forevermore

If you’re reading before bed, he’ll lay next to you, face pressed into your side and arms around your waist. Faking sleep while you brush your fingers through his hair, and he pretend not to be making a deep, satisfied sound in his chest that’s dangerously close to a purr. If he’s watching TV, he holds you in his lap, a large hand splayed on your stomach, thumb absentmindedly rubbing little circles while he rests his chin on your shoulder. 

You murmur that you have to use the bathroom. He nods, and grunts me too, even though you know he went right before you got in bed. He holds your hand the whole way, and fidgets restlessly in the few seconds he can’t hold onto you on the toilet. The second you stand, he’s on you. Herding you back to your room, eyes hooded and mouth pressed on the crook of your neck. 

Not even kissing. He’s holding your hips, but there’s nothing behind it. 

Just touch, for the sake of touch. 

“I thought you had to go pee.” You tease, and he shrugs.

“Lost it.”

You just laugh, and let him pull you  He might just have had nothing for so long, and now that he has something he doesn’t want to let go of it. You don’t question it. You think you know the answer.

And you know the ending, too. That you’ll never escape his hold, because you have no reason or desire to struggle against it. But you also know Dean doesn’t fully believe you when you say it, so you show him in a way he understands. 

With actions. 

When the light goes off, you slide up next to him, and press your face into his chest. An open invitation, as your body goes loose and easy. 

Dean sighs, and sometimes he just kisses the top of your head and rubs your hips, keeping you right there until the dawn. 

But often, he moves you. Rolls you onto your side, his own body following, and tangles his legs between yours with his breath hot and steady on your neck. Laces your fingers together and rolls onto his side, holding you around him and letting out a long breath as you kiss his back and curl against him. Sometimes he rolls to face you, and you end up tucked into his arms like a teddy bear, his heartbeat slow near your ear. Other times, you’re carefully dragged on top of him, his chest a pillow and hand trailing up and down your spine. 

You always fall asleep, wherever he decides he needs you. And you’re more than happy to be needed by him. 

And there are bad nights, that are quieter, and made of a need you know he doesn’t know how to say, and you never mind giving. 

But there are also worse nights. 

Dean doesn’t fall asleep, and if he does, nightmares come. They wake you up, no matter how—even in his sleep—he tries to keep them from disturbing you. When that happens, you don’t ask what happened. You ignore his muffled, weak apologies, and pull him on top of you. 

He rests his face between your breasts, your fingers running through his short, soft hair and rubbing his shoulders. He doesn’t talk about it. You don’t ask him to. It’s not what he needs, to confront the dark when it’s already leaking out of him and pulling him under. You’re just there to help him stay afloat. 

Eventually, he falls back asleep. You kiss his head, and doze off with his arms still holding you like a frightened child. 

It breaks your heart, clean in half. 

But for every worse night, there are also the better ones. 

The good ones. The ones that, on paper, he’s had with countless other women. But it’s different when it’s you. 

Because it’s hot and sticky and leaves you staring, dazed and cockdrunk at the ceiling.

But it’s also domestic, in a way that’s only yours. 

Sometimes it starts with Dean teasing you. I like your shirt, baby, show me what’s underneath, and fingers dancing up your thigh. Other times he just starts kissing you in the middle of a movie, or the walk from the bathroom ends with a rough kiss and your knees hitting the mattress. 

Or just wandering hand. Up your shirt to cup your boob—stress ball, he calls them, and you’d whack him if he did start making out with your neck the next second—or lower and lower on your stomach, until his just resting over you. 

The man always has the audacity to mock you. To mutter ‘m not doin’ anything, when you whine his name. To slide his fingers into your underwear, and toy with your clit, while telling you to quit squirming, and that he’s tryin’ to go to bed. 

His game usually ends, when you reach behind you and grab his cock through his sweatpants. From there, it’s just about the night. You riding him, him folding your knees into your chest and making your eyes roll back, your face pressed into the mattress and your ass high in the air as he drills into you. 

And it doesn’t always end there. 

The comfort means you’ve talked about things. And he knows that, if he just wants sit in you after, he can. He always adjusts you to be comfortable, kissing your collarbone and cheeks, and you pass out still fluttering around him. 

He’ll wake you up, fucking into you slowly, eyes hooded from lust and sleep. Other mornings his head is between your legs, or his fingers are playing with your still sore folds, until you shake and sob from pleasure in his arms. 

And it’s a nice way, to find the morning. 

But your favorite is when you’re up first. 

When you get to just look at him. His handsome face relaxed, mouth parted, eyes fluttering softly. His chest rising and falling in even time, his whole body relaxed against yours. 

You reach up, to brush a stray eyelash off his cheek. He leans into your touch, and you smile. 

He’s beautiful. 

And neither of you are ever going to be cold and lonely again. 

plus, it gave him motivation to take better care of them, keeping them shiny and moisturized just for you. he began to put hard work into his curl routine, the way your eyes lit up when you felt the softness was a reward in itself. the pretty sigh that falls from your lips every time they’d brush your face when you were cuddling. the content you’d feel whenever you had the chance to run your fingers through them. it all made him feel…accomplished. it was almost as if he was obsessed with your obsession. and when he went down on you? if your hands weren’t tugging or just holding his curls, he’d assume something was wrong.

your eyes screwed shut, arms wailing around not knowing what to grab. you thought clark would think your obsession with his curls was weird, so you tried to suppress it. he looked up at you, tongue still at work. his eyebrows furrowed, his mouth leaving you briefly but not without your whimpers in protest. “hmph! why’d you stop?” you pouted. he sighed, sitting up on his knees. “jus’ wanted to make sure you’re alright..” he muttered. you snickered lightly. “uh- yeah? i’m okay…you’re confusing me.” he fiddled with his hands as if he was nervous to say his next sentence. “what’s wrong, clark?” you asked concernedly. “…it’s just that you haven’t touched my hair in like 2 days. you usually hold em while i’m—ya know. a-and i know you love my curls! i just wanted to make sure nothing was bothering you..m’sorry, it doesn’t make sense.” he breathed out a deep sigh, like that confession was stopping his lungs from working.

“oh..clark, i didn’t think you cared or noticed. i didn’t want you to think i was a weirdo or somethin’ for loving your curls s’much.” he shook his head as you finished your statement. “no! not at all! i-i like that you like ‘em so much, makes me put effort into maintaining them just so they’re soft like you like ‘em.” you grinned a huge grin, taking his face into your hands, “aw honey, thank you.” he nodded rapidly, getting back down to continue pleasuring you. “jus’ please grab em.” he mutters before starting back up. moaning, your hands fly to his curls, lightly tugging. he smiles against your middle, relieved by the familiar sensation of the pull at his roots.

The lights are everywhere.

Glinting off skyscraper windows and camera lenses, bouncing off metallic armor and too-white smiles.

The voices are everywhere. They swarm like bees - the press, the fans, the murmuring of people watching people.

The flash of the cameras is a strobe light stinging the back of your eyes. Reporters shout questions like bullets, flinging them past your ears and into your chest.

You feel your lungs shrinking in your ribcage as if they’ve decided you’ve seen enough. Felt enough. Been too much.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not in this crowd, not in this dress, not in front of a hundred reporters and their glittering cameras. Not in the spotlight. Not on the arm of the Bucky Barnes.

You tug at the hem of your dress, fingers nervous, breath catching on a sigh you don’t release. Everyone here looks like they belong - as if they were born to walk red carpets and sip sparkling drinks under light that only blinds you. You feel like an ink smudge on a page of golden script.

It’s the first time you’re out in the public with him. The first time the press will capture who’s been speculated to be the former Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

Bucky spent the night whispering reassurances into your skin, but it seems you should have listened to his words rather than the feeling of his plump lips all over your body.

Your hand is in his, and his thumb traces slow circles against you, metal fingers warm from your skin. His other hand rests lightly on your back. He hasn’t let go of you once.

You look up at him.

And he’s already looking at you.

He looks perfect, tailored, controlled, dangerous in a way that makes people stare too long and then look away even faster.

His hair is swept back tonight, save for one defiant strand that keeps falling across his brow. You keep watching that strand as if it’s a lifeline. Like if you can count how many times it falls, maybe your nerves will shut the hell up.

You know he feels how tense you are.

He frowns, and it’s so soft it nearly breaks your heart. That Bucky Barnes can frown like that. As if you just told him you were fading into dust.

“Hey,” Bucky coos, voice soft, voice low, the world dissolving for a second into nothing but him and you. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You try to nod. But you can’t lie to him. Words jam in your throat, caught somewhere between the beat of your heart and the reality of who he is and who you are not.

“I just-” you manage, but it’s a little shaky, you look around. “I feel out of place.”

Bucky tilts his head, brow still furrowed tightly. “Why?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Try to explain how it feels to be ordinary in a sea of extraordinary. How it feels to be his, but not one of them. How terrifying it is to not have armor, or training, or anything more than love for a man who could kill with his pinky finger and kindness in his eyes just for you.

Bucky steps in close, crowding the noise out with the breadth of his body, his warmth, the familiarity of his scent - cedar and cold and something quietly him. His nose brushes yours, and it’s stupid how it grounds you.

“I’d rather be anywhere else,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I’d rather be nowhere. Just me and you. On a rooftop. Under the sheets. In the woods. I don’t care. Just not here. No noise. No cameras. No Stark in a tuxedo with a martini making bad decisions.”

You laugh, and it trembles out of you.

His smile is all softness and secret promises. His eyes are glinting. “But if I have to be here - then I'm glad it’s with you.”

The way he says it - quiet, low, as if it’s something he only ever told the wind - freezes everything inside you and sets it on fire all at once.

You blink, and the fear stutters. Collapses a little. Because it’s not you and the Avengers. It’s you and Bucky.

His lips graze your ear, then your temple, taking his time. He’s not bothered at all by the cameras flashing around you, capturing this moment, capturing the Winter Soldier going soft on his girlfriend.

You want to fall into him. You want to crawl into his chest and live there.

You let out a breath. It’s just beginning to feel okay. The world quiets just for a second.

Then it explodes.

There’s a metallic whine, a rumble like thunder swallowed by stone. The ground jerks beneath your feet as though it’s trying to shake you off. Screams tear through the air. A plume of smoke mushrooms in the sky as fire roars from the far end of the pavilion. People scatter. Glass shatters. Concrete buckles.

You don’t even have time to be shocked when Bucky already reacts.

He pushes you behind him so fast your teeth snap together. He doesn’t look back. His body shields yours, metal arm braced outward, flesh hand pressing you into his back, eyes scanning for threats.

Another explosion cracks through the sky, rips through the atmosphere like an angry god. And right after, the next explosion follows, punched through the sky like a fist made of fire.

You cough, eyes watering. There’s debris. Someone’s car door skitters across the ground like a dead insect. Tony’s suit whirs to life across the square. Natasha’s already sprinting. Sam is in the air.

Bucky is moving, dragging you behind a line of armored cars, his body is coiled with tension, his expression is deadly serious.

“Stay here!” he orders. It’s his soldier voice. Cold steel and no argument. He’s never used this voice on you before.

“Bucky-”

“Y/n, stay down,” he barks sharply, and you nearly flinch. But his tone is not filled with anger. It’s filled with fear. “Do not move until I come back for you.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might break your ribs. Your head is shaking from side to side so fast, you can’t do anything. “No- Bucky-”

He cups your face, his hands stiff, his hold almost rough. He leans in. “Stay. Here,” he growls. “I can’t do this if I’m worried about you.”

His eyes tell you he already is. He will be. But he doesn’t tell you.

He waits for you to nod, although he doesn’t have the time. An almost aggressive kiss is pressed to your mouth, then to your forehead, and he is gone. Thrown into chaos, lost in the smoke and fury and shouts.

You barely register the space he leaves behind. The smoke moves like a creature through the crowd, making people disappear wholly. Somewhere nearby, there’s another explosion. The screams rise again, louder.

You crouch lower, press yourself against the cold steel of the car, try to breathe through the hammer in your chest. You want to do what he said. You try to do what he said.

But the panic moves toward you.

You don’t see where it starts. Just feel it. A shove. A push. Someone collides with your hiding place, someone is behind you and suddenly you’re on the ground. White-hot pain at your side. You fall hard enough to see stars. A sharp ache slices down your shoulder where debris must have caught you. Blood runs hot and slick beneath your dress.

Disoriented, you try to push up on trembling arms but they shake too much, and everything is spinning.

You don’t see the soldier until you turn your head and there’s a flash of metal in his hand. A knife.

“Y/n!”

It’s your name. It’s Bucky’s voice. It’s not a shout. It’s a roar. As if it was ripped out of his chest. As if he’s afraid of what he’ll find when he gets to you.

From fifty yards away, across smoke and bodies and fire, he sees the blood blooming on your sleeve. Sees your fingers twitch as you try to sit up. Sees the man with the knife coming too close.

And he is barreling through the smoke like something unholy, eyes wild, teeth clenched, hands balled to fists. The light behind his eyes just snaps.

He moves as though he’s been set free. No hesitation. No fear. No softness left in him. His face is stone, is fury, is death, is Winter Soldier. His arm gleams under the flames, a ghost of his past resurrected in defense of his present.

Bucky hits the guy with bone-crushing force, enough to send teeth skittering across pavement. A scream echoes once before it’s cut off. Another blow. Another. Fist to face. Elbow to jaw. A crunch that sounds like death and rage all rolled into one. His vibranium hand wraps around the man’s throat, and you swear you see something flash in his eyes - something ancient and broken - before Bucky picks him up and slams him against a crumbling wall. Again. And again.

It’s not strategy. It’s not mercy. It’s pure rage.

Somewhere, Steve yells his name like a warning.

Bucky doesn’t stop.

“Bucky-” you croak, blood warm down your arm. You try to sit up.

In an instant, he turns back to you, easing up on his brutal hold and the soldier crumples to the ground. Bucky’s whole body is tight with adrenaline, his breath sawing in and out as though he ran through a warzone - which he kind of did. For you. His eyes find yours and shatter.

He’s at your side in half a breath.

“Baby,” he whispers, hands on your face, on your shoulder, trembling now. “No, no, no. You weren’t supposed to be- I told you to stay-”

“I tried,” you defend weakly, dizzy. “I didn’t- I’m okay. I think. Just- grazed me, maybe-”

But he’s not hearing you. Not through the panic tearing holes in his composure. His hands flutter, unsure where to land without hurting you more. His voice drops, gravelly and hushed. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. Shit, I should’ve known-”

“Hey.” You grab his wrists. “Bucky.”

He stills, but he won’t meet your eyes. Your thumb brushes the inside of his wrist. “I’m okay.”

But he’s too far in his head.

He wraps you in his arms in seconds, cradles you as if you’re made of moonlight and scripture, as if you’re hallowed and half-broken and held together by threads only he can see.

His metal hand supports your back, curved protectively around your spine. His other hand is pressing your legs into his chest.

The darkening sky is still full of smoke and sirens.

Colors smear across the sky like blood in water. Reds and blues. Shouting and static. Flashing lights and fractured ground. Somewhere nearby, someone is screaming. Somewhere farther, something explodes.

But not for him anymore. He doesn’t seem to hear anything. Doesn’t seem to listen to anything other than your breathing, your pulse.

He walks fast, but carefully. Erratic feet cut through rubble, his jaw is locked so hard, his body so rigid, he surely is in pain from holding all that tension. His eyes are storm-dark and unblinking. No one stops him. Not Steve. Not Tony. Not even the medics who see the look on his face and take a cautious step back as though maybe the devil borrowed his bones tonight.

He never trusted any random medic to look you over. It has to be someone he knows.

You whisper his name.

Soft. Breathless. Almost an apology.

And he almost drops to his knees.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, hoarse and urgent. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You know you are. But he doesn’t.

Your fingers curl in the collar of his suit jacket. His real name - James - lives on your tongue but never quite makes it out because he’s holding you too close, and perhaps saying his name might crush him completely.

He smells like smoke and ash and steel and blood. Your temple is tucked against the curve of his neck, where his pulse thunders beneath the surface. He’s warm and shaking.

He bursts into the quinjet that brought you here like a man on fire, like a man trying to outpace grief, and he yells something sharp. He lays you down - reluctantly, tenderly, surrendering - onto a stretcher, but his hands don’t stop touching you.

He’s a storm with a purpose, and that purpose is you.

You, safe.

You, whole.

You, alive.

“Bucky,” you try to ease, blinking up at him, face pale under flickering emergency lights. “I told you, baby. It’s not that bad.” Your voice is soft. Slow.

“You were on the ground.” His voice cracks.

“I was on the ground for like two seconds-”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It stopped, baby. Okay? There’s no fresh blood.” You are close to whispering.

Bucky doesn’t seem eased, though. He sits beside you. Big body bent in half, elbows on knees, one trembling hand reaching to gently - so, so gently - brush your hair from your forehead.

And then he says it.

“I would’ve burned the whole goddamn city to get to you.” Quiet. Like a vow. Like a confession. Like faith. Like a truth, he doesn’t know how to carry anymore. “I would’ve torn down buildings with my bare hands if I didn’t see your breathing. I don’t care who saw. I don’t care what they think-” his voice breaks, his breaths spill all over his words. “I can’t be okay without you.”

You stare up at him. Your throat is tight, eyes are stinging. Because he doesn’t say things like that. Not often. Not out loud. You see it in his eyes every day, in the way he looks at you, in the way he treats you. But it’s something else entirely to hear him form those words and let his tongue roll them out.

He presses his forehead to yours. His breath ghosts over your lips. His eyes are closed. His hand cups the back of your head.

He’s holding you so close to him, as if he’s never intending to let go ever again.

“Well, I’m not asking you. Besides, I’m only-” Your eyes met his, widening in shock. He felt his cheeks turn bright pink and, in a moment of fear, waved sheepishly. You looked visibly flustered, waving back before quickly turning away, your friends shoving you playfully. 

A horribly satisfied grin grew on his lips. “She looked at me.” 

“Godric, help us all.” Lily couldn’t help but cackle at Remus’s statement, slapping a hand over her mouth when Grubbly-Plank’s head whipped toward them. 

James glared, mumbling under his breath. “You laugh, but just you wait. She’ll talk to me eventually.” 

Remus, deciding that it would do no good to disagree, simply nodded pitifully. “Whatever you say, Prongs.” 

‘my ripped up jeans’

“James?” You tilted your head, your arms tightly wrapped around your textbooks. “Everything alright?” 

It felt as if his heart was failing. He looked up, trying desperately to be casual. How could he when an angel stood before him? An angel, he noticed, was in ripped jeans, a jumper, and golden snitch socks (they peeked out from beneath your slippers). Your hair was cooperating today, it seemed, placed in an elegant bun on the top of your head. “James?” You waved a hand in front of his face, laughing lightly. 

“Fine.” He gulped, a casual smile gracing his lips. “Everything’s fine. How are you, love?”

 “Fine, as well I suppose.” You glanced down at your arms. “Studying.” Looking over his shoulder, you gestured toward the books splayed out behind him. “I see you’re doing the same.” 

“Just a bit of light reading, really.” That had earned him a laugh, something he stored deep away in his memories. Your eyes lit up when you laughed, and his grin grew ever so slightly from it. “Can never know too much about Grape-horns.” 

An amused smile graced your lips. “You mean Graphorns?”

“Yeah, yeah, Graphorns.” 

You shifted your books to your left hip, your voice light and playful. “If you’d like, I could help you. I happen to love Graphorns.” 

He must have been dreaming. “That’d be-” 

“Where were we?” Lily plopped down beside him, grinning kindly at you. “Hiya, Murray. How are you?” 

Your smile faltered for only a second, but he’d noticed. James noticed everything about you. Your fingers began to tap nervously on the books' spines, nodding quickly. “Well. And you?”

“Good.” 

James watched his entire world crumble as you stepped back, your once bright smile fading to nothing. “Good.” You paused, like you’d wanted to say more, but stopped yourself. Merlin, he wished he could know what you wanted to say. “I should go. Bye, then.” 

“See you-” He almost cringed from how eager he sounded, his voice falling short as you practically raced away. “Around?” 

Lily cleared her throat. “You really are hopeless.” 

“Shut it.” His head dropped against the table with a loud thud, earning a shush from Madam Pince. “You’ve ruined everything.” 

“Ever the dramatic.” She reached out, ripping the exam guide from under his arm. “It’s not my fault you asked for help.” Smoothing out the paper, she mumbled under her breath, entirely loud enough for him to hear. “I don’t know why you’re taking this class; you’ve always struggled with Magical Creatures.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence, Evans.” 

“You’re welcome.” She smirked. “Can you sit up, or are you too busy pouting?” 

He sat up begrudgingly, glaring at the girl. “When did you become so mean?” 

“Do you want to pass this class or not?” 

Looking over his shoulder, he couldn’t help but frown at the sight. There you sat, across the library, alone, head buried in your books. “You’re horribly smitten.”

James whipped back around, shoving her arm lightly. “Can we get back to studying now?” 

Lily ignored the urge to point out that just moments ago, he’d ignored the very same statement from her lips. 

‘i’ll make your heart weak everytime’

The Gryffindor Common Room was packed full, every fifth year and up, squeezed into the small room. The firewhiskey was flowing, the music was pounding, and the crowd was wild. 

Their parties were practically legendary, and everyone, even the Slytherins, loved them. They’d just thrown last weekend, but Sirius, ever the party animal, begged to throw again. ‘You can never have too many, Prongs.’ James had seen Sirius’s opinion as a thinly veiled lie - he’d wanted to see the girl from Hufflepuff again, and needed an excuse. When James had suggested talking to her in the light of day, Sirius had scoffed. ‘It’s not only that.’ Sirius had whined. ‘It’s Halloween, Prongsie. Live a little.’

And so here he was, miserable on the side of the room dressed as a medieval knight, slowly sipping his drink he’d been nursing for the past three hours. Then you’d appeared with beautiful angel wings and a halo - obviously drunk and obviously beautiful. Your face seemed to glow under the red light, no doubt, thanks to the copious amount of firewhiskey you’d consumed. It seemed like you floated, skirting (albeit) clumsily toward him, a woman on a mission. “James!” He’d grinned, cheeks hot when you’d wrapped your arms around his neck tightly. Your breath hit his throat as you spoke, chills running down his spine. “This is a great party!” 

“Thanks, love.” You released him, your body swaying back and forth, nerves building in his stomach at the thought of you falling. “Are you alright?” 

“Just splendid.” Your words slurred together as you waved your drink around. “I’ve had four.” 

His eyes widened. “I see.” His hand itched to wrap around your waist and steady you. “I-” 

“Are you not having fun?” You frowned, taking another large sip from your cup, some of it escaping down your chin. James laughed, reaching out and wiping it away like it was second nature. “You look like you’re not having fun.” 

“I am now.” He smiled. “Always have fun when you’re around.” Your grin grew shy, hiding it behind your cup. “How long have you been here?” 

“An hour or so.” You yelled, overcorrecting thanks to the loud music still blaring out of the speakers. “I tried to find you but-” A hand slapped over your mouth, eyes wide. “I think I’m going to be sick.” 

He immediately took action, like the perfect knight in shining armour that he was. Grabbing your drink out of your hand and placing it on the table beside him, he pulled you through the crowd, politely shoving his costumed peers aside. “Move you tosspots, sick woman coming through.” 

If you weren’t fighting the urge to vomit all over him, you would have laughed. Instead, you let him lead you to his dorm, the party’s noise fading into a dull roar. As soon as you’d seen the seventh-year bathroom, you’d collapsed to the floor, grabbing the toilet bowl most inelegantly as you hurled. He winced, delicately pulling your hair away from your face. 

“Don’t look at me.” You whined, still heaving. “This is so embarrassing.” 

He shook his head, kneeling beside you. “Not embarrassing, love. Promise.” 

“Thanks, James.” You whispered. “You’re wonderful-oh Merlin.” Your back tensed, puking once more. 

He was sure his face was bright red as he rubbed your back comfortingly. “It’s alright, let it out.” He hadn’t been sure how long you’d both sat there, but eventually, the sickness had subdued, and you’d found your place against the wall, hands covering your face. He stood up, wetting a towel for you to clean your face. “Here you are.” 

You groaned, trying (and failing) to still cover your face while accepting his offer. “You’re never going to look at me again. Not like you did before.” 

That comment had caused him to choke on his own breath, coughing harshly. “Sorry?” 

“I’ve seen you staring during class.” You murmured, wiping your lips off harshly. “Doubt you will after this.” 

“Love-” You had absolutely no idea. Or maybe you did, deep down. Obviously, you had an inkling, he told himself, or else you wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. “You-” 

“Don’t worry.” You mumbled, eyes lulling shut. “I think it’s sweet. Not stalker-ish at all.” 

You were going to kill him; he was sure of it. “You heard Lily then?” 

You nodded. “She’s a horrible whisperer.” 

“Remind me to give her a stern talking to.” His comment was inherently embarrassed, upset even, but his voice was anything but. You felt warm, safe while he sat there, rubbing comforting circles on your calf. “Did you come with Crowley?” 

“She’s downstairs.”

“Stay here.” His voice sounded weak, like he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t, but Godric, how embarrassing that you were there to witness it too. “I’ll be right back.” 

“Wait-” You reached out, eyes peaking open, watering. “Stay-” You hiccuped. “Stay with me.” 

“I can’t, love.” He gulped. “Crowley’s going to come back with me, and she’ll help you back to your dorm, okay?” 

You nodded once more, not determined enough to fight him on anything. “Okay.”

James had practically scrambled out of his room, clenching his chest, with one thought on his mind. 

You thought he was sweet. 

‘cause you hate the crash’

“And Potter’s done it! Another fantastic goal by the seventh year!” 

The screech you let out was practically inhuman, jumping up and down erratically at the win. Your voice would surely be lost by the morning, but you hadn’t minded. Crowley laughed, jumping along with you, hands tightly clasped together. “Rowena, that was brilliant!” 

“You’re obsessed!” She shouted over the crowd, your eyes rolling as you pulled her along toward the field. 

“You’re a hypocrite, you know that?”

The stands had emptied onto the pitch, the celebration in full swing. The Hufflepuffs, ever gracious, congratulated their rivals politely before retreating to their Common Room. And in the center of it all, as bright as the sun, stood James Potter, grin as wide and boyish as ever. Crowley let go of your hand, pushing you toward him. 

You hadn’t even scolded her, simply staring at the Gryffindor chaser with utter fascination. “You played wonderfully.” 

He stepped forward, shoving his teammates, all of whom shook his shoulders playfully. His locker room rambles about you were daily; his feelings were practically common knowledge. At this point, he was surprised you hadn’t figured it out. “You were watching me?” 

“I always watch you.” A beat passed before you began to stutter. “I mean I-” 

“I understood.” He smiled. “You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” The way he was looking at you almost had you believe him. It seemed like time stood still as you stared into his bright chocolate eyes. Neither of you was brave enough to close the gap, to break whatever it was you had. 

That chance would be ripped out from under you, because in a moment, McLaggen, the absolute oaf that he was, wrapped his arms around your waist, spinning you around. You gasped, laughing as you yelled. “You brute - use your words!” 

He dropped you, hugging you tightly. “We won, Murray! We won!” 

“Yes, yes. Congratulations, I’m so proud.” You shoved him away, turning back around. “James-” 

But James was no longer there. You now stood desperately alone in the middle of the pitch, your gaze wandering the pitch for his mop of brown hair. And as you trudged back toward the castle, eyes watering, you couldn’t help but curse McLaggen under your breath. 

What an idiot.

‘bout to cause a scene’

Snow fell in light waves as you stood outside, trying to focus on Professor Grubbly-Plank’s lecture. It was difficult, though, when the only thing that could occupy your thoughts was James. 

James, and his lack of staring. 

He’d avoided eye contact, actually started to pay attention in class, and practically turned around in the halls when you approached him. Ever since the match, it was like you were invisible to him. Perhaps you were being dramatic, but still. Going from his constant attention to nothing was confusing, and something you never wanted to happen again, not if you could help it. 

It was as if Grubbly-Plank could feel the class’s attention slipping from her grasp. “Alright, you lot. I’m letting you out early today - but don’t forget-” That was all you needed to race after the Gryffindor, trying to catch up as he stalked up the hill. “James!” 

His head twitched, like he was fighting himself. You frowned, running after him. “You’ve been ignoring me.” 

He came to a harsh stop, turning toward you with utter confusion on his face. “I’m sorry?” 

“Is there something wrong, James?” You stepped forward, heartbroken when he stepped back, like your very presence pained him. “Something that I’ve missed? Have I offended you or-”  

He shook his head, still avoiding your gaze. “Nothing’s wrong, love.” 

“Good.” You were not at all convinced. “Nothing’s wrong. Right. That’s why you haven’t looked at me in days.” 

His laugh was bitter as he finally stood up straight, meeting your eyes for the first time since the match. Even with the disdain etched in his gaze, he still took your breath away. “Don’t think McLaggen would be too pleased about you asking me that, would he?”

“Excuse me?”  

He shrugged, face resembling that of a kicked puppy. “Nothing- it’s nothing.” You’d never seen a more defeated man in your life. 

Your voice, soft but determined, practically crawled under his skin, almost begging him to let you into his thoughts. “James, what are you talking about? McLaggen and I-” 

“I’m late for class.” He interrupted, too scared to face reality. Too scared to hear it from you. He would be better off, he convinced himself, if you never spoke to him again, so he could remember you as he wanted to, without annoying McLaggen, spinning you around like you were the only thing that mattered. Godric, he felt sick just thinking about it. “So are you, I assume.” 

“James?” Your voice wavered. “I don’t understand.” 

“I’ll see you ‘round, yeah?” You simply stared at him in shock, and he nodded, walking down the hall in misery. It wasn’t until a moment later, when your voice rang down the hall as angry as ever, that his heart truly crumbled into ash. 

“Stop shutting me out!” You screamed, shocked at the volume of your own voice. 

It seemed so was James, because he turned around, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“Tell me what you mean. I want to know what’s upset you. Just tell me.” 

“I-” His voice fell out from under him, heart beating a million miles a minute. If he said it out loud, it would become true, and then he’d have to face the reality that he’d lost you before he’d ever had you. “I can’t.” 

“Fine.” You were now fuming. “You are the most confusing man I have ever had the displeasure of talking to.”

“Wonderful.” He nodded, eyes as dead as you’d ever seen them. “Thanks for that.” 

“You are an absolute arse, James Potter.” 

Students instantly began to gawk, whispering to their friends as they passed by. There was no doubt in his mind that your argument would haunt him until his final days. And there was no doubt in your mind that that argument would be the talk of Hogwarts by lunch. 

‘how bad do you want to?’

James had never felt more nervous in his life. He’d had plenty of reasons to be anxious, to fear for his life. Perhaps that was dramatic, but still.

He’d been caught in the middle of sneaking out of the common room his first week by McGonagall, had been sent to the Headmaster’s office after a duel with Rosier, and scolded by his mother, and not one of those things had prepared him for facing you. 

His stomach twisted into knots as he approached your table, swallowing thickly. “I am an arse.” 

You sat back in your seat, arms crossed. “Alright.” 

At least you weren’t blatantly ignoring him. He smiled quickly. “It’s none of my business if you and-” Merlin, he felt like he was going to be sick. “McLaggen are together.” You tilted your head, and his heart dropped, taking that as a sign that he should continue his apology. “I was rude, and I’m sorry.” You just stared, a look of confusion and astonishment stuck to your features. James nodded, realizing that the idea of your reunion he’d dreamt up would not come to be. “I’ll be going then-” 

“McLaggen and I aren’t together, James.” 

You really were going to be the death of him. “Come again?” 

You were now grinning, almost laughing at the hilarity of it all. “He’s a friend, just a friend. Besides…” You leaned forward in your seat, a teasing grin on your lips. “I think Crowley would be upset by that notion.” 

“McLaggen and Crowley?” James couldn’t help but laugh. “Never would’ve seen that coming.” 

“Tell me about it.” All traces of annoyance, of confusion, or Godric forbid, malice were gone, your face now one of utter joy and contentment. “Thank you.” 

“Of course, love.” He couldn’t help but stare at you; it was second nature at this point. And, after weeks of avoiding eye contact with you, it felt like he’d gone without water, his entire body void of your energy, of your gaze. “I should-” He gulped, Lily’s words echoing in his head. ‘Stalker-ish.’ “I should be going, then.” 

Your eyes widened ever so slightly. “Alright.” He spun around on his heels, feeling much better off with himself when your voice shot through him like a light in the dark. “Or-” He stopped, too scared to move. “Or you could stay.” 

“I could do that too.” He turned back toward you, throwing his satchel on the chair next to yours. “What are you studying?” 

“Your favorite.” You moved your chair closer to his, your thighs now smashed together. His grin only grew from the action, throwing a lazy arm around the back of your chair, your cheeks growing hot. “Grape-horns.” 

James scoffed, pushing his glasses up his nose like a true scholar. “I think you mean Graphorns.” 

“Ah, yes.” You giggled, feeling the happiest you’d felt in weeks. “My mistake.” 

‘i’m here to kiss you in real life’

This hadn’t been how you’d wanted to spend your Saturday. 

You would never shame anyone who chose to party every weekend, but you would never choose to leave the comforts of your common room. 

Yet here you stood, alone, dressed in your finest, prettiest things just in case James looked at you. You’d gone to the party with ulterior motives, to see the boy you’d come to love. Yet, you hadn’t even caught a glimpse of his mop of brown hair. Disappointed didn’t even begin to cover how you were feeling. 

The water in your cup, once cold, had fallen lukewarm, the ice melting under your touch. Sweat built up on your brow simply from the number of your peers in the room, and you found, for the tenth time that night, that James was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, it all became too overwhelming: the heat, the water dripping onto your hand, the voice gnawing at the back of your head, the dangerous one that told you that James couldn’t care less about you, and you might as well give up all hope.

Your feet moved before your mind could react, darting toward the nearest exit. Your arm flailed toward the handle, slamming the door shut, chest heaving, desperate for peace. 

“Having fun?” 

You jumped, turning toward his voice. “James.” There he stood, as handsome as ever, staring at you as if you were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. The whole world seemed to fade away when your eyes met his, a glimpse of a smile resting on your lips. “Thought you’d be in the center of the party.” 

He laughed, shaking his head lightly. “Not in the mood.” 

“James Potter not in the mood for partying?” You stood just in front of him, feeling his temperature with the back of your palm. “Who do I have to maim?” 

“You’re hilarious.” He glared playfully, pulling your hand from his forehead. “I could ask you the same question.” His eyes fell to your hand, caressing the back gently. “Has something happened?” 

You shook your head, staring in awe. “Not really.” 

“Not really?” He laughed, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Do tell.” 

“It’s just-” Merlin, were you really about to do this? “I hadn’t seen you, and I was starting to…” Your breath caught as your eyes trailed up to find him already staring. “I was starting to lose hope. Stupid, I know.” 

“It’s not stupid.” He shook his head. “Nothing you could ever do is stupid, Love.” He stepped closer, eyes roaming your figure. “You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” Rowena, you’d never felt more timid in your life. “I normally don’t wear things like this-” 

“Take the compliment, please.” He whispered. “You’re stunning, you always are.” 

“I should-” You gulped. “I think I should go…” 

“Can I walk you? Back to your dorm, that is?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s just down the corridor, James.” 

“I know.” He practically blurted. “Haven’t seen you all night. Thought we could-” His cheeks were a bright shade of pink, eyes wide, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. “Or not, that’s fine-” 

“Come on then.” You grinned, tightening your grip on his hand. “I’d like to go to sleep sometime soon.” 

You hadn’t minded the looks as you pulled him through the crowd, or the giggles and whispers that had followed. You also hadn’t minded when Sirius had shouted across the room, taunting the two of you. In fact, you hadn’t minded any of it, all of the gossip was worth it when his eyes met yours, and you knew that something had changed, that something was going to give. 

All it took was the sphinx to break the spell. The walk over had been silent, your arms swinging between you, a visible manifestation of your hesitancy. The stone giant came to life, huffing as if you had woken it up. 

You most definitely had. 

“You can’t see me, yet I’m always there; I bind two souls beyond compare. Through time and space, I never part, for I am held inside the heart.” It paused, its eyes squinting ever so slightly. “What am I?”

“I love you.” The air left your lungs as you looked over at James. 

“Sorry?” 

“I love you.” He sounded so sure, you couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you, and now seemed as good as any.” 

“James?” 

“Yes?” 

“Can I-” Your voice broke. “Can I kiss you?” 

He grinned, pulling you closer than you thought humanly possible, his lips passionately attacking yours. You groaned, gripping his shirt in your hand tightly, afraid that this would all go away, that it was all a dream. “James-”

“Yes, love?” His voice was breathy as he pulled away, resting his forehead against yours. 

“Is this real?” 

He laughed, nodding as he kissed you once more. “Godric, I hope so.” 

“I’m waiting.” The sphinx’s deep voice rumbled through the hall, obviously not caring that you were in the middle of something.

You scoffed, releasing your hold on James’s shirt to wave it off. “We’re just ever so slightly busy if you couldn’t-” 

“It’s love, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” The sphinx nodded. “But you are not the one who must answer.” 

“I love you too.” Your eyes watered, heart beating much too fast. “I should-” 

James nodded, hand still tightly clenched in yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Definitely.” You smiled, kissing his cheek quickly. “Goodnight, James.” 

“Night, love.” 

‘how bad do you want me?’

seven years later at potter manor

“So…” James’s mother took a small sip of her wine. “How has work been treating the both of you?” 

You grinned. “Wonderfully, thank you for asking.” 

James scoffed, shaking his head. “She’s being modest. Just got asked to become the Ministry’s liaison for Magical Creatures.” 

“Oh really?” Fleamont smiled. “That’s amazing, simply amazing.” 

“Thank you sir.” 

“Please.” Fleamont frowned. “You’ve been married to our son for five years; the formalities must cease.” 

“If you insist.” You smiled. “James also has news.” 

“Love…” He groaned. “You really don’t need to-” 

“You’re looking at the assistant to the Head Auror.” A giggle escaped your lips. “Isn’t that fantastic?” 

“James Potter!” His mother gasped, eyes welling with tears. “You cannot choose to forget these details.” 

“I’m sorry, Mum.” He grew shy under their attention, throwing a quick, playful glare in your direction. “It’s nothing, really…” 

“It’s most decidedly not nothing.” Fleamont laughed. “Next thing you know, you’ll be running the place.” He reached across the table, squeezing his son’s hand. “Nicely done, my boy.” 

“Thanks, Dad.” 

The most adorable gurgles erupted through the room, everyone’s heads turning to the toddler, grinning in his high chair. “Are you proud of Dada, Harry?” 

He smiled once more, clapping his hands. You laughed, scooting your chair out to hold him. “Good boy, Harry.” 

“He is the spitting image of you as a young lad.” Euphemeia smiled. “The very image.” 

“Except the eyes,” Fleamont interjected. “He has his mother’s eyes.” 

“Want to be a big, strong auror like Dada, Harry?” James whispered, kissing his son’s cheek gently. “Yeah? Of course you do.” 

“He’s just a baby, James.” You pretended to scold your husband. “Who knows what he’ll do when he’s older. Besides, he might take after his mother.” 

Fleamont’s eyes were fixed on his grandson, smiling fondly. “Whatever he does, I’m sure he’ll be wonderful, like both of his parents.” 

“Thank you, Fleamont.” 

“James, love.” Euphemia grinned. “Do you remember when you didn’t even know if you’d become an auror?” 

You tilted your head, looking curiously at the man beside you. “When was this?” 

“Mum…”

“It was his seventh year, and he’d written home saying he just had to take this course that he’d been miserable in the year before. I remember it because it’s not required for Auror training. He insisted, saying that maybe he’d changed his mind.” Fleamont laughed, nodding as he reminisced. “What was the class again?” 

“Care for Magical Creatures, love.” 

“Ah, yes. That’s the one.” Euphemia nodded. “I never understood your fascination with that class.” 

James took a large sip of his wine and stayed dead silent, staring at the table with utter fascination. You laughed, leaning over as you whispered in his ear. “And why exactly were you taking the class if you didn’t need it?”

“Took it so when I finally worked up the courage, I could talk to you.” 

All these years, and he still knew how to take your breath away. Your heart clenched as you brought your lips to his. “You’re horribly romantic.”

“It’s your fault, y’know.” He pulled back, whispering against your lips. “You make me this way.”

taglist: @beebeechaos @rorywright @maryjaneeeee @dalmationsanddasies @y-ns-things @moonchild0908 @iluvhrj @loviepookie @cultish-corner @angelicp0etry @darkfairymoon @bininisiwi @a-very-fictional-girl @grmsshaile @idunnowhattonamethis @tudorscrown @elleyaps

“M’kay, so quick question,” Dorcas offers as she considers the seating plan with furrowed brows, “do you hate Potter?” 

With this, Marlene lets out a derisive snort into her glass of wine from her place on the floor, tossing one of the alternate seating maps into the deny pile. “If I hated Potter, why would I have him in my wedding party?”

“If you don’t hate Potter, why do you keep pairing him with her?” Dorcas counters.

“Hey,” you chide without any heat, never looking up from the centre pieces you were hot gluing together. 

Marlene laughs. “Please, Potter’s the only one who will be able to handle her broodiness.” 

“Hey,” you try with a little more heat; no one buys it. 

“You really don’t want to have her walk down the aisle with Lily? Or Mary?” Dorcas tries again, shooting you a sympathetic smile. 

“S’bad luck to separate the couples,” Marlene explains with a flippant shrug of her shoulder. “Besides, if she walks with Mary, that leaves Regulus-” 

“And Regulus said, quote, ‘I will not under any circumstances walk down the aisle with my idiot brother or his dickhead friend’ end quote,” Pandora adds helpfully; it’s your turn to snort a laugh. 

“So that means I have to walk down the aisle with Regulus’ idiot brother’s dickhead friend?” 

“James isn’t that bad,” Lily tries placatingly, only for Mary to contradict her by stating “he can be a lot.” 

“I don’t know…” Dorcas continues as she looks at the seating plans warily. “This feels like introducing a shrew to a lion.” 

“Who’s the lion?” Pandora asks, only for everyone else (besides you) to say your name. 

“What if I promise to be on my absolute very best behaviour?” You try; earning you a plethora of raised eyebrows. 

“You threw a mini quiche at some dude at bottomless brunch last weekend for staring at you too long,” Lily deadpans.

You shrug your shoulders. “Nothing is interesting enough to stare at for that long.” 

“You did look particularly lovely last week, though,” Pandora adds, and you feel your cheeks traitorously warm under her praise. 

You had a good day at work that Saturday, finally making more than the daily cost of running the shop, and it was with a lovely couple who were so fun to chat with before they paid you a huge sum of money, promising to return once they were officially moved into their new (to them) home. You bet you were glowing at brunch the next day. 

“Doesn’t mean he had to stare at me. If I wanted to be ogled I’d have charged him for it.”

“Oh yeah,” Dorcas drawls sardonically, “Potter’s perfect.” 

“Why? Does he have a staring problem?” You ask, hissing as you burn yourself with the hot glue gun.

“He’s got a Potter problem,” Marlene laughs with no shortage of fondness. Honestly, it’s Marlene’s affection for the guy that has your hackles lowering; if your fellow, most devoted misandrist friend can tolerate him, he can’t be that bad. 

Right?

You’d been so wrong. 

“God I love weddings,” he sighs dreamily as he takes his place beside you in the precession line, waiting for your guys’ turn to practice your walk. 

The botanical gardens are beautiful and hot as fucking hell, and James’ sunny disposition radiating beside you doesn’t help matters. 

“You’re weird,” you offer plainly, moving up in the line as Lily and Pandora make their way down the arbor shaded aisle. 

If James is offended by your response, he doesn’t show it, simply stepping up in time with you as he beams at anything and everything around him. You have half a mind of squinting at the brightness of his smile. 

“I’m glad they went with the gardens,” James offers, stretching out his arms and shaking his hands out as though simply standing still was too difficult a task for him. “S’beautiful this time of year.” 

“I wish they’d gone with an indoor venue.”

With this, Mary – standing dutifully beside Regulus – turns to shoot you a wink. You roll your eyes at her.

James hums thoughtfully. “It does get pretty hot out in the sun.” 

Sirius and Remus make it to the end of the aisle, prompting Mary and Regulus to take their turn. You decide then that getting indoors and in the AC comes second in your list of priorities only behind making it to the end of the aisle where you get to split from your chatty counterpart. 

You forgot about the seating arrangement.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You sigh under your breath as you find your name at a round table near the brides.

Your sigh was, apparently, louder than you meant it to be. 

“Awe, come now, gorgeous.” Sirius grins devilishly. “We don’t bite.”

“No, but she might,” Remus adds as he shoots you a friendly wink. 

“Why am I sitting here?” You ask no one in particular, ignoring the way James is now standing to pull your chair out for you. 

Sirius answers first. “Regulus said – and I quote – I will not sit at a table with my idiot brother or his dickhead friend.” 

“And Lily and Panda wanted to sit together,” Remus continues with a sympathetic smile. 

You let out a sigh of defeat but fall into your seat anyway; at least you have Remus here. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to talk to you guys about,” you sniff as you take to folding and unfolding your napkin and James returns to his seat. 

“You can talk about me!” Sirius quips with a wink. “I’m fantastic.”

“Hard pass,” you deadpan without hesitation. 

“We could talk about hockey,” Remus – ever the mediator – tries, nodding to James across the table who perks up in interest. “These two are in the starting line together this year.”

James is back to beaming and your eyes narrow on their own accord. “No thanks.”

James deflates a bit, but Sirius squawks in offence. “You don’t want to talk about hockey?!” 

You shrug your shoulders as you continue fiddling with your napkin. “Sports are dumb.”

James moves his head back and forth in a so-so manner. 

Sirius balks at his best friend turned teammate. “You’re not seriously entertaining this line of slander, are you, Prongs?” 

James, for his part, shrugs. “Hockey’s not everyone’s thing.” 

Sirius scoffs and mutters something under his breath that you all know he doesn’t mean, but Remus glares at him playfully for it anyways. 

“Behave.”

“I am!” He protests. “She’s the one making this difficult.” 

“I’m not making this difficult,” you counter, pausing in your folding to glare at Sirius across the table.

“Well you’re not making this easy; how’re we supposed to talk to you if you don’t like anything?”

“I like some things.” You offer.

“Name one,” Sirius challenges as he leans back in his chair. 

“I like Dorcas and Marlene enough to be here.”

No one can argue with that, so the boys concede as dinner is served. 

“D’you drink beer?” James asks after the first few bites of his plate.

“I prefer wine.”

James opens his mouth to say something when Sirius continues. 

“White chocolate?”

“White chocolate isn’t chocolate,” you and Remus chorus rather aggressively, sharing a shy look before returning to your meals. 

“Can you believe these two?” Sirius asks James conspiratorially. James shrugs. 

“More for us, Pads.” 

The evening carries on much the same way; empty pint glasses and an empty bottle of wine on the table while each boy takes turns trying to find an olive branch with you and you manage to contradict them at every turn. 

It finally happens when it’s James’ turn. 

“Oh! I know!” He says excitedly, turning his entire body towards you so that your knees clash. “Rom coms!”

“What about them?” You ask as you sip from your third glass of wine. 

“They’re the best genre of movie! Everyone loves rom coms!” 

“Rom coms are not the best movie!” You nearly shriek, momentarily embarrassed as you sneak a peek at the surrounding friends and family. “ They’re not even in the top three,”  you add more quietly. 

This, it seems, might be a deal breaker for James. 

“You’re kidding me,” he deadpans; not a question. 

“I don’t kid, Potter,” you sneer.

“How can you not like rom coms?!” He asks exasperated, throwing his arms out to the sides and nearly clearing a tray from a server's hand as they pass. 

“Uhm, because they’re tired, old cliches that give people unrealistic and unreasonable expectations for what their lives should look like?” 

James scoffs – actually scoffs – at you. “They give people hope; something to attain to!”

“That’s fundamentally irresponsible to lead people to believe that this is something they can expect for themselves,” you bite back. 

“Oh, I get it,” James decides. “So you hate joy and whimsy.”

“I don’t hate j- I prefer reality and tangibility. You don’t get that from rom coms.” 

James doesn’t seem to care for your take, though, as he looks to Sirius and juts a flippant thumb in your direction. “Can you believe how contrary this woman is?” 

“Oh my God you really are Regulus’ idiot brother’s dickhead best friend,” you spit, only for the brides to both twist in their chairs.

“L/N! You promised you’d be on your best behaviour!” Marlene scolds.

Beside you, James snorts. “This is your best behaviour?”

“Potter started it!” You tattle, causing James to look at you in betrayal. 

“You should’ve just said you liked rom coms,” Remus tells you with a smirk. You glower at him.

“I’m not in the habit of telling lies in order to preserve male ego, Lupin.”

Remus groans and looks to the ceiling. “Thanks a lot, James; now you’ve got her last naming me, too.” 

“Fine, no more talk of rom coms,” James concedes, though he eyes you warily. “Still think you’re weird as hell for that, though.”

“Finally,” you say with a smile, holding your wine glass up to him, “something we have in common.” 

You’re using the menu to fan yourself off as you look around the beautifully lit garden; strings of lights hanging between old trees basking the space in a warm glow. Most of the men have taken off their suit jackets, ties, and rolled their sleeves up to their elbows to combat the heat, and you find yourself feeling lucky that your dress isn’t quite as stifling.

You still feel stifled, though. 

A shining Sirius manages to convince an equally dewy looking Remus to leave the pseudo-sanctuary of his seat in favour of dancing with him, leaving you and James alone at your table.

“Get up, party pooper!” Dorcas hollers as she spins Marlene away from her. “We’re dancing!” 

You don’t bother noting that James isn’t dancing either, knowing full well that he probably would be if you weren’t here, or perhaps if you weren’t such a wet blanket. 

As it stands, you are a wet blanket; or, rather, a very damp, stickie, grumpy blanket who can barely stand sweltering in her chair let alone physically exerting herself in any manner. 

“Tell mother nature to turn the temperature down a few degrees and then we’ll talk,” you drawl, continuing to fan yourself. 

You make the mistake of looking over at James only to find him smirking at you.

“What?” You mutter, though the heat has your heat falling painfully short. 

“Come on,” he states simply, standing from his chair and holding a hand out for you.

“What?” You ask again, dumbfounded. 

“Come on,” he repeats, smile growing wider as he nods towards the doors to the conservatory. “Unless you’d rather stay out in the heat?”

You narrow your eyes and look between James, his outstretched hand, and the promise of air conditioning and decide to bite the bullet. 

You relent, allowing him to help you up from your seat only to drop his hand immediately once you are on your feet.

If it bothers James, he doesn’t show it, simply beaming at everything and everyone as he follows you towards the welcoming, porch lit doors. 

The relief is instantaneous, and you have to bite back an obscene groan of pleasure as the cool air threatens to elicit goosebumps along your skin. 

“You’re welcome,” James murmurs as his lips brush the shell of your ear, causing you to nearly shriek and jump away from him.

“Fuck off,” you spit, though it manages to come out like a question. 

“No can do, angel; you owe me a dance.” 

Your brain stutters and stalls, unsure about which part of that sentence to find offence in; him arguing with you, him calling you angel, him suggesting you owe him, or him demanding you to dance. 

“I beg your pardon?” Is the best your short circuiting brain could come up with. 

“I saved you from the heat and the judgemental glares of the brides; now you have to dance with me.”

“I don’t have to do any such thing,” you huff. He shrugs an unconvinced shoulder. 

“Perhaps not, but it would be the polite thing to do.”

“What about me strikes you as particularly polite, Potter?”

He beams at you. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t dance,” you state with a cross of your arms. He rolls his eyes at you. 

“Okay, High School Musical; whatever you say.”

“I will have you know” you begin haughtily “that song was sung by the character Chad Danforth only to be contested by the character of Ryan Evans, not performed by the entire cast of High School Musical.” 

James’ smile grows somehow grander even as his brows cock at you in disbelief. “Oh, so you’ve watched High School Musical but won’t watch rom coms?” 

You sniff as you look at a piece of art on the wall instead of him. “High School Musical is a classic.”

You can’t see his face, but from the disbelieving breath that leaves him, you get the sense that his smile has fallen a bit. “High School Musical is not a classic.” 

“Musicals are definitely in the top three best genres of movie.”

“They are absolutely not in the top three.” 

“My, my,” you start gleefully, shooting him a smarmy smile, “is James Potter going contrary on me, now?” 

His smile widens as he steps up towards you, one hand extended in invitation. “Dance with me, you tease.” 

You make a show of rolling your eyes, shoulders sagging as you relent and accept his hand. He seems to understand how big of a deal this is, meaning he’s smart enough to not comment on it and quick enough to pull you flush against him lest you change your mind. 

You keep your gaze pinned to James’ shoulder, one hand in his and the other gripping his bicep. The two of you sway to the gentle music that you can barely hear from the speakers outside and you pretend like you aren’t somewhat impressed by the feel of his impressive physique beneath your hand, against your chest. 

“See?” James murmurs quietly; you get the sense he’s cautious of the bubble the two of you have found yourselves in. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

“It’s terrible,” you reply without hesitation. James huffs out an amused laugh. 

“No…no, I don’t think so. I don’t think you’re as bad as you pretend to be,” he declares as he guides you through a – quite impressive – dance, seemingly without needing to pay it any mind. 

“I’m worse.” 

“Yeah?” He asks, voice lilting up in excitement that has you smiling despite yourself; you turn your face to the side in an attempt to hide it from him.

“Mhm,” you agree, “terrible.”

“Terrible?”

“Awful.” 

His hand which was snug against your lower back slides imperceptibly lower as he pulls you in closer to him. “Show me.”

You scoff good naturedly. “You wouldn’t know what to do with me, Potter.”

“Yeah?” He asks, beaming down at you. “Too hot to handle?”

You hum noncommittally and continue trying to hide your smile. “Something like that.”

He hums in turn, dipping his head lower so his lips brush your ear. “I might surprise you.”

“You think so, huh?” You manage, swallowing thickly as your hand migrates from his upper arm to the crook of his neck, his body tensing in response. 

“I know so,” he lets out lowly. 

You hear Mary’s peal of laughter outside and find yourself smiling at the sound itself; surrounded by your favourite people and your favourite people’s favourite people. Celebrating love and life and finding one another. You have this – admittedly quite hot – man beneath your hands practically begging for a chance to take you for a ride, and you aren’t completely opposed to the idea.

Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the few glasses of wine, maybe it’s his talk about stupid fucking rom coms, maybe it really is the love in the air.

But whatever it is, neither you nor James seem to be prepared for what you said next. 

“Alright, Potter,” you sigh, pulling back far enough to look up at him in challenge; he meets you head on. “You better not disappoint.”

His smile grows until it takes up most of his face; smile lines digging into his chiseled jaw as though they were meant to be there, the apples of his cheeks dimpling and the corners of his eyes crinkling from the power of it. 

“Oh,” he all but purrs, “you have nothing to worry about.” 

The morning light filters through the lodge's gauzy curtains, painting light and shadows across every inch of what is very much not your room. 

You hold a tangled sheet against your chest as your heart pleads its case to exit your chest cavity beneath your fingertips and you stare helplessly at the speckled ceiling above you. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you whisper to yourself.

You didn’t whisper quietly enough. A booming laugh sounds from the bathroom’s open door. 

“You know, that’s one of the most common things you’ve said to me.” 

You let a few beats of silence pass, still staring up at the ceiling even as James exits the bathroom in your periphery; one fluffy towel tied around his waist as he uses another to towel dry his hair. “What are other common things I’ve said to you?”

James makes a sound of consideration as he sits heavily at the end of his bed. “Probably idiot, a few dickhead’s, and – as of last night – harder.” 

“Fuck off!” 

“Hey!” He laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “You asked!”

“I rescind my question,” you tell him. 

“That’s alright, ‘you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’ is growing on me.”

“And yet you’re still not kidding.” 

“What is it you said last night?” James asks, forcing you to look away from what looks to be fresh paint over a water stain on the ceiling to meet his cocky smirk and raised brow. “I don’t kid. Although, that’s not entirely true…I prank a lot, and I definitely joke around, but rarely do I kid.” 

“Fuck,” you nearly shriek, pulling a pillow from beside you over your face, “I’m a walking cliche!”

“Just like all those rom coms you’re so fond of.”

“Fuck off.”

He doesn’t.

“I think it’s giving…black cat, golden retriever vibes.”

“You’re fucking insane,” you groan into the pillow. 

“Everyone loves a meet-cute, and a wedding trope? Come on,” he continues. 

“Potter, I swear to God.”

“It’s giving… strangers-to-lovers.”

“Potter!” You squeal, throwing the pillow across the room which narrowly misses a table lamp as you sit up hastily; the sheet falling from your chest and pooling in your lap forcing James to work really hard at keeping his attention on your face. 

“Hey…” he starts, half-placating half-cautious “you know I’m just playing around, right?”

“Oh God,” you whine as you stand from the bed and begin collecting your discarded clothing from the night before. 

“It’s really not that deep,” James continues desperately. 

You’re almost whimpering as you pull on your underwear. “I’ve been weddinged!” 

“You haven’t bee-” James cuts himself off as he tilts his head at you. “You’ve been what?” 

You pull last night’s dress back over yourself as you begin pacing back and forth along the foot of the bed, one hand on your hip and the other at your lips as you aggressively gnaw on your cuticles. 

“I got all- all drunk on the ‘love in the air’ and, and other nonsense, and then I woke up in a stranger's bed!” 

James’ head swivels to-and-fro as he watches you pace back-and-forth, clearly weighing out his next words carefully. You’re too busy crashing out to take much notice of it. 

“Well…I’m not a stranger, really; I’m James,” he begins simply yet cautiously. “Plus, if it makes you feel any better, what we did here last night could hardly be considered love-making.”

Your pacing stops, body frozen as you consider his words before you slowly look up at him, gaze flitting from his face to the scene of the crime (the bed…and the shower, and the jacuzzi tub, and up against the window, and bent over the desk). 

“No?”

James’ face brightens when he realizes he’s on the right track. “Fuck no! That was downright raunchy, animalistic fucking is what it was.”

You stare at him unseeingly for a few moments before slowly nodding your head. “Yeah…yeah, okay. That does make me feel a bit better, actually.”

“Yeah?” James asks, his eyebrows raising in hopeful excitement. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out, taught muscles falling as relief washes over you, “yeah, thank you.”

He beams at you.

“You’re ruining it.”

His smile lessens but never recedes. “Sorry.” 

After that – and completely out of character for you – you really have no complaints for the rest of the celebration. 

The weather is beautiful yet temperate, the biggest hiccup during the ceremony was Marlene’s niece wailing the entire time as she dutifully laid out her petals, and the reception was hosted inside the conservatory as the garden was too small for the number of guests. 

And you had no reason to think about James Potter ever again.

It starts like it normally does, with a a lazy Friday night. No deadlines, no noise, no Superman duties to whisk Clark away from you. Just the two of you, pizza, a bottle of white wine, and a movie neither of you are really paying attention to. You start curled into his side, the steady thumping of his heart against your ear a comfort that would normally lull you to sleep.

Not tonight, not with him in those flannel pajama pants, your favorite blue t-shirt, and the way his biceps tug at the sleeves in that delicious way to make your mouth water. He still wears his glasses around you out of habit, but you’re not ashamed to say how hot you find them.  It might be pathetic if you didn’t know that he’s just as desperate for you.

Ten minutes into the movie, Clark tugged your legs into his lap, smoothing his massive hands over your calves, tracing the circumference of your ankle comfortingly. As his featherlight touch grows higher, you become restless. Squirming against the knowing kiss he presses to your forehead before reaching for the remote to mute the television. The gasp you lets out is muffled against Clark’s mouth as you swing your leg over his hip, pressing yourself against him. 

Clark’s hands aren’t shy, not like they were when you very first began dating. They used to sit respectfully at his side, maybe cupping your cheek reverently or holding the back f your neck as though you would slip away. Now, his hands sit unashamedly on your waist, your hips, your ass, running over the skin as if trying to memorize the feel of it. When you twist your fingers into his dark locks and teasingly bite his lower lip, you’re rewarded with a gasp of your name. Before you can blink, he’s flipped you onto your back, hovering over you with a flushed face. The sweet blue of his irises are nearly entirely eclipsed by his pupils, blown with lust behind his crooked glasses. A hand traces reverently from your face, down your chest and to the waistline of your own pajama pants. Clark looks up at your face wordlessly for confirmation and a breathy “please” slips from your lips.

Clark’s canines glint underneath his smile as he takes you in, ruined and desperate after he’s barely touched you. He carefully hooks your legs over his broad shoulders, pressing another kiss to your ankle and breathing in your scent. 

His skills in bed don’t only come naturally. Clark was incredible from the first time you slept together, but has only gotten better and better as time has gone on. He knows you. He knows your body and has studied every microreaction you give him, even when you think he’s not paying attention.

Your breath hitches as he grazes over your clit, just barely giving it the attention you desire. You’re nearly holding your breath as he finally, finally sinks a finger into your hot heat, curling ever so slightly. 

“Golly, baby.” Clark murmurs, crooking his finger to build a gentle rhythm, “you’re soaked.”

You would have something smart to say back if you weren’t halfway to heaven just from his hand, but the only thing that comes out is “please Clark, please. Don’t tease.”

“What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me.” 

He picks up his rhythm, breath drifting across your clit as he smiles knowingly. Close, but not enough. 

“M-more, Clark.” You break off with a high-pitched moan, thighs trembling around his shoulders, “p-please.” 

“Good girl.” Clark presses a reverent kiss to your thigh before diving in like a man starved. One finger becomes two and his tongue finds your clit, tracing unintelligible patterns that only he knows as his pace coaxes you closer and closer to your high.

When you do come, it’s with a fist knotted in his hair and a drawn out gasp. Clark lets you ride out your orgasm against him, hips thrusting gently into his face and hand. He finally returns to your eye level after pressing a featherlight kiss to your clit just to see you jump. His chin is shiny with your slick and the sight alone makes you ready to jump his bones again as he adjusts his glasses atop the bridge of his nose. You kiss him lazily, tongues intertwining as you slowly reach down to grasp his throbbing cock. He groans into your kiss, burying his face in your neck to whimper when you brush a thumb across his weeping slit. 

You stay like that for a moment, him thrusting into your hand as you slowly stroke him, kissing languidly. When you make a move to reposition, kneeling on the ground to give him the proper blowjob he deserves, Clark frowns. 

“What are you doing?”

You barely open your mouth before he stops you, saying your name once in that gentle, honest tone. “You know that’s not how we do things.”

“Come on Clark. I just want to suck your cock.”

Clark chuckles, lifting you atop him with little issue and pecking your lips. “I think I’m gonna combust if I don’t get inside you this second. Another time.”

You might laugh in disbelief if he wasn’t resuming his teasing. You don’t think about your exes with him, but in the rare moments you do, it is always how they could never match up to the man Clark is. Clark doesn’t see sex as a competition or something that needs to be even. He’s thrilled to be intimate with you physically and emotionally, no blowjobs or head required to even the so-called “score.”

You thought disappears as suddenly as it arrived as he drags his cock through your still-wet folds. Every stroke is electric, riling the both of you up in time with one another. You match his movements with your own little thrusts, catching a glimpse of his needy length with an almost bruised looking tip leaking precum. The sight turns you on more than it should. 

“Do you need me to get a condom-”

“No, Kent. I need you in me. Now, please.” You beg, swirling your hips gently.

He laughs as he lovingly digs his fingers into your hip. “You’re going to kill me.” Clark lets you dictate the pace as you slowly lower yourself onto him. He’s hot and heavy, the stretch so deliciously good, you can’t stop your mouth from dropping into an ‘o.’ With Clark, every time still feels like the first time. When you finally do start moving your hips to ride him, he can’t help but sit back and enjoy the view of you, using him for your own pleasure. Clark’s personally heaven is when his cock is wrapped in your sweet pussy, but knowing that you feel good from the pleasure he brings you-

That might be another version of Kryptonite. 

You watch him carefully as you move atop him, his arms bent and tucked behind his head, content just to watch. You pout, placing your hands on his chest. “Baby-”

Clark nods, knowing exactly what you need. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He flips you over quickly, pressing a pillow under your hips and sliding into you with one fluid motion. The new angle allows him to hit deeper than before, making your eyes roll back and little gasps escape your mouth in pitched breathy moans. Clark groans, holding desperately onto his restraint so as to not hurt you, but you just feel so fucking good around him. Even better because he knows you’re loving it too.

“You like that?” Clark asks breathlessly, not letting up on his brutal pace. To anyone listening, it might sound as though he’s seeking reassurance—but you know better from the glint in his eyes. With his superhearing he can hear your pulse pounding and feel the way your body reacts to the new position. Your cunt flutters around him like a butterfly, accepting him back in after each thrust as though you can’t bear to be empty. “You like it, sweetheart?”

Your brows knit together, eyes fighting to stay open as you nod, struggling to form words through the high-pitched gasps and moans spilling from your mouth. Clark never stops moving, lowering his thumb to press tiny circles over your clit in a borderline-overstimulating rhythm.

“Use your words,” he encourages a small smirk on his face as he slows his pace just enough to watch you struggle to respond through the haze of pleasure. You could cry out in frustration—you’re not above begging. He loves this, knowing you trust him enough to ruin your body so deliciously.

“Yes—fuck, yes. Clark!” you slur, grabbing his free hand. He threads your fingers together and squeezes. You can barely squeeze back, so overwhelmed as he resumes his deep, steady thrusts. He leans down and presses a feather-light kiss to your lips. Pride swells in his chest as you gasp and stutter his name again and again. You swear you can feel him twitch inside you every time you say it. He’ll never admit it aloud, but there’s something he loves about knowing he’s making you feel so good you can’t even form a sentence.

“So close, baby,” he whines. “Tell me you’re close too.”

You nod feverishly. “Yes, Clark, please. ’M so close.”

Clark presses his body into yours, his weight warm and comforting, sealing the two of you off from the rest of the world. Hot kisses trail along your neck, sucking at the spots he knows make you unravel. Marks he knows will be there in the morning—and he still won’t care.

He shifts his hips just right, brushing against your clit, and that’s it.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, lighting your skin aglow as you dig your nails into Clark’s back and cry his name over and over. You pulse around him, matching his pace, lifting your hips to meet him as you ride out your high, going limp in bliss. Clark slows slightly, looking over you with open devotion.

“All good, sweetheart?”

“So good,” you mumble, forcing your eyes open to meet his caring, lust-filled blue ones. You can tell he’s using every ounce of restraint not to keep going from the slow way he presses into your ruined, oversensitive cunt. Summoning what little strength you have, you clench around him, earning a sharp gasp. “Want you to come too, Clark.”

You never have to ask him twice. You never do. Clark would move heaven and earth for you if you asked.

He begins to thrust again, faster and messy now, chasing his own release. The couch shifts beneath you, hardwood creaking with the force of his movements, and you couldn’t care less as he breaks apart above you.

“I’m gonna come, sweet girl,” he gasps. “You gotta—you gotta let me pull out.”

You shake your head, kiss just beneath his ear and whisper, “Stay,” hooking your ankles around his waist.

That’s all it takes.

Clark moans long and loud. You bite his skin for emphasis, and his grip on your hips turns bruising as he pulses inside you. Heat floods your core, so intense you’re sure his release is already spilling out of you by the time he finally slows and collapses atop you.

The world goes quiet as you melt together. Clark’s fingers trace lazy paths along your waist while you comb your hands through his hair. Still nestled deeply inside of you as his dick begins to soften. Time seems to slow as his body slowly relaxes against yours and he grabs one of the blankets knocked to the floor during your activities. He tucks it gently around you, sealing the warmth from your bubble around you. The television flicks off into darkness, only the low lamplight lighting the room. Metropolis swirls outside, traffic humming and the wind whistling, but here, nothing can touch the two of you as your breathing evens out.

“Was that… okay?” he murmurs at last.

He shifts onto his side, slipping out of you and pulling you half atop his chest. Your body aches at the loss, surely leaving a mess on the couch as his spend begins to drip out of you, but you don’t care—you know Clark will take care of it later. Curling into his side puts you exactly where you’re most comfortable. He strokes along your bare skin, presses his nose into your hair, breathing you in. 

You lift your gaze to meet his, eyes soft and full.

“It was perfect,” you say quietly. “You’re perfect.”

You feel his shy chuckle wrack his body more than you hear it. “That’s you.”

You shift closer, removing any chance of separation anytime soon. Clark exhales contentedly, legs tangling with yours.

“I’m never moving from here,” you murmur, as though afraid saying it too loudly might break the moment.

It’s not for a lack of trying. You’ve been on the apps, swiping left and right until the system embarrassingly tells you that it’s time to call it a day. You’ve been to singles parties when you have time, meeting more weirdos than not and making a beeline for the exit ten minutes into the event. You’ve even had many of your friends set you up with their friends, but it all ends the same. 

At some point, perhaps you have to admit that the problem lies with you. 

“It is with you. The problem, I mean,” Lois grumbles under her breath. 

You frown at her, displeased that you have to take accountability for your current predicament. The two of you are trudging side by side, you trying to scooch past aggressive fast-walkers and Lois elbowing anyone who gets in her way. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the reason why you can’t seem to be interested in any of these men you are seeing is because you keep comparing everyone to Clark.”

Oh dear. Embarrassed is an understatement for how you feel every time yet another new person outs you for your crush. While Lois is long-time in-the-know, catching wind of it the moment you turned your googly-eyes on him over two years ago, many others have been quick to point out your obsession with the journalist. 

It’s getting to the point where you’re convinced the entire office knows.

“The entire office definitely knows,” Lois deadpans again. Are you saying all these things out loud? “Yes, you are. You wear your heart — and clearly your thoughts — on your sleeve, it’s a wonder you’ve been able to keep this from Clark for so long.”

Pressing your lips together, you shoulder your way through the rotating doors of The Daily Planet and grunt when it doesn’t budge as fast. Lois gives it a good shove on the other side of the glass door so that you can stumble your way through. 

“It’s not my fault,” you pout, “also, it can’t be the entire office that knows.”

Cue your conversation with Perry as he summons you straight into his office the moment you walk through the doors after a very nice lunch break. You give a little uh-oh to Lois who only shrugs, nudging you in that direction. 

Perry rotates the Rubik’s Cube on his desk. It seems like he hasn’t made much progress since you were last in here. He only toys around with it when he has a critical topic to discuss. You wonder if your benefits run to the end of the year if he fires you right before the holidays; maybe you can finally dub him the real-life Grinch. 

“You’re not firing me, are you?” You blurt out. “Because I don’t think I can handle being unemployed over Christmas. I still have to buy gifts for my little cousins, then I also have a couple of nieces and nephews. Gosh, not to mention my mom wants a new toaster oven for—”

“You’re not getting fired,” Perry interrupts with a resigned huff. He presses his fingertips against the pulsing vein on his forehead and you clamp your lips shut. “I have two questions for you. Well, the first one comes with plenty of follow-ups.”

“Shoot.”

Your name rolls off his tongue like a desperate plea. “How long is it that you’ve been working here?”

You do the mental math, counting backwards from this very day, this very minute. “Two years, five months… six days… and, I don’t know, like three hours? We started my first day pretty late because of the fire alarm, so it’s kind of hard to say—”

Perry’s hand in the air silences you. Your lips seal closed again. “And how long have you been in love with Clark Kent, one of our very own?”

A squeak escapes you as you count the hours again in your head. “Um, two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty minutes.”

“Thought so,” Perry says with yet another deep sigh. You swear he’s sprouted more white hair since you last saw him yesterday. The rate at which he is aging appears to correlate with the number of conversations he has with you. 

“Do you think everybody knows?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. The answer is quick.

“Do you think Clark knows?”

This one he pauses for, but he still responds, “Yes.”

“Well,” you begin again with a sigh. “This is quite troubling then, isn’t it?” Perry only looks at you exasperated. “Why are we discussing my love life — or lack thereof for that matter?”

“Because I need you to get a grip on it. Because I need both you and Kent to work on the senator’s stripper scandal. Draft by tonight. He has most of the research, but I trust you to be more delicate about the situation in the piece.”

You only manage to nod. Working with Clark. Working on a very important, very heavy piece for the Planet. Working until very late. Working just the two of you. You can do this. Sure, it’s not as if you haven’t worked with him before. It’s not as if you want to blurt out how much you love his crooked glasses or his curly hair or his big, beefy chest every time you see him. You just have to remind yourself to shut the hell up whenever that urge arises. 

“Are you still breathing?” Perry prompts warily.

“Barely,” you wheeze. 

“Well, you better start figuring that out soon. Better yet, invite that man out for a drink, he looks like he never lets loose. Since he’s the exclusive rep for Superman, he has been working nonstop. While you’re at it, you might as well tell him that you want to marry him and have lots of babies with him.”

Your jaw drops as you admonish Perry with heat crawling up your neck. “This has got to be an HR violation on so many levels, I’m going to have a talk with Mel about your nosiness.”

“Yeah, then we can talk about that year-end bonus.”

That promptly shuts you up. Another HR violation! You should keep a notebook on everything Perry’s doing against your career at this point. 

“Don’t even think about doing whatever the hell you’re concocting up in that head of yours.” 

“How do you know I want lots of babies?”

“You don’t want a lot of babies. You want a lot of babies with him.” 

All this time, have you laid all of your cards out on the table? Open for the world to see. It seems everyone has been reading you like a book today. You feel like a novel stripped bare of its cover, down to the spine. 

He’s not wrong per se. It’s not like you have a particular fondness towards children; heaven knows you have enough nieces and nephews to drain your savings every year. But thinking about Clark and how soft he is and how gentle, how he could be so, so good with children, has you thinking about all sorts of circumstances in which you and he could raise a whole pen of children. 

But first, you must create the child. In order to create the child, you must perform coitus. To perform coitus, your feelings must be reciprocated. Now, this is where it gets challenging — if you want your feelings reciprocated, you need to at least let him know of your feelings. 

And that’s something — after two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty-five minutes — you cannot even begin to imagine doing. 

Luckily, before you can spiral into your bottomless pit of despair, Perry waves you out the door as he returns his attention to the article he’s redlining. “Let Clark know. I want that on my desk by tonight.”

“Tonight? I thought you were joking,” you gasp, “that’s so—”

“Tomorrow is the holiday party, which means nobody will be productive in the office. I want that piece out in two days. Ergo, I need the first draft in my inbox by tonight. It doesn’t matter what time.”

“Can you like just go to sleep, please?” 

Perry gives you another pointed look, reminding you that he is in fact a demon that does not need a wink of sleep. He flicks his fingers towards the door like he’s tired of your presence at this point. You have no other choice but to skulk back to your desk with a deep, deep sigh. 

Apparently, it’s a deep enough sigh that Clark perks up from his desk and rolls out on his chair towards you. Clark doing this also attracts Lois and Jimmy’s attention. Great, now you have a full party.

While the latter two are only being nosy, wondering what on earth Perry wanted with you, Clark offers a look of genuine concern. The cute puckering of his brows, his ocean blue eyes tinged with a melancholy meant to sympathize with you, and a pout of his lips that makes you want to kiss him silly. 

He is in his grey suit today, the one that’s a little oversized even for him. You wonder if it’s a hand-me-down from his dad, because Clark would be the type to have a suit from his dad, even if he is adopted. He pushes his glasses up on his face as he looks at you in earnest.

When he stares at you like that, how are you supposed to not fall in love with him? How is it even possible to resist how adorable he looks when he’s so sweet and—

“So what did Perry want?” Lois’ voice drags you straight out of your dreamy haze, her eyes dancing with an obvious sort of mirth that indicates she knows exactly what you had been thinking about. 

“Uhm,” you begin, eyes flicking to Clark, “we need a draft to Perry on the senate strippers by tonight.”

“It was multiple strippers?” Jimmy asks.

“No, it was one senator and two strippers, I think,” Lois corrects, stroking her chin.

“You’re both wrong, it was a senator at the strip club with two and a half strippers,” Clark piles on. “But tonight? Really? We have three hours of daylight left.” 

You groan, dropping your head onto the desk with a loud thud, almost missing Jimmy’s question of what the hell is half a stripper. Clark had moved fast in your periphery but not fast enough because you feel the sting of that petulant act on your temple. When you pick up your head again, he’s leaning closer now, having risen to his feet in concern. 

His hands move around awkwardly, like he wants to reach out and check on you, but also refuses to cross any lines that could make you uncomfortable. It’s endearing and you can’t help but smile. You can hear Jimmy and Lois’ disgusted groans behind you, but it’s not the first time you’ve ignored them. 

​​“We should be fine. We’ll be fine,” Clark tries to reassure you, a soft smile on his face as he offers up a look of confidence. “It’ll take some time because we need to properly build out the timeline and piece together the interviews, but we should be able to get it done tonight.” He winces, shooting you an apologetic look, “We may need to stay a bit late to sort it all out, so I hope you don’t have any plans tonight?”

You’re about to respond that your calendar is free and open for the taking when it comes to him, the embarrassing words nearly spilling from your lips when Lois thankfully interrupts you. Though, jury is still out whether you should be grateful when she asks, “No hot date tonight?”

Her sharp eyes glimmer as she singsongs the question, each syllable laced with humor that only Jimmy seems to understand. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows you have no hot date tonight, nor have you had a hot date in a very long time, because your love life — currently missing, it’s been hiding from you since college — is in shambles. How can you have a hot date when the only hot date you want isn’t even aware that he is the only man that you want to hot date?

Your own gaze flicks over to Clark briefly. A look crosses his keen blue eyes, one that slips in and out too quickly for you to catch. “No, no hot date,” you say almost pitifully. Clark’s face melts just a little bit; the only reason you see it is because you have a tendency to notice everything when it comes to him. Just like you, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“And you better hope Superman isn’t needed tonight,” Lois notes as she pins Clark with a pointed look.

They share words without saying a thing. A conversation happening right before your eyes without a peep. You’ve always been a little jealous of their bond. They started this job before you did, locking in a couple of years of friendship under their belt before you even knew Clark Kent existed. Rumors say that they even gave the romance thing a go for a bit. It makes you envious that Lois has probably seen and experienced parts of Clark that aren’t even present anymore, parts you wish you had been there to witness firsthand.

Clark pushes his glasses up again, clearing his throat. “I’m sure there are other heroes who can handle any emergencies that come up.”

This time, it’s you who chimes in. “He has been quite busy, hasn’t he? Which means you have also been chasing him all around town. I don’t know how you manage to always catch him. Does Superman have a phone? If he doesn’t, maybe a Nokia, something indestructible.”

A snort escapes his lips. “That’s good advice. I’ll be sure to let him know next time I see him.”

Afterwards, the two of you hunker down at your desks for a while. You work off Clark’s for a bit as you build the timeline together and frame the storyline before you even begin to chip away at the article. He’s patient and gentle as you wring your fingers through your hair in frustration every time a piece doesn’t immediately fall into place. He coaxes you through the stress, kindly offers up solutions without mansplaining anything. The temptation to drop down to one knee and propose to him is extremely strong today.

By the time the giant clock announces that it’s officially seven, the office is deserted. Nobody here gets paid overtime, which means nobody is sticking around past five this close to the holidays. It’s only suckers like you and Clark who get roped into writing ground-breaking, media-stopping pieces a week before Christmas. When you look up from your screen, eyes a little blurry from staring too long at the screen, there is not a single soul left aside from you and Clark.

“This is brutal,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m sorry you got stuck with me on this.”

With a shake of his head, he offers a comforting smile. “Don’t be sorry. Plus, I’m happy that it’s you here with me.”

If you hear that loud thud, that’s the sound of your heart slipping past your insides to your feet. Now that simply isn’t fair. How is it possible that he could say something so sweet so casually? How can he say such sweet nothings with a curl flopping down on his face, his glasses slipping on the bridge of his nose again, and his cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink?

Even worse, then he smiles and his dimples carve themselves into his cheeks and into your aching, bleeding heart on the ground.

“You’re a sweetheart,” you sigh dreamily.

Clark blushes an even deeper red and turns away to look at his computer, feigning business to avoid looking directly into your eyes. “Are you hungry? Should we grab some food before we continue?”

The two of you end up trekking to a burger joint down the street. A couple of greasy sandwiches, some well-seasoned fries, and the extra dose of caffeine and sugar from your sodas, and you’re both back in business. You’re a lot more peppy now that you have some food in you as you skip all the way back to the office. Clark trails behind you at a safe distance.

Metropolis a week away from Christmas is an absolute dream. Lights have been woven between the leaves and the branches, twinkling like stars within your reach. Storefronts are made festive with splashes of reds and greens with sprinklings of glitter and gold. Winter kisses your skin as you look up at the skyscrapers sparkling above you; the forlorn office workers stuck at their desks, the homebodies cozied up in bed, and all of those in between joined in the camaraderie of an evening days away from the greatest time of year.

These are the times that make you appreciate the city you live in. Barring the surprisingly frequent alien invasions and the occasional billionaire’s attempt to infiltrate foreign powers, the city is a wonderful place to be. It comes alive with its people, with everyone in high spirits, creating a community grounded in the spreading of holiday cheer.

Clark’s long legs allow him to catch up to the cloud you’re drifting on. “You seem much more chipper now,” he murmurs, unexpectedly close enough to your ear.

The proximity catches you off guard, your feet tripping over each other on the very flat sidewalk. Thankfully, Clark is there to save the day when his hand wraps around your bicep, swiftly steadying you. It’s almost dizzying how easy that was for him. How strong he is. You try to ignore the tingling between your legs at that new bit of information.

When you look up to thank him, you realize how close his face is. He seems to register this too and immediately stumbles backwards a little bit to give you some space. His eyes are blown wide in surprise, showcasing more of those green flecks in his blue irises. With his cheeks reddened — partly from the cold and partly from you, he whispers a quick apology.

“You saved me, why are you apologizing?” You poke his arm to show him how unserious you really are, despite the fact that your heartbeat has skyrocketed to astronomical levels. Your doctor’s going to want to have a serious conversation with you on your next annual about your blood pressure.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says sweetly.

Just when you think you’re done falling more in love with him, he manages to prove you wrong. “You could never make me uncomfortable,” you honestly respond and he seems encouraged by that. “And to answer what you were saying earlier about my mood. I was just thinking, what a time to be alive. We may be miserable right now while Perry is probably at home with his family drinking hot cocoa, while we’re chugging root beer to stay alive, but at least we are getting things done. In a city like this, where we want to believe the good in people, we can be the change we want to see. People put a lot of trust in journalism to bring justice to those who need it. So, in spite of our current suffering, we’re at least doing something good. Something worthwhile. These are nights where I question whether this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life, but times like these also remind me why this job is part of the reason why I get out of bed every morning.”

You look up at him again when he doesn’t say anything for several beats and you find that he’s already looking at you, except his eyes have thawed into puddles of blue. Like a still lake amidst the chaos. Clark has always been beautiful, there’s no doubt about it, but something about the look of awe on his face has your heart stuttering against your ribcage.

“You have a lot of faith in the world, in people,” he says quietly. It’s a statement that presents itself as a question. Why do you have a lot of faith in the world?

“We have a lot of cynics around us, it’s nice to have some blissful ignorance around,” you smirk.

“Not ignorance, just… hopeful,” Clark corrects. “The world is in a tough place enough as it is, so it’s nice that you still hold onto some of that positivity.”

“Well, some of us have to,” you grin, nudging him with your shoulder.

The next two hours are spent pulling all the puzzle pieces together, working side by side, elbows bumping when you draw a little too close, sharing shy glances before you keep moving. Once you glue all the parts together, it’s practically a perfect picture ready to be delivered to Perry. The last period you type has you finally slumping back in your chair, sighing at this document and that blasted blinking line.

When you finally hit that send button, it feels like Christmas is officially back on. You’ve been released from the shackles of capitalism and justice — at least for the remainder of the night.

“Alright, I don’t want to spend another minute in this place. I think I’m starting to hear voices and it’s Perry’s, which is not a voice I want to be hearing at ten.” The echo of your boss’ words in your ear has you shuddering.

“It’s quite late. How are you getting home?” Clark frowns at the clock then at you as he slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

“I’m not too far. A fifteen-minute walk from here so I’ll just do that. That burger really did a number on me so some fresh air will do me some good.” Groaning, you give your stomach a little apologetic pat. The indigestion is already kicking in; grease is never a good combination with a whole lot of sitting down.

Clark’s forehead creases and you resist the urge to smooth it down with the pad of your thumb. “That’s not very safe. I can walk you back.”

That has you shaking your head aggressively. “No, no. Don’t even worry about it. The city is safe—” he raises an eyebrow, “—well, safer from your day-to-day crime. I can’t predict extraterrestrial attacks but statistically speaking, they hit more often in the afternoon, which is the perfect time for us to be sent home for safety by the way. Then you don’t have to worry about whether you should be coming back to the office. Whereas morning attacks are the worst! The least they can do is launch an invasion when I’m still at home, that way I can stay in bed.”

Clark blinks at you and that is when it sinks in how crazy you sound. Humiliation sprawls fast through your entire being, like a disease that swallows you whole. Instead of addressing whatever nonsense you just spewed, you tuck your work bag to your side.

Clearing your throat, you continue, “Anyways, it’s a short walk. I do it all the time, even at night, so I’ll be perfectly fine. Pinky promise.”

He looks far from convinced but he doesn’t say a word so you assume he relents. The two of you step out into the brisk outdoors, the wind whipping you straight in the face as you wave at him one last time and begin heading out in your direction.

It becomes apparent that Clark is not letting the matter go when he starts walking alongside you. Not behind you, not even trying to hide in plain sight. No, he is walking right next to you.

You stop on the side of the sidewalk and purse your lips. “Clark Kent.”

That was a mistake because then Clark lets your full name roll off his tongue in the same tone, except his voice is deeper, sexier, and he has a ridiculously handsome smile on his face that you just want to smooch.

Your cheeks feel warm despite the cold. “Please. I promise I’ll be fine. I’ll even message you when I’m back.”

“You’re not too far from where I live so we’re headed in the same direction.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head. “First of all, you’re a horrible liar. Never try to lie again. Better yet, I’m never telling you my secrets because you’d give them away in an instant. Second of all, how would you know where I live, stalker?” You tease, giving him a firm jab to his chest.

His very firm chest. His very firm chest that doesn’t budge a bit even with the force of power you press into it.

You almost squeak out an oh no out loud, because you are in very big trouble with this new piece of evidence logged away into the Clark file in your head.

Clark steps forward, your finger turning into your palm flattening on his chest. Another oh no sits on the tip of your tongue when he smiles softly at you. His hand wraps around yours, the heat engulfing your cool skin.

“Let me do this for you,” he says and his voice is gentle, “it’s the least I could do.”

You hate to be an inconvenience but Clark isn’t looking at you like one, isn’t treating you like one. It’s incredibly sweet of him. It’s an incredibly Clark thing to do.

So you cave. Clark Kent isn’t someone you say no to. “Only if it’s not too much trouble then.”

“I don’t think it could ever be troublesome to keep you safe,” he says right back, doe eyes and cheeks flushed. You wonder how he can say such sweet things with a straight face, but you suppose it comes naturally to him. As easy as breathing.

He’s always the most helpful one around the office. Even when Steve is being a pain in the butt, he still helps him write his articles. Even when the mail room girls are only batting their eyelashes at Jimmy, he still helps them reach the highest shelves. Even when Lois is giving him — pardon your French — shit, he always takes it in stride.

The golden ray of sunshine in this otherwise very gloomy, very dreary office.

As you begin walking again, you try to keep him entertained, chattering away about all the nothing going on in your life. Clark doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seems intrigued. He asks you detailed questions, laughs at your poor attempts at humor, and validates you before you even ask whether he wants to hear all this.

When a comfortable silence settles in between you, Clark clears his throat, which piques your interest.

“So, uhm, are you still… dating?” He starts, the weight of awkwardness sitting on every word.

Your mouth dries. That was unexpected. Out of all the things you expect him to ask, your dating life certainly isn’t top of the list. You’re not entirely sure how you could even begin to formulate a response. On one hand, it’s worth stating that you are still dating to show some interest in him, hinting at the possibility if that is the direction he wants to take it in. On the other hand, the number of dates you have been on and failed to convert into a relationship is almost too embarrassing to say.

While you’re stuck in your mind on a simple yes or no question, Clark takes this as you being offended, so he quickly retracts. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I know this is the sort of thing you probably talk about with Lois. You don’t have to answer. I don’t know—”

“Yes,” you blurt out, “I mean no. Yes, I am still dating. No, you’re not prying.”

“Oh.”

“It’s just— it’s complicated.”

Clark stares at you curiously. “Your relationship status is complicated?”

“No, no. I am very much single.” Well, put your foot in your mouth, why don’t you? What a sorry thing to say in that very moment. It’s not that you’re embarrassed that you’re single, it just sounds like you’re throwing yourself a little pity party that Clark never signed up to attend. “I mean, I am… not seeing anyone seriously at the moment. But I am… looking, I suppose. It just hasn’t been working out so well.”

“Why do you say that?”

Because of you. Because every single person I date cannot even begin to compare to you. Because when I go on dates, I sometimes see you in the background, at the same place, like you’re reminding me that I’m still in love with you, and I’m wasting my time with all these other people. Because you make me think that I have a chance with you.

“I suppose I’m a believer in love at first sight. Cheesy, I know. So when that doesn’t happen or it doesn’t work out, it can be discouraging.”

Clark’s lips form a circle in surprise. “Have you ever fallen in love at first sight?”

Your lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. “Yes, once.”

“How did that go?”

“I haven’t quite worked it out yet,” you respond vaguely, then quickly add, “and right now, I just haven’t found anyone else my type.”

Clark looks even more engaged now, pressing closer. “What’s your type?”

You, you almost say. “Haven’t found my type either,” you smoothly say.

“Oh,” he deflates, “well, I hope you find someone you like soon.”

You want to grab him and scream that you already have found him, and it is him. Instead, you say, “I don’t even know how to start with that.”

“Well, maybe you don’t have to look too far. Sometimes, what you’re looking for can be right in front of you.”

There is a ringing in your ears and you can’t tell if it’s in your mind anymore. His words swirl in your head, words rearranging themselves as if you’re trying to interpret another meaning from the combination of letters. It almost sounds like he’s— but it can’t be, because how could it be— there’s no way, right? Right? You must be hearing things.

By the time you reach your tiny townhouse, your brain has fizzled out into ashes. The adrenaline from the day has worn off and this conversation has exerted the last bit of your energy. Clearly, you need to get your body, ears, and head checked if you’re starting to think Clark Kent could even be remotely interested in you.

“Well, this is me,” you say weakly. “I hope your travel back home isn’t too far. I really hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”

“Not an inconvenience, trust me. I liked walking you home,” Clark simply says, a small smile playing on his lips. “We don’t get to chat as much like this in the office. Just the two of us, I mean.”

Drat, there’s that silly little thing again — hope. So you play it off with a smile. “That’s because our colleagues are incredibly nosy and Perry would have our butts if he sees us slacking off for too long, probably threaten our year-end bonus,” you sigh with a shake of your head.

“And we barely make enough,” Clark huffs a laugh.

“Tell me about it. Capitalism wins again,” you smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Thanks again for walking me home.”

“Thank you for the company. See you tomorrow.”

–

The great, big unfortunate thing about your teensy (read: massive) crush on Clark is that everyone knows. Everyone in the office is aware that you have heart eyes for the journalist across the room from you. It is apparent in the way the two of you always eat lunch together with everyone else. It is obvious in the way you choose to sit on his desk when you’re idling around and making conversation with everyone else.

Keeping that in mind, this crush of yours should be plain as day to the man of the hour himself. It can be debated, of course; perhaps Clark wouldn’t be as immodest as to consider that one of his colleagues is absolutely head over heels for him. However, assuming that Clark is aware — as previously stated by your dear old boss — and given the fact that he has not indicated in any way whatsoever that he is interested in pursuing something with you, there can only be one conclusion.

He’s just not that into you.

And that’s fine. Your heart can break into millions of shards, but it’s fine. Rejection is a part of life and you just have to suck it up and move on.

If your attraction is not something that Clark plans to reciprocate, you simply have to deal with it. He is free to like whoever he likes, even if it’s not you. He is free to be nice to whoever he wants to be nice to, which is apparently everyone. You’re not exactly remarkable for getting special treatment for Clark; if everyone gets special treatment, then is it really still special?

But that’s the thing about hope. Even if you don’t feed it, even if you don’t nurture it or turn to it, the slightest bit of light is all it takes to keep it going.

Like yesterday, for example. Clark’s words cling to your sleep-addled brain in the morning as you drift listlessly around your kitchen to prepare your first dose of caffeine. They stick with you even as you do your short journey into the office, passersby ramming into you in your befuddled state and you don’t even have it in you to care.

By the time you reach the office, you’ve fully convinced yourself that you were concocting the implication of his words. He was just being nice. He has never otherwise shown any interest in you, so why would he now?

The office is teeming with life. There’s a giddy buzzing in the air, like bees in a massive field of flowers. Even Lois is smiling — smiling! What a time to be alive. There are staff members beginning to put up decor on the walls, strips of garlands hanging from the ceilings, lights strung in patterns high above. While many newcomers were skeptical about hosting a holiday party where they work, more than a handful of you have seen the masterful craft of the event planners. They are experts in turning this dreary space into a holiday hurrah.

By the time it hits four, Perry is well aware that nobody is working anymore. Everyone’s already fussing about what to wear, when to get here, whether to pregame (they shouldn’t, it’s an open bar). You and Lois have agreed to go back to yours first to get ready, much to her vexation. She isn’t interested in dressing up but you convinced her that it’s the one time she gets to actually dress up and have fun. When else in her life would she be able to have a nice, drunk, adult prom?

You tell her the same schtick every year. It works every year. It really is the open bar that does it for her. Also, the opportunity to see her colleagues do the most embarrassing things that she can then bring up year-round until the next party, where she will replace those stories with new material.

You wind your scarf around your neck as Lois leans towards your desk, asking if you’re ready to go. Jimmy is twiddling his thumbs, trying to avoid making direct eye contact with the mailroom girls who keep giggling at him. Clark perks up when he sees the two of you stand.

“Are you leaving already?”

“We’re going to go get ready at mine,” you grin, “I’m going to put Lois in a dress.”

“You will not,” she huffs. “I let her think she is so she’ll drop it.”

You harrumph. “Bold of you to think you can resist my feminine wiles. I will get you in that dress.”

Clark chuckles softly at the two of you before shifting his gaze to you. “What will you be wearing?”

As you open your mouth, Lois wraps her arms around one of your own, which promptly shuts you up. “That will be a surprise. But I will say that I have seen the dress and I know she will look ravishing.”

The compliment has you looking sheepishly away. “I should be flattered that you have that much faith in me, but honestly, I’m too embarrassed to even look at you right now.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy. Clark, tell her.”

You see Clark jolt from the corner of your eye, his bright eyes shining in surprise. You can see more of the blue when his eyes open up like that. His lips fumble over the words as he tries to respond. “Right. Yes. Of course. I’m sure you will. Look ravishing that is.”

Lois is the worst. How are you supposed to act normal when Clark calls you ravishing? Or at least expects you to look it. Now the pressure is on.

“Alright, let’s get going before you pop a blood vessel,” Lois smirks. “We’ll see you both later!”

Thankfully, Lois manages to drag your frozen self out of there. You feel rude for not responding to Clark, but at the same time, how can you even begin to form words with your mouth when your tongue feels like lead inside it? Lois pokes fun at you the entire fifteen-minute walk home, which reminds you that you also last did this walk in this direction with Clark the previous night.

“Clark walked you home?”

You wince, “Yes. I insisted he didn’t have to but he was really thoughtful.”

“Yep, that’s Clark for you. Thoughtful. Completely selfless. Not a single bone in his body is doing things just because he really wants to do it for his own personal gain.”

“What are you on about?”

“Nothing. Shall we?”

Because Lois absolutely hates your classic Top 40 pop songs, you put that exact playlist on loop on full blast the entire time you’re primping yourself. This is the one time every year you allow yourself to put in a bit more time on yourself. Work is work, and it’s hard to care about your appearance when you’re about to overdose on caffeine, jump over walls, chase down bad guys, all for the sake of a story. You opt for some professionalism but ultimately comfort.

Tonight? Tonight, you choose pain because beauty is pain.

The swipe of your red lipstick, the dusting of your eyeshadow with some glimmer, the sharp strike of your eyeliner, the thickening and curling of your lashes. You even do your hair, which usually sits in a nest all year. When you look at the clock, you realize that you’ve perhaps spent a little too much time getting yourself ready.

“Shit, Lois—”

“Don’t worry, you know most people arrive fashionably late. Steve, less on the fashionable, more on the drunk.”

You groan as you eye your dress on the hanger. “Okay, let me just slip into this and we can get going.”

As you’re struggling to twist your arms at odd angles to figure out how to zip up your dress, Lois swoops in to save the day. Her fingers brush yours off as she drags the metal up until it reaches your lower back.

It’s a bold dress. One you never thought you would wear but one that had you falling in love the moment you set your eyes on it. So maybe you lied to Clark — you’ve fallen in love at first sight twice.

“If Clark doesn’t sweep you off your feet tonight, I can think of a dozen other people ready to do so,” Lois smiles, giving you the surge of confidence you need.

By the time you shove Lois into her own dress and spritz on your favorite perfume, the two of you are sufficiently an hour past the starting time. You hope Perry hasn’t done his annual speech yet; he may really fire you if you miss out on it. The taxi pulls up outside The Daily Planet and the two of you slip and squeeze past the throngs of people to get to the front door.

The venue is a wonder the second you step in. The ceilings twinkle with a smattering of lights and silvery strands that shimmer under the lights. A disco ball hangs up high, speckling the dance floor with shifting spotlights. The DJ has the crowd going with upbeat melodies, throwbacks to a better time. The bar is expectedly where most people are concentrated still waiting on their drinks. 

Your eyes immediately land on Clark who also finds you when you step through the doors. Your heart jumps to your throat at the sight of him. He looks devastatingly handsome with an actually fitted navy suit that brings out the blue in his eyes. Even from this distance, you can see those sapphire irises shine. His broad shoulders stretch out the velvet fabric and his fingers are delicate as he fixes his cuff links.

You thought the black suit last year was bad enough. You actually whimper with this one.

“Alright, before you turn into a pumpkin looking at Clark all night, let’s drop off our coats and go in.” Lois tugs you in the direction of coat check.

When the thick fabric slides off your shoulders, the cool air immediately engulfs your body. You give a little shiver as the air conditioning slides a breeze over your bare shoulders. Lois pulls you back towards the front and Clark’s eyes land on you again.

Only this time, you can see the smile wipe off his face, his mouth opening, and the heat of his gaze traveling over you.

You look like you’ve been poured into this stunning red dress. A ruby number that hugs your curves in all the right places. The sweetheart neckline emphasizes a delicious, yet still work-appropriate, amount of cleavage. While the dress falls all the way to your feet, nearly hiding your matching blood-red stilletos, you can feel the air kissing your spine where the dress is held together by thin strings going criss-cross over your exposed back.

Your heart is hammering against your chest as the two of you slip through the crowd to find Clark and Jimmy. When they’re in sight, you realize that Clark’s been staring at the two of you this entire time. His expression of pure shock has not moved; instead, it only deepens when you approach.

However, as you come near them, Cat steps in and wrangles the two of you into a hug. “Oh my god, you ladies look amazing. Lois, you in a dress. Stellar as always. You — my god — look at this dress.” She even twirls you around which makes you giggle.

You swear you hear someone inhale sharply behind you and, when you finally go full circle and see Clark again, he looks like he’s been struck by lightning.

As Cat slinks back into the crowd, Lois elbows you gently, smirking.

Clark opens his mouth but, before he can utter a word, Jimmy is clamping his hands around Lois’ arm. “Fuck, that girl — Jenny, Jessie — keeps following me around. Lois, come on. We need to escape to the dance floor before she comes back.”

“You’re going to make me dance to this song of all things?” Lois gapes.

“Look, this is his new song. He’s doing his best. In terms of modern rock legends Jake—” Jimmy’s voice blends into the background as he drags Lois off. 

Leaving you and Clark alone. 

You laugh softly, gaze following after them. While Lois begins to dance, Jimmy is still throwing fearful looks over his shoulder. “You know, for a man who’s been chased down by ladies all his life, he’s still surprisingly inept at dealing with them,” you huff with a shake of your head.

Unfortunately, you don’t hear a peep from Clark so you turn back to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, shrinking the blues in his eyes to a thin ring. He only hums when you turn to face him, lifting his eyes to meet yours. “Hm, yeah.”

“You okay? You seem a little out of it.”

“I was just thinking about how Lois is always right.”

You cock an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You do look ravishing.”

Your mouth suddenly feels like sandpaper. Your breath catches in your throat, constricting your lungs, as he appraises you gently; however, the heat in his eyes is anything but. You can’t seem to find the words to respond to him. While Clark has always been kind, never has he ever complimented you so blatantly. Ravishing.

“I—” you stop, finding yourself at a loss for words, which is embarrassing for a writer, by the way. “Thank you?”

Clark laughs, shoulders shaking as his dimples appear again. It feels like a threat against your life now. “You’re very welcome.” Then he glances at the bar and at Jimmy and Lois again. “Did you want a drink?”

“Um, I think I’m good for now.” You’re already loose-lipped enough as it is, alcohol would not be beneficial when you’re both tongue-tied and rambling at Clark Kent. Who knows what you might say next? I love you, marry me, let’s have babies?

“Dance then?”

His hand appears in your line of sight before you can formulate a response. When you tilt your face up at him, he looks at you with hope brimming in his eyes. He doesn’t have to ask twice as you slide your hand into his, feeling his fingers wrap around yours. “Let’s.”

Once your initial tension melts away and your heart rate returns to normal, you’re able to enjoy yourself a little bit more in the crowd. Perry does his speech, slurring his words only slightly as he announces how proud he is of this team; gasps ripple around the room because Perry can be proud of us? Perhaps your job is secure as long as your boss gets his fix of wine. Jimmy continues to evade Jenny or Jessie — or both — by swooping in to dance with you and Lois and other people he deems to be safe from his supposed magnetic charm. Lois even begins enjoying herself when she has a few flutes of champagne, and a shot the bartender snuck her.

You and Clark — well, the two of you dance together in the beginning and it was a very nice dance. Clark has some old-school moves that he pulls out, ones that have you giggling. He smiles when he sees that. However, it doesn’t take long before you’re getting scooped away by one of your other drunken colleagues. Clark looks panicked at first but you reassure him with a wink.

The hours begin to blur together. Wines and champagne float across the floor, the music gets increasingly louder as the overhead lights are dimmed to bring in the neon flashes across the floor. You’re only a couple of glasses in, finding yourself sandwiched between Lois, who is now screaming about the patriarchy at Jimmy, and Steve who is talking your ear off about the NFL playoff predictions. You wince when he starts getting a little too excited about his favorite team and spit lands on your lap.

“Steve,” Clark’s voice cuts through the noise and you look up to find him looking down at Steve with a polite smile. You note the tightness around his eyes. “Perry wants to see you, said something about the front page for the Sunday edition.”

Steve is on his feet in a blink of an eye, launching himself in the big boss’ direction. While he’s distracted, Clark takes that opportunity to extend his hand. With a grateful smile, you take it and let him whisk you away to the dance floor again.

Just in time for a slow song to start. 

He seems as taken aback as you to hear the song selection. While there are still a few people who rock side to side leisurely, you’re not sure if you are in the stage of friendship with Clark to be platonically dancing to one of the most romantic songs ever written. 

Surprisingly, Clark scratches his cheek and clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t mind…” He once again offers up his hand, and you once again are in no place to deny him.

One of his hands takes yours and the other settles comfortably on your hip. You let yours be swallowed up in his and the other rests on his broad shoulder. The music delicately guides your movements slow and steady across the floor. A soft, invisible force caressing and pushing you close together.

Clark smells of old books, where the pages are worn but well-loved. You catch a hint of spice and pine, a woodsy combination that gives you a sense of peace. You don’t realize you’re actively sniffing him until you look up at him to say something and he’s already staring at you in amusement.

Crap. How embarrassing. “You… smell nice.” Real smooth. You’re a real Michael Jackson.

His laugh is genuine and deep. The corners of his eyes crinkle in such an endearing way that you can’t help the way your lips stretch into a wide grin. Then he does something that nearly gives you whiplash. Clark ducks his head. Low. Low enough that his nose grazes the back of your ear, brushing past the loose tendrils of your hair.

You nearly choke with how quickly you gasp. Clark inhales deep, so close that you can feel his lips practically on your collarbones. Your mind spins from the proximity, from the whiff you get of his cologne, from the ghost of his breath on your skin. It’s dizzying how much this man has an effect on you. A predicament and a cure all at once.

Then he pulls back but the remnants of the spell linger. Your mind is barely conscious when he shoots you with those dimples. “You do too. That scent’s my favorite on you.”

“It is?” You squeak.

This time, at least it’s his turn to be appalled by what he just confessed. He blinks rapidly and clears his throat, shifting his glance to the wall. “Uhm, yes. I mean, you always smell good. You have different perfumes. But this one — it’s, uhm, very nice.”

“Right, thank you,” is all you manage to choke out.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I realize it’s—”

“No,” you quickly interject, “no, you didn’t. I was just surprised that you noticed.”

“Why?”

You lick your lips, drawing his eyes to them, as you tilt your head. “Why am I surprised that you noticed?” He gives a short nod, eyes curious. “I guess, I just— I don’t know. It’s not something I expected you to pay attention to.”

Clark seems to mull this over for a moment, quiet as he looks away to think. Then his gaze are back on you and it’s melted like molten lava. Warm and gooey. “I think I notice too much when it comes to you. More than you might think.”

Your heart nearly slips past your ribs at his words. You don’t want to get your hopes up, but at the same time, how could you possibly hear it in any other way? If this is your delusional mind playing tricks, then maybe you’ll give in just this time. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could feel the same way you do. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could be yours.

“Did you want to stay?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper.

There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, or what you believe it to be, when he asks the question. Your heart skips a beat or two. You might’ve entirely gone into cardiac arrest but you’re still standing on your two feet, so that can’t be.

“No, did you?”

He shakes his head. “Can I walk you home?”

You smile and nod.

“I’ll get your coat and we can get going. I’ll let you say goodbye to the others if you want.”

What a gentleman. You practically swoon at his words as you hand over your coat check ticket. He flashes you one last charming smile before disappearing into the crowd.

You’re bidding your farewells to everyone who all groan and call you a party pooper for leaving so early and missing the after party. Only Lois seems to clock what you’re trying to say and she’s immediately wiggling her eyebrows at you. “She has her own after party to attend. Be smart! Be responsible! Be… you, basically!” She shouts out, wine sloshing precariously in her glass.

With one final shake of your head, you throw them a smile and head towards the entrance. Clark is still nowhere in sight so you twiddle your thumbs for a little bit in the silence. The music inside is muffled the moment the doors closed, which is a bit of a relief. You didn’t realize how exhausted you were until you stepped away, your feet tingling in protest.

Footsteps approaching have you looking up, a smile on your face thinking it’s Clark. It dims quickly when you see that it is in fact not. His name is… Danny, you think. He’s part of Steve’s team, which means you don’t interact much because sports isn’t typically breaking news. Until someone breaks something.

He greets you warmly, cheeks flushed from the drinks and the heat inside. “You enjoying yourself?”

Ah, and the small talk begins. This is not a conversation you will particularly enjoy. It’s stilted, mainly because you don’t know him that well. On top of that, he keeps inching closer and closer, oscillating from side to side. You hate the idea of making things awkward so you don’t back away and press on a smile that makes your cheeks ache. 

“Hey, listen, I know we don’t get to talk much in the office, but you took my breath away tonight. I mean—” his hand waves to gesture the length of you, and you have to resist a wince at the blatant objectification, “—do you want to go on a date with me sometime?”

Crap. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. This time, you really can’t escape your flinch. It’s one thing to know your colleague is interested and ask you out (example: your crush on Clark and it would be very clear that you would say yes if Clark were to propose a long marriage to you); it’s another to shoot your shot and end up with an airball (you assume he would get this reference). However, this is a sensitive situation because you don’t want to make it tricky in the office as well, so you can’t just say absolutely not. So instead you say—

“Actually, I’ve recently decided that I’m not really interested in dating anyone right now. With work so busy and life being… life, I figured it’s safer that way. Thank you though, I’m really flattered,” you force out the last part with a sympathetic smile. You never know how men will deal with rejection, so you may as well soften the blow.

Also, this guy is another tally on the list of why you don’t think your adoration for Clark is that obvious, because why would he ask you out otherwise?

“Ah, that’s a damn shame,” he whistles low. “Missed my slot, huh?”

Yes, that’s definitely why. Not the fact that you barely remember his name and that you’ve been pining over the six-foot-four cute journalist for over two years.

“Well, have a good night.” With that, he wanders back into the party, leaving you once again in the quiet.

“Ready?”

You nearly curse when you jump, the voice creeping up behind you. Clark is standing right there, your coat open in his hands. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“No worries, sorry for the wait. There was a line to get the coats. It seems everyone thought about leaving at the same time.”

“Thank you for getting my coat,” you say as you slip your arms through and he drapes it over your shoulders. When you turn to face him, a look flickers across his eyes. One too fast for you to catch. “Are you okay?”

He blinks away the impassive look in his eyes and smiles warmly at you. “Yes, let’s go.”

The walk home is silent. Quiet in a way that’s comfortable, a weight that settles in nicely between close friends. Your fingers are entwined in gloves behind your back as you marvel at the city lights at this hour. There’s tension woven into the air, like things left unsaid that manifest in incoherent whispers in the wind. Clark appears deep in thought when you look at him, a slight pinch between his brows, a tightness on the corners of his lips.

He doesn’t say a word though. His thoughts receded into himself.

When you arrive at your door, you turn to look at him with a nervous smile. It’s not like you’re expecting anything. Clark is a gentleman, you’re sure, but you’re also hoping that he’s the type to pin you up against the wall and make you forget your own name. Perhaps it’s the weaning effects of the alcohol in your veins, but you’re feeling a little bold when Clark hasn’t said anything.

He’s rocking on the balls of his feet, seeming as antsy as you are. You? Well, you just want to spend a little more time with him. Get him to stay longer — whatever the reason may be.

So you bite the bullet, licking your lips one last time to stop your voice from breaking. “Would you like to come in—” you pause, trying to come up with some reasonable reason as to why he would stay, “—for wine?”

Clark only looks mildly taken aback. For a moment, his lips part and you can see his tongue press against his teeth on the brink of a yes. Unfortunately, something in his brain seems to click because then he visibly deflates, his eyes flatten and you think that perhaps you’ve mistaken his response. Maybe what he meant to say was— “No, I don’t actually drink.”

Oh, well, so that’s not a full no, right? “Oh, uhm, I have tea as well. Or soda. Or… water,” you grimace at the last one. Why would you offer him that? He has that at home. What a silly thing to bring up.

His throat moves as he swallows, eyes shifting to the ground. “Perhaps not tonight.”

Your heart falls hard and fast, splattering across the ground. That last little bit of hope evaporating into the wind. Stupid, stupid! Now, you’ve gone ahead and mucked things up, haven’t you? Clark was just being a perfectly nice man who did a perfectly nice thing, and you completely warped it in your mind into a different situation. 

He was probably only looking for an out from the party and you were a good excuse. The walk home was a bonus for you. 

Clark — the sweetheart that he is — must’ve seen something on your face because he quickly adds, “I’ll see you Monday at work though?”

“Right, work,” you cough and force out a smile. “I’ll see you then. Thanks for walking me home.”

For a brief second, something in his eyes makes you think he may change his mind. Or maybe it’s the way his feet stay rooted to the concrete. But then he seems to shake himself out of it and he throws you one last smile before turning on his heel and disappearing into the night.

Happy holidays, huh?

–

Throughout the entirety of your career, you have admittedly never experienced the Sunday scaries. It isn’t as if you were particularly excited about going to work, but you weren’t exactly worried about going through the motions of generating income either. The Daily Planet has incredible people and you’ve made a good number of friends who make the days a little less painful. Stories keep you busy, there is always something to chase.

So Monday should be like any other day. Well, it should have been. If it weren’t for the fact that you opened your big mouth and absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the love of your life.

When your eyes open bright and early that very first weekday, fear of all things sits in the pit of your stomach. It festers and grows even as you go through the motions of getting ready for the day. Brushing your teeth, picking out what to wear, packing your bag, and making that walk.

The dread sinks in hard and fast as you go through the rotating doors. Stanley, the security guard, greets you warmly, tells you good morning, and you almost ask him what’s so good about it. The worries plagued you all weekend and it shows in the shadows under your eyes, no matter how much you tried to conceal it.

Lois takes one look at you and concern takes over her expression. “You—” she stops herself, “did you get enough sleep?”

Maybe you’re a little crabby, but you only shoot her a look. It eventually does melt to an apologetic one but for now you can only shake your head. “Not really,” you say as you drop your bag on your desk, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Feel a migraine coming.”

“You should just take the day off.”

“No, I have to finish up that fluff piece on holiday decorations.”

“That’s hardly breaking news. Cat could take over for that.”

With a deep sigh, you once again shake your head. “No, I think I need work to distract me today. I don’t want to be sitting alone at home with my own thoughts.”

Lois’ lips press together into a thin line. “Did something happen? I thought, on Friday, you know with…”

“Don’t ask,” you blanch, “I embarrassed myself enough as is. I don’t think I can look him in the eye.”

“What do you—”

Her words get cut off when Clark strolls in and she promptly clamps her mouth shut. Even if your crush is allegedly very obvious to everyone in the office, Lois still respects your privacy and your need to pretend like it isn’t. You appreciate it more now than ever, especially when Clark smiles warmly at Lois and the look on his face falters when he sees you.\

Way to go, pat yourself on the back for ruining what little chance you already had. 

“Morning,” he murmurs to both of you before going to his desk.

You’re about to fling yourself out the window.

Luckily, Perry does keep you busy when he stacks another assignment on your desk. Before you can even work on your piece due tonight, he tasks you to help Cat with a piece of breaking news in the entertainment sector. This means you have to turn down Lois’ offer to grab lunch together with Jimmy and Clark as you usually do.

You don’t look at Clark when you respond to Lois. “Sorry, I should get this done. I’ll just eat lunch at my desk.”

“Okay, I’ll grab you something then?” Lois offers kindly and you nod at her gratefully.

When you do need a mental break from working (in other words, you need to just chat about nothing for a bit), you resist the urge to plop yourself down on Clark’s desk as you usually do. Instead, you swerve and head straight for Lois. She doesn’t seem to mind, but her gaze does dart between you and Clark even as she’s talking.

You avoid looking at Clark the entire day. If you see that sympathetic expression on his face again, one that pities your unfortunate unrequited crush on him, that may be your last straw before you burst into tears. The last thing you want is to make things unnecessarily tense in the office. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings. It’s not his fault that you made him uncomfortable by inviting him in for a drink.

You really need to get it together.

At the end of the day, after everyone else has left, it’s surprisingly only you and Clark again in the office. Your mind runs through all the upcoming deadlines and you didn’t think he had anything that had him working late today, perhaps he’s beginning his next one proactively.

“Are you working late?”

His voice has you jolting back, chair rolling and banging against the corner of your desk. The impact on your back is immediate and you wince.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he drops to his knees, hands flailing in the air like he’s looking for something to help with. His beautiful blue eyes are wide, shaped into concern when your face morphs in pain again. “Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yep,” you laugh, “just being silly. You didn’t do anything wrong, don’t worry.” Clark doesn’t seem convinced and stares at you again, searching your face. You have to smile reassuringly at him before he even softens just a tad. “I’m fine, promise. And, to answer your question, I have to wrap this up and get it out to Perry so it can go out at midnight.”

“The holiday decor one?”

You’re a little surprised he knows, but you nod anyway.

“The piece with Cat turned out okay? You seem to have a lot on your plate.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s no big deal. Cat’s thing needed to go out today, so I didn’t mind helping out. Everyone has been super busy.”

Clark’s lips pinch, jaw clenching. “Yes, but Perry’s been giving you a lot of the heavy stuff. He should ease up.”

“Clark, I’m fine. I promise. You know I can tough it out against Perry,” you smirk.

Having a normal conversation like this is nice. Perhaps there is some hope for you yet; not hope for romance because that one’s buried six feet under now. But at least hope that you can salvage this friendship and your working relationship.

“I can stay, wait for you to wrap up so I can walk you home.”

Your protest is immediate. “No, no, please. You don’t have to. I won’t be much longer and it’s really not that late.” Again, he doesn’t look swayed by your words. “I promise I won’t leave too late. If I get scared, I’ll give you or someone else who lives nearby a call. Or I’ll call a cab. Don’t worry.”

“Call me,” he says quickly. “If you need someone to walk you home, call me. I’ll be here.”

It’s incredibly unfair that, even after he so clearly rejects you, he’s still being so kind. But that’s just who he is, isn’t it? He can’t help himself. Always wanting to take care of people. Your heart aches at the thought and you can only give him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Clark.”

Clark pauses one last time, checking your face for any sign that you might change your mind. When he doesn’t find it, he rises to his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“See you tomorrow, Kent,” you grin, doing your best to convince him.

“Have a good night.”

When his footsteps finally subside and you’re left in the quiet again, you finally let out a long exhale. You lean back in your chair, the joints creaking, and press the balls of your palm against your eyes. 

Don’t cry. It’s always been a far-fetched crush anyway. Clark is kind to everyone and you took that kindness and twisted it into a hope for something more. You couldn’t help yourself from falling for the gentle giant, but it’s not on him to manage your feelings.

So you swallow back the tears and toughen up your heart. After all, you still have work to do.

Once you finish up your final words of the arguments of tinsels versus garlands and click the send button, you release a sigh of relief. What a Monday. You’re ready to get the heck out of here. You quickly pack up your bag and head towards the exit.

Only, you nearly trip over your feet when you see the lone figure by the door.

“You’re still here.” The words are out of your mouth before you can think them through.

Clark’s head jerks up immediately, eyes finding you. A smile slowly stretches across his lips. It’s been at least thirty minutes since you last spoke to him. “Hey. I wanted to make sure you got home okay.”

“You’ve just been standing here? Why didn’t you wait inside?”

His mouth twitches. “You would’ve spent the entire time trying to get me to go home if I stayed inside.”

You would’ve. It would’ve been ridiculous for him to wait for you. Especially since…

“Did you wrap up?”

“Yeah, it’s in Perry’s hands now.”

“Best place to be.” He smiles, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. “Shall we?”

Similar to the previous night, the walk home is quiet. Side by side. Two separate souls. The walk feels a little lonelier today. The distance is palpable, a chasm you can’t seem to ignore. Gone is the easiness that rests between you when your entire body is stiff as a board. The walk feels like it lasts forever and takes no time at all. 

Reaching your front door alleviates some of the tension in your shoulders. For the first time, you’re actually thankful that you’re home. You don’t think you can take much more of interacting with Clark, not when everything still feels so taut between you. 

“Thank you again for walking me,” you murmur. After that spiel inside your head, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him fully. Your eyes brush over him, then fly to your door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Clark clears his throat, you don’t look at him. You can’t. You don’t think you can handle it. What you have to do is disappear behind your door and wallow in self-pity. Maybe in that tub of double fudge caramel ice cream you picked up over the weekend. 

“Uhm, right. See you tomorrow.”

You throw him one last smile, barely sparing him a glance, and move towards your door and close it behind you.

Crud. What a day. As heartbreaking as this whole ordeal is, you’re grateful that Clark is at least trying to show some semblance of normalcy after your big mishap. It’s not the outcome you wanted but you can finally put a close to this chapter of your love life.

Now, onto your ice cream. And maybe a few more tears.

Right as you’re shrugging off your coat, the doorbell rings. A frown settles on your face as you float towards it, swinging the door open and surprised to find Clark on your stoop. Before your mouth can even open to say anything, Clark blurts out, “Did I do something wrong?”

You blink, surprised. “I— what do you mean?”

“You didn’t sit at my desk today. You sat on Lois’.” You’re gobsmacked but Clark continues, “And we always eat lunch together — granted with everyone else — but you ate alone today.”

“Well, I— uhm, I had that piece to finish.”

“And you’ve barely looked me in the eye today. It’s just—” he runs his fingers through his curls, looking devastatingly handsome even when he’s flustered. “I’m not sure what I did. If I did something, I want to know so I can fix it. Fix this.”

The words spill from your mouth without much thought. “No, Clark. Oh gosh no. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not at all.”

He steps towards you and you take a step back out of instinct. Aware of your reaction, he winces and takes a step back, putting a safe distance between the two of you. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t know how to do this. I’m— I’m not used to you being… distant from me. I thought we were fine. I thought we were friends.”

Friends. Yes, that’s what you are. That’s exactly why you needed to put a bit of breathing room between the two of you. You don’t want to do anything to ruin this friendship. “No, it’s not you. I promise. I thought you were uncomfortable with me, so I—”

“Uncomfortable?” He interrupts, eyebrows furrowing again.

Your nervously pick at your fingernails as your face contorts into an expression you don’t want to name. “I thought the entire office knew. Then after yesterday, I just assumed— I don’t know. I didn’t want you to be awkward around me because of what I did.”

“Know what? What did you even do?”

“Well, I invited you in here and you clearly weren’t interested and I thought you knew that I’ve been in love with you for forever,” you finally confess, face feeling like it’s in flames with the embarrassment that carves itself deep into your core. You can’t look at him, can’t bear to see his face when he realizes that you’re truly messing up this friendship. “This is so humiliating,” you mutter, “and I—”

Suddenly, you feel cool hands on your warm face and his lips on you. The cool winter air is nothing compared to the sudden wave of heat that floods your body as Clark’s mouth devours you. It’s gentle for a heartbeat before his movements grow frantic, desperate, like he can’t get enough of you. He steals the air from your lungs, breathes it into his own.

And it feels so good. Oh so good. So good that your brain has short-circuited, wires fizzling out into disarray. It’s better than you could’ve ever imagined because Clark tastes a little like espresso, a little mint, and a little something that is just him.

Your back hits the wall and Clark only presses in deeper, swallowing your moans like they have always belonged to him. His hand is on your cheek, the other on your waist. His fingers sink into your flesh to keep you there against him.

It is only when Clark begins to shift his lips, his warm, soft lips, along your jaw and down your neck that you’re able to see clearer, the prints on your wall becoming coherent. That is when your palm lands on his chest to slowly push him back, but at the same time, maintaining a close enough distance that you could easily twist your fingers into his shirt to pull him back towards you.

Clark reluctantly draws away from you, lips swollen, glasses slightly askew. His breathing is a far cry from yours, where your chest rises with stuttered breaths, his is surprisingly even. You’re not sure how you do it, but you do find your voice eventually. “Uhm, what just happened? What’s happening?”

His throat moves as he swallows, staring at you with such earnest, sweet eyes. “I thought it was obvious that I’ve been in love with you. Lois gives me crap all the time for it.”

You nearly break your neck with how fast you jerk up to look at him. “You what?”

“I thought you knew!”

“How would I know that?” You gasp, “Last night, you didn’t— I mean, I asked you twice to stay. I thought I messed this — our friendship — up. Thought you were trying to be nice today to let me down gently.”

Clark groans. It’s a pained one, but you can’t help the way the sound shoots straight between your legs. “I overheard you talking to Danny last night, you told him that you recently decided that you don’t really want to date anyone right now. So when you asked me to stay, I thought all you wanted was…” he tapers off, eyes flicking away for a second, “you know. And I would’ve obviously still loved to take care of you — and I’ve thought about it in great detail plenty of times — but I don’t think I could’ve walked away from that. From you. I can’t just do one night.”

You feel so stupid. You thought you were letting Danny off easy, but you hadn’t even realized Clark had been listening. Your teeth catch your bottom lip as you huff a tired laugh. “It’s because I’m not interested in dating anyone but you.”

“So this is real? Us? This is happening?” Clark brightens, the growing source of light in this otherwise desolate winter evening. “I mean, we can really be together?”

A giggle escapes your lips. “Yes, Clark. This means we can be together.”

He closes his eyes, relief crashing over him in waves. When he opens them, his blue eyes have darkened. Pupils dilating as he rakes his eyes over you. “Good, that means I can properly take care of you now.”

“Now?” You squeak.

Clark’s eyes fall to your mouth, shamelessly taking in the way your lips part in surprise. “Only if you want to. I’d love to take you out to dinner or do any other activities. I’ll be sure to do that too, but, if I’m being honest, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and I really want you.”

The man has always been honest. Honey-soaked truths dripping from his lips. But not like this. Never like this.

“I just—” you pause, heat crawling up your neck, “I haven’t even gotten ready. I’m not wearing cute underwear—”

“No need for cute underwear if I’m going to take them off you.”

Oh goodness. Well, he doesn’t have to say more than that. And he doesn’t because then he’s pushing up your pencil skirt to your hips as he drops to his knees before you, leaving you in your sheer black stockings. Clark groans, kissing his way up your inner thigh when he reaches the space between your legs. A rough exhale leaves his lips. “I could smell how wet you are, you know. Every time you’re near me. I never realized this was for me. Now, I get it all to myself.”

“Clark,” you whimper pathetically.

“How attached are you to these stockings?”

You blink through the haze. “Not very—”

The rip echoes down the hall as Clark uses minimal brute strength to tear through the thin fabric, the stretchy material scrunching up as you’re exposed down there. You always thought Clark was handsome — cute, even — but you’ve never seen him like this. Eyes glazed over with wanton need, lips parting with heavy pants, and — your eyes dip to his pants — so, so hard.

“Cute,” Clark chuckles low when he spots the teddy bear prints on your panties.

Can this be any more embarrassing? Your instinct is to clamp your legs, hands flying to cover up your childish underwear. You really didn’t think you were going to end up with the head of the love of your life between your legs, so your underwear choice really wasn’t top of mind this morning.

Clark’s very large hands pry yours away as he looks up at you. His glasses are slightly crooked, dipping just below his eyes. Instead of his usual awkward self, he looks tantalizing. Inquisitive, hungry eyes peering over at you. “Don’t hide from me, honey,” he coos, “you’re so beautiful. It feels like I’ve been waiting for this my entire life.”

His breath his hot where it kisses your skin. First your thighs then to your clothed pussy. You can feel yourself leaking through the fabric, desire pooling in an embarrassing puddle soaking up the cotton. His lips brush over your core, light and teasing. Your hips jerk up involuntarily and you let out a small whine over how desperate you seem. Clark lets out a delicious moan when he hears it.

“I thought about doing this yesterday. When I saw inside your house, all I wanted to do was press you up against this wall and taste you.” His words stoke a fire inside you. His finger hooks around the gusset of your panties and drags them to the side. Clark leans close, a whisper of warmth against your sensitive, wet skin. “You always smell so sweet.”

“Clark, please,” you whisper as your fingers twist through the silky strands of his midnight hair.

He flattens his tongue against your core, dragging it up painstakingly slow until it presses against your clit. His tongue swirls around the nub, flicking it eagerly until you’re tugging on his head with a gasp. Your head falls back against the wall with a thud, eyes sliding shut as Clark licks and nips you like a starved man. You’re not entirely sure how he does it but you see stars in the back of your eyes, dancing like they’re taunting you with how heavenly his mouth feels on you.

When you finally look down at him, he’s looking up at you through fogged up glasses. His eyes are no less sharp as they watch your every move. The way you respond to how he strokes along your pussy lips, how his tongue pushes deep inside you, how his fingers dig into your thigh. Your body falters with the intensity of his gaze and you nearly slip but Clark is faster, holding you up easily against the wall as he continues to devour you.

Every movement feels intentional, like he’s rehearsed this and thought through every single thing that would make you tick. Your mind goes into a frenzy, body hot with how desperately he’s mouthing you. You look down further to find his other hand has drifted down to his cock, palming himself through the fabric of his slacks. His moans against your cunt reverberate straight through you, your toes curling in delight at the evidence of how much he’s enjoying himself.

You’re getting a little too close when he flicks his tongue inside you again and you have to yank his head back by his hair. The bottom half of his face glistens with your slick and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

“Clark, I can’t— I’m going to cum like this.”

“Good,” he says, ready to dive back in when you pull him back again. Another needy sound leaves his lips as he does so and you burrow your fingers deeper into his hair.

“I want you to get off too. I want you to finish with me.”

“I can finish like this, honey. I promise.”

“But I want you. I want you inside.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.” He releases an unsteady breath. Without warning, he rises to his feet and picks you up, earning a surprised squeal from your lips as your legs wrap around him in panic. Clark props you up easily against him, your hands landing on his broad shoulders. “Where’s your bedroom?”

You weakly point in the general direction and Clark carries you all the way there before unceremoniously tossing you onto the bed. He climbs over you in a heartbeat, mouth latching onto your neck to litter pretty blossoms across your skin. He marks you up with constellations, all named after him to show everyone that he belongs to you and you to him.

“So pretty like this,” he mumbles as he begins to unbutton your blouse, kissing his way down your breasts and down to your stomach. He pays particular attention to the insides of your thighs when he feels you squirm again. “You’re so sensitive, it’s so cute.”

“Don’t tease,” you chide playfully, swatting his shoulder.

“Not teasing, I like it. I like how responsive you are. Love hearing your moans,” he hums as he makes his way back up to you. “Do you know how many times I’ve pictured spreading your legs open in the office? Every time you sit on my desk, all I can think about is getting on my knees and burying my face in between them.”

The visual only adds fuel to the fire already burning bright inside you. You can imagine what it would be like to have Clark eating you out on his desk after everyone’s gone, his tongue eager and hungry. He would lap you up, so desperate to make you feel good. All he wants is for you to feel good.

“Maybe next time we work late,” you smile teasingly at him.

“I’ll do it, you know,” Clark beams right back as he begins to unbutton his shirt. You drag your finger down from his collarbone, south to his chest and to the smattering of hair leading down to his pants. “Keep teasing me like that, keep wearing that tight skirt you love so much, and I’ll do it in front of everyone.”

Your neck flares with warmth. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he says, such resolution in his voice that you know he means it.

“Okay, well, good thing we’re at home then,” you say with a huff, but even he can see how frail your voice is.

“You like the idea of it,” he correctly guesses.

“I—” The denial sits on the tip of your tongue, but you relent at the last second. “I do.”

Clark licks his lips and leans down to press them against yours. He smiles against you. “I can make it happen.”

“Clark,” you flush again.

“For now, darling girl, I’m going to focus on making you feel good right here. I’m going to go slow, okay? Don’t want to hurt you.”

You’re about to tell him that he couldn’t hurt you but then you see the bulge in his pants and how it’s straining against the fabric, demanding to be released. You can see the not-so-faint outline that has your mouth watering. One day, you’re going to put your mouth on him. One day, you’re going to be on your knees between his legs. Maybe in the office.

“Okay,” you concede quietly.

“Mm, good girl,” he murmurs and those words send blood straight down.

Clark grabs a condom from his wallet and you raise an eyebrow at him. “Never pegged you as the type to carry around condoms.”

“I wasn’t,” he pauses, “until two years ago.”

“Two years—” the words stop short on your tongue. “You’ve been in love with me for two years?”

“Well, more like two years, five months, ten days, si—”

“Six hours,” you finish. “Oh wow.”

Clark smiles softly down at you. “It’s been a while for us, hasn’t it?”

“A little too long if you ask me.”

Without missing a beat, Clark kicks off his pants, followed by his boxers. At the same time, you’re stripping off everything except your underwear, which Clark finds himself grinning at. As for you, you can’t bring yourself to smile when you see the size of him.

“What do you eat to get it that big?” You let slip. It’s an embarrassing but relevant question.

Clark blinks, looking humored. “Your pussy.”

“Clark!”

He chuckles low before rolling the condom on himself, XXL no doubt. Must cost him a fortune to look for specialized latex that’ll fit him. “I’ll go easy,” he mumbles, more so to himself.

You can feel him nudge at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pushing into you slowly. The stretch stings, tears prick your eyes at the feeling.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, wincing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s okay. I’m fine,” you try to reassure him.

Clark is definitely doing his best to try and make it easy for you. Even with how wet you are, Clark is still very… well-endowed. He swallows thickly when he finally manages to notch his tip into you, the head stretching out your poor little pussy. “Do you have lube? I can use it, make it easier for you.”

“Bedside table,” you rasp, gesturing to the nightstand.

Clark pulls out of you slowly again to grab the bottle and drizzle a generous amount on himself. It’s cute seeing him so laser-focused, so intent on making this as pleasurable for you as possible. You’ve had other men, of course, even in the two years you’ve been in love with him. But none of them have ever been as attentive, as careful with you.

You almost wonder what it would be like for that restraint to snap, for him to just take you the way he wants.

“I can take it, Clark. I promise.”

He nods slowly before repositioning himself back between your legs. The slide in is slightly easier this time, his head making it past your tight muscles despite your resistance. He moves slow, deliberate. The veins on his neck protrude as he tries his best to control himself with how you’re squeezing around him.

“You’re so tight, honey,” Clark musters out, “so tight for me. You feel so good. I can’t wait to fill you up all the way.”

“I-I’m not sure I can take you all the way,” you admit, feeling the burn intensify. Clark pushes himself in gently, in and out an inch at a time, until you’re used to his girth. Each slide in goes deeper and deeper until you feel him hit your womb. “So deep, Clark,” you groan, “feels so full. So good.”

“You can take it. You can take me. I know you can,” Clark encourages as he begins to thrust into you gently. The drag of his cock, thick and hot, inside you is enough to have you squirming underneath him. Not necessarily your body’s instinct to get away from the pain, but your pussy’s need for more.

Clark’s muttering reassuring praises at you, telling you that you’re doing such a good job taking him. How beautiful you look like this underneath him.

“I’ve been thinking about you for so long, what you would feel like wrapped around me. My imagination couldn’t do this any justice,” he breathes, burying his face in your neck as he plunges into you.

As you get accustomed to his size, Clark begins to move more confidently, more freely. His cock splits you open but you feel that burning pleasure more now than ever. One of his hands is on your headboard, the other on your hips as he presses into you. The bed creaks a complaint underneath him, your headboard rattles against the wall.

Burning need coils tight inside of you, twisting all of that delicious feeling until you can’t see anything but him. The world blurs before you as Clark pants every time he rams into you. He’s buried to the hilt, you didn’t think it was possible, but your legs curl around him to pull him in even closer.

“H-honey, don’t do that. I’m going to cum too fast,” he whines. And he sounds so good doing so.

“I want you to feel good,” you sweetly say, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. His lips find yours and you lick into his mouth to get a taste of you and him, that intoxicating combination that has you grinding up to meet his pace.

“Feels so good, feels too good,” he croaks, voice fraying at the edges as he continues to drive into you. His cock feels like otherwordly, like something no mortal man should ever have.

You moan and dig your head into your pillow as your entire body bounces with every thrust, even as he tries to keep you steady. Clark looks down to see the way your breasts move as he slides into you.

“Tits so pretty,” he mumbles, “so pretty. I can’t wait to taste them after this. Just want you to cum once first. One time then I’ll give you more, honey. I promise. I’ll make you feel good all night.”

His name comes out of your lips in another whine. “We have work tomorrow, c-can’t go at this all night.”

“We’ll call in sick, you deserve it. You’ve been working so hard,” he huffs, muscles on his abs rippling as he continues, biceps flexing above you. You wish you had a camera on you, capture every second of this moment. The one you’ve been waiting for for far too long.

“I—” you hiccup when Clark shoves in particularly deep, “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so naughty.”

“Only if it keeps you here with me.”

His little praises, his sweet promises, his broken mewls. All of them combined have you climbing and climbing faster. The pleasure that has evaded you for so long finally chasing after you, pace faster than you can avoid.

“C-Clark, I’m g-gonna cum, please, please,” you plead, nails scraping down his back as you arch your body into him.

Clark moans at the feeling and begins to hammer in faster and deeper. Your bed is loudly protesting how hard he’s going but you aren’t, instead begging with your mouth as you reach up to kiss his neck, your tongue laving at his skin.

That seems to be the last straw because then Clark is coming apart before you, splintered gasps falling from his lips as you find your own climax, your pussy pulsing around his length. The air is knocked out of your lungs as you find it, your body convulsing with satisfaction but also a need for more.

His forehead presses against yours, equally warm. “S-sorry. I shouldn’t have— you should’ve cum first, I didn’t mean to—”

You giggle and lean up to kiss him. “I didn’t mind. I like that you were so wrecked that you couldn’t even hold it back.”

“Still shouldn’t have happened,” he frowns at himself. “Let me make it up to you, yeah? Let me take care of you again.”

“Clark, we just finished. Aren’t you tired?”

He stares you like you have three heads. “Why would I be tired?”

You have no answer to that, but you smile up at him anyway.

“Now, I have two years of making up to do. What shall we do next?”

clark is kissing (taglist): @houseofhyde @bckyslover @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @opheliabbarnes @/pinksplace @lunexiax @umbreoni @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @natskisses @parker-barnes-af + @toxicrelief @fancypeacepersona @shrekzwifey

.

You woke up to the weight of Clark’s arm around your waist.

For a blissful five seconds, you forgot what day it was. Just warm, strong muscle at your back, his breath on your neck, the low rumble of his heartbeat under your palm where your hand had slipped beneath his T-shirt in the night.

Then your alarm blared.

You groaned and tried to burrow closer. “No. Not yet."

Clark huffed a laugh against your shoulder. The firm arm around your waist tightened, hauling you back when you tried to roll away. “I second that motion,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “All in favor of ignoring the alarm and staying right here…?”

You were tempted. God, you were tempted.

But the familiar knot of responsibility tugged you upright. You reached back, slapping at your phone until the noise cut off. The dark room settled into the faint predawn gray leaking in around the curtains.

“I have to go,” you sighed, already mourning the loss of his warmth as you sat up. His T-shirt rode up on your thighs; one of his hands slid, automatically, to steady you at the hip.

“I know, sweetheart," he sympathized, a hand coming up to tuck hair behind your ears. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

You glanced over your shoulder. In the dim light, his glasses were crooked on the nightstand, his dark hair a riot of curls from your fingers. He looked younger like this—less Superman, more Kansas farm boy who was still learning how to keep up in a city that never slept.

You reached down to smooth his hair back. “Someone’s gotta keep Metropolis from overeating fried foods into oblivion. You take the ones falling out of the sky, I take the ones who stab themselves carving turkey.”

That got a smile, crooked and reluctant. “We make a good team.”

“The best,” you sighed dreamily, and leaned back in for a quick kiss.

It should have been quick, anyway. You meant it to be—a press of lips, a soft goodbye.

But Clark's hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw, and suddenly you were melting into him again, Thanksgiving and the ER and the world beyond this bed sliding out of focus. His mouth moved with sleepy insistence, like he could make up for the hours he’d be without you in one long kiss.

When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little harder.

“Not fair,” you muttered, forehead resting against his. “Weaponizing your lips like that when you know I have a twelve-hour shift. Bad. Bad husband.”

“Sorry,” he winced, not sounding sorry at all. “Just… gonna miss you.”

The words sat between you, heavier than they usually would. You both knew why.

“Baby,” you started, then hesitated, twisting the sheet in your hands. “You're flying to Smallville, right? To be with Ma and Pa.”

His whole body went still. “Or I can stay,” he suggested immediately. “It’s just a day. I can go home for Christmas instead, or—”

“No.” You shook your head, sharper than you meant to. His brows pinched; you softened your tone, laying your palm on his chest. “No, baby. I want you to go.”

“But you’ll be here.” The protest was quiet, stubborn. “Working all day. Coming home to…what, microwaved mac and cheese? That’s not Thanksgiving.”

You tried to joke, lightly swatting his chest. “Rude. I’ll have you know the hospital cafeteria is serving something that technically qualifies as turkey. Free!”

He didn’t smile. His gaze searched your face like he could find a piece of you that didn’t need him so much.

He wouldn’t, because it didn’t exist.

“You haven’t gone home in months,” you reminded him, softer. “Ma misses you. Pa wants to tell you about his new tractor or whatever farmers do for fun.”

“There’s nothing fun about that tractor,” he muttered, almost automatically. “It’s a menace. The transmission—”

“Exactly.” You poked his chest. “Pa needs someone to complain to. Go. Eat real food, breathe actual country air, let Ma fuss over you. It’ll make her happy, and that'll make you happy.”

He caught your hand before you could pull it away, lacing your fingers with his, and kissing your ring finger. “What about what makes you happy?”

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Saving lives makes me happy.”

He raised a brow and studied you. He knew you, and he didn't quite buy it. But he sighed and squeezed your hand anyway.

“You’re sure? Final answer?” he asked quietly.

“I’m sure.” You leaned in and kissed him again. “We’ll have our own little Thanksgiving when I get off a string of shifts and can taste food again without chugging coffee over it.”

He exhaled, the fight going out of his shoulders. “Okay,” he sighed, like it physically wounded him. “Then I’ll go.”

You doubted he’d really relax. He’d hover, probably literally, over the city whenever he could, listening for trouble, for your voice across the miles, the states.

But he’d go. Because you asked.

Because that’s what you did for each other.

.

The ER on Thanksgiving was…predictable in its chaos.

By four p.m., you’d seen three carving-related lacerations, a burn from a deep fryer that made you want to swear off fried food for life, a teenager with alcohol poisoning who’d thought spiked cider was just “apple juice that makes you warm,” and an elderly man whose heart had decided it did not, in fact, appreciate his third helping of stuffing.

You moved on autopilot, the way you always did when the waiting room brimmed and the halls buzzed. Gloves snapped on, vitals taken, warm blanket tucked up under a shivering patient’s chin. Your voice shifted automatically—calm for the anxious, firm for the belligerent, soft for the ones who couldn’t stop apologizing for needing help on a holiday.

“Hey, you’re not ruining anything,” you told a woman whose eyes were glassy with tears and fever. “The turkey will keep. You, I’m a little more invested in keeping intact.”

Your feet ached by noon. By three, your shoulders were a knot of muscle and stale coffee. You scarfed down a protein bar at the nurses’ station while listening to a family argue on speakerphone about who’d overcooked the green bean casserole.

At some point, you caught a flicker of red and blue on one of the newscasts playing in the corner of the break room. Superman, high above somewhere in the Midwest, steering a disabled plane from colliding with another plane. You watched for a few beats, breath lodged halfway in your chest, then forced yourself away from the screen when your work phone buzzed.

Back to work. Back to the here and now and the chart in your hands.

You didn’t have the luxury of worrying about your husband being shot out of the sky when room twelve needed their meds, and room three needed someone to notice the way their breathing changed.

.

By the time you finally staggered into the locker room at the end of your shift, your scrubs smelled like feet and fear and other people’s lives. Odd, appetite-squashing combination.

You scrubbed your hands longer than usual at the sink, watching suds circle the drain. You brushed your hair back, tied your shoes tighter, shrugged into your coat.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Clark.

How’s my wife doing?

You smiled despite yourself, thumbs clumsy as you replied.

Exhausted. Alive. Nobody bled out on my watch. How is my husband doing?

He answered almost immediately.

Same. Plane detour over the river, you probably saw. Pa is lecturing me about aerodynamics and Ma keeps trying to get me to bring leftovers to the Leery's across town.

You swallowed around a sudden tightness in your throat. You typed:

Tell them I love and miss them. I'll be there for Christmas.

Another text, faster than before.

Already did. And they love and miss you, too. Ma's giving me a whole crate of care packages. Look forward to that.

You stared at the screen for a second too long, the ache of distance pressing in. It wasn’t that you needed a big, fancy Thanksgiving. You’d gone without plenty before.

It was just… the thought of walking into the dark, cold, silent apartment, reheating something in plastic, flipping on the TV for background noise so the quiet didn’t swallow you.

You typed before you could think better of it.

Heading home now. Might pick up gas station mashed potatoes. Please, don’t be jealous. I love you, baby.

His typing dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Be safe. I love you, sweetheart.

You tucked the phone away and walked out into the cold.

The convenience store on the corner was doing a brisk holiday business. You grabbed the not-the-saddest-looking turkey sandwich from the bunch, a cup of instant mashed potatoes that plastered “real butter flavor” in aggressive font, and a slice of pumpkin pie in a plastic clamshell.

It was…fine. It was food. It was more than some of your patients had.

You told yourself that, over and over, as you stood in line behind a man buying cigarettes and a woman juggling two crying toddlers. This was more than what some of your patients had. Be thankful.

You did not think about Ma's mashed potatoes, the ones that were more cream than potato, or her insane stuffing that could probably broker peace treaties.

You definitely did not think about how your Clark would be sitting at their table, shoulders hunched to fit into a wooden chair too small, grinning at his Pa's story about something on the farm.

You were in love with that image. You wanted that for him, every single day. He deserved it.

You just wished—selfishly—that you didn’t have to miss it.

.

You were so exhausted that you didn’t register the smell right away when you unlocked the apartment.

Your keys clicked; the door swung open with its usual soft creak. You nudged it closed with your hip, juggling your bag and your sad plastic bag of food.

Then you froze. The lights were on. The apartment was warm. It smelled…warm, too.

Not just “someone used the oven once this week” warm. Rich, savory, layered—roasted garlic, something herby and buttery, the faint sweetness of something else you couldn’t place over the hum of your own fatigue.

For a second your brain stuttered. Maybe one of the neighbors. Maybe you were just hungry enough to hallucinate.

“H-hello? ....Clark?” you called, more out of habit than expectation. You’d texted him less than an hour ago. He should have still been in Smallville, pretending he couldn’t eat a fourth roll. There was no way he'd be-

“In here, sweetheart,” his voice answered, easy and close, like he’d just stepped out of the bedroom.

You nearly dropped your bag.

You hastily slipped your shoes and jacket off, following the smell down the hallway, heart thudding. The living room was softly lit—no overhead lights, just lamps and the glow from the string of fairy lights you’d hung for holiday decorations.

The dining table was set. Plates, silverware, folded napkins. Steam curled up from a serving dish of what looked suspiciously like mashed potatoes that did not come from a plastic cup. There was a smaller dish of green beans with little flecks of something toasted on top, a basket of rolls, of all things.

And in the center of the table, on a pedestal that did not belong to your usual mismatched dishware, sat a pie. Apple. Classic.

You knew that pie tin. The way the latice crust was placed, almost too thick in places. The faint fork marks along the edge where someone had gotten distracted, then corrected it.

Your throat closed.

“N-no way. Is that…?” Your voice came out paper thin, and you swallowed the lump in your throat.

Clark stepped into view from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He’d changed into jeans and a soft sweater, hair still a little wind-blown, glasses hanging from the collar. The sight alone made your chest ache.

“Ma’s,” he confirmed gently. “Apple. She made an extra.”

You stared at the pie. At him, his outstretched arms and his wide grin. Then back at the pie.

"I love her pie," you whispered, in a trance. "I'd do anything to have it."

"I know," you could hear his grin, his amusement, "Luckily, I made it easy for you. Surprise!"

"What are you doing back?" you finally managed, your brain catching up that your husband was home, in front of you. “You’re supposed to be in Smallville,

“I was.” He crossed the distance between you in three long strides, taking the plastic bag gently from your hand and setting it aside on the counter as if to say, 'your services are no longer needed'. “But I wasn’t…here.”

Your eyes burned. “Clark—”

“I kept thinking about you.” He cupped your face, thumb sweeping under your eyes, as if trying to take the tired away. The warmth of his hands was almost too much after a day of latex gloves, alarms, and cold metal. “In that awful break room with those weird vending machine sandwiches, or in the ER with everyone else’s families crowding the halls. I just…”

He swallowed, his jaw working. “I wanted you to come home to more than that.”

The words hit you like a physical thing.

You’d told him to go. You’d meant it. You weren’t lying when you said you were proud of what you did, that you’d chose this job knowing holidays would be…different.

But standing here, the smell of real food in the air, your husband in front of you looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense, that mattered—it cracked something open inside you.

"I-I have no words," you squeaked.

The first tear slipped free before you could stop it.

“Hey.” His brow furrowed. “Sweetheart—”

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a broken sound. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just—tired. Ignore me. It’s the twelve hours of fluorescent lights and stupid doctor orders melting my brain.”

Another tear. Then another. Your nose started to hurt, and your breathing started to hitch.

Suddenly you were full-on crying, the kind of ugly, hiccuping tears that left you mortified. You slapped a hand over your face.

“I’m fine,” you insisted through your sobs and fingers. “This is so silly, I’m just—”

“Sweetheart,” His voice went low, firm but gentle. His Superman voice filtered through Husband Clark’s warmth. “Don’t apologize for feeling things, okay? Not with me. I'm here, it's okay.”

He tugged you into his chest before you could protest, arms wrapping around so tight that the last twelve hours fell off your shoulders instantly. One hand slid to the back of your head, massaging your scalp. You pressed your face into his sweater, the familiar smell of laundry soap and his cologne sank into your bones.

For a while, that was it. Just you sobbing into your husband's chest, his hand moving slowly up and down your back, his lips occasionally pressing into your hairline. The world shrank to the span of his arms.

You sniffed, your words muffled by his shirt, “I told myself I was okay. I chose this. People get sick, accidents happen, life doesn’t stop for holidays. I know that. I’m lucky. I have you, and a job, and—”

You broke off, breath hitching.

“I know other people have it worse. So much worse,” you finished helplessly, another sob tearing through. “I know that. I see it every day. But...today I didn’t want to be the strong one. Just once. And I thought I had to be. Alone.”

His arms tightened, his voice rough. “You are allowed to want things,” he murmured into your hair. “You are allowed to be tired and sad and want your husband and mashed potatoes that have real butter. None of that makes you selfish.”

You let out a watery laugh at that, a little choked. “Ma’s mashed potatoes?”

“Ma’s mashed potatoes,” he confirmed. “And my attempt at her green beans. This isn't MasterChef, okay?”

You tipped your head back to look at him. His blue eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, reflecting the lamplight, concern, and love and something fierce simmering underneath.

“I thought you’d be mad,” you admitted with a sniffle, voice small. “If I…cried over something like this. When you spend your days saving the world. Ugh, my problems sound so dumb when I say them out loud.”

He frowned. “I spent my day rerouting a plane and chasing a guy who thought robbing a bank on Thanksgiving was a good idea,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You spent your day trying to patch up people’s worst moments. We’re both tired. We’re both allowed to be human. Your problems are not dumb.”

“And you're not human,” you said automatically, then snorted at your own joke through tears. “Technically.”

He smiled. “I am when I’m with you. Or at least I’m trying my best.”

Your laughter melted into a soft, shaky exhale. "No, you're always the best. The best not-human-human-husband a woman can ask for."

He rested his jaw against your forehead. “And for the record,” he added quietly, “you were never going to be alone tonight. Not if I had anything to say about it.”

“You left your parents early for me?”

Clark’s expression softened in that way that always made you feel like you’d just opened a window and let sunlight in. “I’d do anything for you,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. No hesitation, no bravado. Just fact.

Your breath caught.

He huffed a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “But, uh… it wasn’t exactly a covert operation.” The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Ma shoved me out the door after dessert and told me to ‘go be where I belonged.’”

You let out a watery laugh. “She said that?”

“More or less.” His eyes crinkled. “Then she packed up half the fridge, told Pa to warm up the truck in case I ‘forgot how to fly,' —which would take me days to get home from Kansas to Delaware, but I digress — and threatened to throw the pie at me if I didn't bring it to you personally.”

You laughed again, this time without a sob hitching in the middle. “That sounds like her.”

“She loves you, they both do, ” he reminded you. “I love you."

You reached up and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble there. "I love you too,” you confessed for the millionth time in your life. “So much it’s actually unfair.”

He leaned into your touch, missing it all day. “Good,” he murmured. “I’m a big fan of unfair advantages.”

Clark's gaze dipped to your mouth. You rose onto your toes, his hands immediately dropping to your waist to lift you the last couple of inches to finally close the distance between you.

The kiss started soft. Just lips against lips, the quiet press of a promise: I’m here. You’re safe. We made it through another day. I love you.

Then something in both of you loosened.

You tasted sugar and spice from whatever he’d been sampling in the kitchen, the familiar warmth of him under it. His fingers flexed at your hips, pulling you closer until you were flush against him, chest to chest. The ache in your feet dissolved, the hum of the fridge and distant city noise fading under the slide of his mouth.

When he finally eased back, you were breathless for a better reason.

“Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart,” he whispered, moving to kiss the side of your neck, below your jaw.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Clark," you echoed, the words thick from his ministration.

He then kissed your cheeks where tears had dried. “Now,” he cleared his throat, voice a little lighter, “can I interest you in actual food, sweetheart? Or would you prefer to continue sobbing into my sweater? Personally, I’m a big fan of my wife smiling and stuffing her face with mashed potatoes… but if you need a little more sweater-ruining, I’m good for that too.”

You swatted his chest, a little laugh escaping. “Don’t mock the cathartic holiday breakdown, baby. It was very healing.”

“I’d never.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “But the mashed potatoes are getting cold. And Ma will hear about it somehow if we disrespect her pie.”

You glanced toward the table again, the knot in your chest easing. All day you’d worn the calm, professional mask so no one else would panic; this, though—this felt real. Yours.

“You really cooked all this?” you asked with astonishment, letting him lead you toward the sink to wash your hands.

“With supervision,” he admitted, crossing his arms as he watched you dry up. “Pa handled the turkey in Smallville, Ma loaded me up like a pack mule. It's not that easy flying back with half her kitchen in my arms, ya know? Then I uh...sped through the rest before you got home.”

You pictured it: your husband a blur in the kitchen, ovens firing, pots simmering, taste-testing and stirring something with his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, Ma scolding him fondly. The image made you smile.

“Hey,” you said quietly, bumping your hip to his thigh, “thank you. For all of this.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he answered, serious. “You know that, right?”

You rose onto your toes and kissed him again, letting your gratitude pour into it. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his shoulder.

“I do,” you whispered. “But it still means everything.”

.

Later, after you’d demolished more food than you thought your tired body could handle, after you’d moaned embarrassingly loudly over the first bite of Ma’s pie and watched Clark’s whole face flush and soften with how happy that made him, you curled up on the couch with your legs over his lap.

The TV murmured in the background, some movie playing to an audience of two. His warm hand traced idle patterns on your calf.

“You know,” you mused quietly, eyes half-lidded, “today kind of sucked.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, thumb circling your ankle bone. “It kinda did. Until you came home."

You looked over at him, at the way he looked back like there was nowhere else on the planet he’d rather be, and you felt the same.

You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat. “You’re getting sappy in your old age, baby.”

“Just practicing for when Pa’s tractor finally takes me out,” he deadpanned. “I want you to have good quotes for the eulogy.”

“Not funny,” you muttered, even as you snorted.

He squeezed your leg, eyes dancing. “Seriously, though.” His voice softened again. “No matter where we have to be during the day—up there, down here, in the ER, in the sky—you’re never alone. Not on Thanksgiving. Not on any day. Not as long as I’m around.”

You reached for his hand and laced your fingers with his, idly playing with his wedding band. The last of the day’s tension finally started to unknot in your shoulders. “Deal,” you whispered.

He leaned over and kissed you again, grateful and full of want.

When you settled back against the cushions, his hand still wrapped around yours and the faint smell of Ma’s pie hanging in the air, it hit you—not like a grand revelation, just a quiet, steady knowing.

Today had been brutal. Messy. Lonely in all the ways you didn’t say out loud.

But here, in this small, warm living room—with Clark's fingers brushing your pulse, Ma’s pie on the table, and the day finally held at arm’s length—you didn’t feel empty anymore. Whatever the world had taken out of you, your husband crossed states and skies to give a little of it back.

All for pie, you thought so full of love. All for you.

.