if it were any other girl. But this one… she’s too—what’s the word? Stubborn. Definitely not into guys like you,” he said, “She won’t be an easy win. That’s what makes it interesting, though.”

Satoru chimes in “Yeah, man. You can’t just use your looks and charm this time. You’re gonna have to actually work for it.”

Sukana's eyes flicked back to you for a split second. You were standing there unaware of the conversation that was happening a few feet away from you. “Ten days huh?” he murmured.

“Ten days” Gojo repeated. “And if you fail you lose. It's as simple as that.”

His expression turned darker, the idea of him not winning seemed unthinkable. He wasn’t just going to prove them wrong he was going to show them that no one could resist him.

Gojo leaned back, a grin tugging at his lips. “Oh, and one more thing,” he added, glancing at Sukuna. “You can't be seen with other girls. It’s gotta look real, after all.”

Sukuna’s expression shifted slightly, an eyebrow raised in silent challenge. “You think I need rules to make this work?” he asked.

Geto gave a small nod. “It’s just to make sure no one gets suspicious. You’ll need to actually put in the effort.”

Sukuna smirked, unfazed. “Fine. I’ll play by your rules, but don’t expect me to go easy on her.”

Ten days to make you fall for him. The girl who wouldn’t give him the time of the day. The girl who didn’t care about his reputation. The girl who has no idea what was coming for her.

Unknowingly, you had already been pulled into his game.

“You think his shirt could be any tighter,” Shoko muttered, nodding towards a guy who was flexing across the room.

You snorted. “Pretty sure it's painted on.” leaning against the kitchen counter. Shoko grinned at your words, sipping from her cup.

The kitchen was quieter than the rest of the party, you leaned against the counter sipping on your water. Shoko perched on the edge of the sink, swinging her legs as she talked. You were nodding and listening to the story she was telling you. You hear a group of people walking in the kitchen, their laughter loud and careless. You don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. The weight of his presence pressed into the room like a rebound heartbeat. Ryomen Sukuna.

His graze swept the kitchen, it lingered on you for a moment too long, and a smirk appeared on his face.

“Shoko,” one of his friends called out, his tone playful, but almost teasing. “Come help us with something. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and them. “Fun, huh? i doubt it.”

“It’s better than being stuck in here,” another white-haired friend chimed in.

She rolled her eyes but slid off the counter anyway, giving you a quick pat on the shoulder. “Don’t get too comfortable,” she said with a wink before following them out of the kitchen. And then, it was just you and him.

Great.

Sukuna didn't say anything, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, as he leaned against the counter across from you.

“Guess it’s just us now,” he said finally his voice low and smooth.

You didn't look up, keeping your focus on your drink “Lucky me,” you replied, your tone dry.

He chuckled softly, the sound rich and deep. “You don’t sound too thrilled.”

When you finally glanced up, he was much closer than you’d expected. His tall frame leaned casually against the counter opposite you. Up close, the details of his features were almost overwhelming—the sharp line of his jaw, the subtle curve of his lips that formed an infuriatingly smug smirk, and the mess of his hair falling carelessly over his forehead. You couldn’t deny it, no matter how much you wanted to. He was hot—like, really hot.

“You’re not exactly the first guy to try this,” you said coolly, taking another sip from your drink, your gaze steady as you met his.

Sukuna tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in amusement. “Try what?” he asked.

“Whatever you’re doing right now,” you replied, “the whole brooding, mysterious thing. It’s not as original as you think.”

He laughed at that, his head tilting back just enough to expose the line of his throat. It wasn’t often that people spoke to him like this, you realized. Most would have thrown themselves at him.

“You’re sharp,” he said, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer. The scent of him hits you. “I like that,” he added, his voice low, a hint of approval in his tone as his gaze lingered on you.

You arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by him. “And I don’t care.”

He paused not being he was offended, but because he wasn’t used to being dismissed, even by someone who didn't so much flinch under his gaze.

He took another step forward, closing the distance between you. “Most people would kill to be in your position right now,” his tone quieter now, almost intimate, as his eyes locked onto yours.

You smirked, setting your drink on the counter behind you. “Then maybe you should go find ‘most people,’” you replied coolly, not breaking eye contact.”

The silence hung in the air. Sukuna’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, then slowly, his gaze dipped to your lips. The smirk on his face faltered just slightly as if he was plotting something in his mind, before it returned—sharper, more amused.

“You’re different,” he murmured finally, his voice low, the words lingering in the air as his gaze stayed fixed on your lips, the tension between you growing with each passing second.

“Should I take that as a compliment?” you asked.

“Take it however you want,” he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, his gaze still lingering on your lips as if he was waiting for your next move.

His gaze made it hard to look away. But you forced yourself to break the connection, turning your focus elsewhere. You weren’t sure what Sukuna was trying to do—charm you, challenge you, or maybe a little of both.

“I’m not interested in you, if that’s what you’re wondering,” you said, your tone firm, making sure he knew you weren’t fazed by his presence.

He tilted his head, his smirk fading for a moment. He just looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours as if he were trying to read you.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, his voice low and confident, before turning and walking out.

You let out a slow breath, the heat of his presence lingering in the air. Sukuna wasn’t used to being ignored, and for him, that only made you more of a challenge.

But you weren’t here to play his game.

At least, that’s what you thought.