All week, he'd listened to the sounds of his home being dismantled piece by piece: dragged furniture, slamming cupboards, running water—and godforsaken, out of tune humming.

And now, five days into this hostile domestic occupation, he finally enters enemy territory to replenish his liquor stock and regrets it immediately.

Within the span of a week, the house has transformed.

In a grotesque act of historical revisionism, the curtains have been washed back to their original color. Sunlight floods through every open window in thick, invasive streams, illuminating the polished floorboards suspiciously free of empty bottles, and the kitchen counters have been stripped of every respectable layer of mold and grime.

The whole house reeks of lemon polish.

“Smells like a dog shat in the meadow,” he grumbles.

A tiny blonde thing walks out of the kitchen, curls escaping her braid and yellow dress bright enough to qualify as a workplace hazard.

“I like it.”

“I don't care,” he says. “Get rid of it. And burn those mismatched throw pillows while you're at it,” he adds, because he's just noticed them and just how atrocious they are. “Where did you even find those?”

“I bought them.”

“You bought that?”

“Well—I suppose you bought those.”

“I bought those?” He nearly pops a vein when she nods. “With what money?”

“With my—”

“—the shopkeeper opened a monthly account in your name—”

“The shopkeeper what—”

“—and it was for a good cause! His little girl is sick, you see, and the mayor told me you wouldn't mind me purchasing things in your name that we need for the house.”

“We—” he repeats, “—do not need floral throw pillows. We have never needed floral throw pillows. Return them in the morning.”

“They were only worth seven scrips!”

“That's seven scrips that could've gone towards liquor. You've set my cirrhosis back by a week for some nasty cushions. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“I am! They're very pretty cushions, and they give the house some character.”

“The house had character before you came.”

“No. That was mildew.”

“It was almost my only companion. That’s what it was. And in the twenty-four years I've been here, it never tried to spend my money on throw pillows.” He slams his empty bottle down on the countertop, collects three more from the cupboard where they're lined up like condiments, and makes his way upstairs.

The door slams shut behind him.

He has maybe ten minutes of peace—barely long enough to crack open his second bottle—when the screeching starts.

Haymitch freezes.

The noise comes again.

Wood violently scraping against wood.

Followed by a heavy thump.

Followed by humming.

God help him, there's someone humming.

In his house.

He stares at the ceiling.

The ceiling stares back.

Another screech.

Something large and heavy being dragged across the floor—directly outside his bedroom.

He waits.

The sound of a bucket toppling over.

Another screech.

Another.

Finally:

“For the love of—”

He shoves himself upright, head swimming with movement, and storms out.

The hallway resembles the aftermath of a natural disaster.

The entire floor has been turned upside down.

Every piece of furniture that can be moved has been moved into the hallway and abandoned wherever it happened to stop. A side table sits against the wall at an angle, one of the dining chairs has somehow ended up on the landing, and several piles of old bedsheets and blankets are stacked at the top of the staircase, presumably waiting to be thoroughly washed—or burned. A bucket of cloudy water occupies the middle of the corridor beside a mop, a broom, two scrub brushes, and an assortment of cleaning supplies he doesn't even remember owning. The windows stand open, the floorboards are slick with soapy water, and the air smells sharply of lemon.

The girl herself is humming under her breath as she mops.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks.

She looks up at him.

“I’m cleaning.”

“You’re cleaning,” he says. “Right now—right this moment.”

Her brow furrows.

“Yes.”

“At three in the afternoon.”

“Yes.”

“Well—don’t.”

She stares at him for a second.

“Did I disturb you?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Oh,” she says. “I've been trying to be quiet.”

“Try harder,” he says. “Or better yet—don’t clean here right now. Don't clean here at all. I'm perfectly fine with that.”

“I'm not. The mayor pays me to clean here.”

“I’ll pay you not to.”

“That would defeat the whole purpose; besides not being the right thing to do.”

Haymitch grits his teeth.

“Listen, kid,” he says. “I don't care about the floors. I don't care about the furniture. I don't care if the entire second floor collapses into the first. What I care about is that my head feels like somebody's mining coal behind my eyes, and you've spent the last twenty minutes dragging half the house up and down the hallway. So either find something else to do or come back later. Tonight, tomorrow, never—pick whatever. I'm not fussy.”

“But you might be asleep later.”

“That's the idea.”

“It'll wake you up.”

“I'll live.”

“But you'll be disturbed even more than you are now, and besides I've already started.” She wrings out her mop. “I’ll be done in an hour, and in fact if you went outside for a little while, I could do your bedroom too and get everything finished at once.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But you know I've got to do it sooner or later, and if you let me do it now, I'll leave the upstairs alone for a whole week after.”

Haymitch pinches the bridge of his nose.

“An hour,” he warns.

“I swear.”

He turns sharply, intent on putting as much distance between himself and this conversation as possible, and immediately catches the bucket with his boot.

And then it topples over, sending a wave of dirty soapwater rushing across the floorboards and down the freshly cleaned staircase.

The bucket rattles after it loud enough to wake the dead.

“Two hours,” the girl amends quickly.

Haymitch stares at his soaked boots.

And then he walks away.

…

There are few indignities greater than being locked out of your own house.

Haymitch discovers this sometime after his third attempt to go back inside. The first breath burns his throat. The second makes his eyes water. By the third, he's forced to concede whatever poor insect the girl has waged a war on in there, she’s winning by a wide margin.

He had made the tactical error of sleeping through most of the previous two days, leaving the enemy with enough time to discover, diagnose, and declare total war on a termite infestation. By the time he woke, the kitchen had been scrubbed, sprayed, and made hostile to anything with lungs, and the rest of the house was next on her list. The result was that his house was currently unfit for human occupation, and he was human enough, regrettably, for the distinction to matter.

So the backyard it is.

He makes it as far as the chairs set up beside the porch before the effort of being upright begins to feel ambitious. His knees are bad, his stomach is worse, and his skull has developed some unpleasant internal music that it keeps playing on repeat. The light hurts. The air hurts. Swallowing hurts until he fixes that with a mouthful of white liquor, which burns all the way down and sits badly with the biscuit already turning to paste inside his stomach.

He takes another swig.

The bottle is easier to lift than his head.

The afternoon sun beats down on the back of his neck. The grass brushes against his boots. Empty bottles lie in the weeds beside his chair, catching the sunlight.

Peeta’s biscuits sit on a chipped plate balanced on the other chair, wrapped in a clean cloth, crumbs scattered over the rim.

Beyond the porch, the garden has grown thick and airless.

The flowerbeds have sunk into themselves, the stone path is almost gone beneath the overgrown grass, and thorned vines have climbed the fence, and twisted hard around the slats. The roses have grown wild, their blooms small and ragged, their stems tangled in the weeds around them. Tall grass leans against the porch steps. Dandelions push up through the cracks. Something smells sour in the heat—something green and old and wet.

Then the weeds swear.

Or the girl does, from somewhere inside them.

Haymitch opens one eye.

His hand reaches for another biscuit.

“The boy's trying to kill me,” he says.

She laughs.

“With biscuits?”

“With diabetes.”

“That does sound serious.”

“It is,” he says. “I haven't spent twenty-four years of my life destroying my liver just to let diabetes take me away.”

“You poor thing.” The sound of leaves rustling follows. “He was very kind to drop these by—all fresh and warm.”

“Yes, well—it's Peeta,” he says.

As if that explains everything.

(It does.)

“Papa used to love those fancy cakes he made. Brought one home every payday, like clockwork.” She appears in his periphery, cheeks flushed, and stops before the glass window long enough to admire her reflection for a beat. “Can’t eat them anymore though,” she says, “which is just as well, because we can't afford it either.”

He hums.

She plops down on the chair beside him. “Peeta was so shocked when I answered the door this morning—the poor thing. You're so tight with him—and the girl too; I’d figured you'd have told them by now.”

Tight.

He supposes he could be considered ‘tight’ with the kids.

They’ve been the only two people he’s seen with any degree of regularity in twenty-four years, which says less about them than it does about the competition. They've acquired a bad habit of dropping sometimes to check if he's alive which he finds ridiculous. A man falls asleep face-down in his vomit one time, and suddenly everyone thinks he needs a keeper.

“They haven't visited since,” he says.

Which is a rare stroke of luck; he’s not quite ready to publicize his defeat just yet.

“Huh.” The girl reaches for a biscuit. “The garden’s going to take loads of time, by the way. The soil's gone wrong, the roses have grown wild, and there's weeds growing all over the stone path. I don't even know where to start.”

“I do. Don't.”

She ignores him.

“The flowerbeds will have to be cleared first,” she begins counting on her hand. “Then I'll have to figure out what all’s even worth saving at this point. The grass needs cutting. The shrubs need trimming. And the vines have to come off the fence before they pull the whole thing down.”

“I don't understand why bother at all.”

“Because it'll look pretty. A house ought to look pretty if it can! It'd be such a waste of a good gardening space otherwise.”

He snorts.

“I don't plan on sitting here enough times to notice,” he says, taking another swig. “And besides, pretty doesn't do much.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“It makes people happy. And besides, things don't have to be useful to be worth keeping.”

“Useful is generally a safer bet.”

“Well, I disagree.”

“Shocking.”

They exchange a glance.

“You'll like the garden when I'm done with it,” she says.

He hums in assent.

She finishes her tea in one gulp and returns back to work.

Haymitch watches from his seat.

She starts with the flowerbeds closest to the porch. Haymitch watches her crouch down and begin pulling weeds by hand and dropping them in a growing pile beside her.

It's a complicated process.

Every so often she has to brace one foot against the edge of the flowerbed and tug with both hands to get a stubborn root out of the ground. More than once, she loses the fight and nearly falls backwards into the dirt.

By the time she moves on to the next patch, there's soil under her fingernails, and dirt smeared across the sleeve of her dress.

Haymitch finds it all great fun.

Watching her lose so spectacularly to something is almost adequate compensation for being evicted from his own house.

A root catches her next.

She braces both feet against the flowerbed and pulls.

Nothing.

She tries again.

Still nothing.

Haymitch takes another sip from his drink.

The root remains unmoved.

“You're getting your ass kicked by a plant.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

The root wins a third round.

Haymitch nods.

“Humiliating,” he says.

“It would come out if the ground wasn't so hard.”

“The ground seems fine.”

“The ground hates me.”

“The ground has excellent taste.”

She shoots him a look, still pulling with all her strength.

The root gives way without warning.

She stumbles backwards and lands squarely in the dirt.

Haymitch laughs into his bottle.

“You're enjoying this far too much.”

“And why shouldn't I? It's the first useful thing this garden has produced in years.” The bottle empties in his hand and he sighs.

“How much longer?” he asks.

“For what?”

“This.”

She looks around. “The outdoors?”

“The outdoors.”

“Oh, you mean when will it be safe to go inside?”

He nods.

“You could've gone any time in the last three hours. The smell barely lasts after the first hour.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded.

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“Well, you'd already come outside, and you looked so comfortable, and a little sunlight is good for you, I didn't want to say.”

“You—”

He gets up from his chair.

She looks back at him quietly.

“You're a menace,” he says and goes away, locking himself inside his bedroom.

It's late evening when she knocks on his bedroom door.

Haymitch ignores it.

He lies back in his bed and stares at the ceiling and waits for it to go away—which it does. Five minutes pass.

And then something that isn't quite curiosity but lives in that neighborhood gets the better of him and he opens the door. There's a tray on the little stand outside—a bowl of soup, still steaming, with a heel of bread balanced on the rim. He looks down the hall, and then at the soup.

Nobody.

He brings it inside.

The soup is watery and oversalted, and the bread is slightly stale, and the whole thing is barely warm by the time he gets to the bottom of the bowl—which he does faster than he means to. He feels like a thief sneaking inside his own home as he listens for footsteps before opening the door, setting the empty bowl on the tray, and bolting the door shut again very quickly.

It's replaced by a fresh tray the next morning—undercooked buns and a questionable attempt at coffee.

He finishes that too.

No one ever mentions it.

He kisses like an athlete too, which is deeply annoying information to have about him because it makes too much sense. Confident, paced, unfairly good at changing pressure right when she starts thinking she’s adjusted to him. 

One hand is braced beside her head, the other curled around her thigh, thumb pressing absent little circles into skin like he doesn't know it’s making her thoughts get weird and slippery around the edges. He’s still wearing his t-shirt, which feels rude considering she’s in a bra and skirt and whatever dignity survived the trip up the stairs is now lying somewhere dead near his laundry basket. 

His chain has slipped out from under his collar while he kisses her, warm gold catching against the side of her throat every time he grinds down into her and makes her breath come out embarrassingly thin.

“Garrett,” she gets out, though it doesn't have much purpose beyond giving her mouth something to do when his is suddenly leaving it.

He hums like he’s heard her and decided to take it under advisement at a later date. His mouth drifts to her jaw, then lower, slow and pleased and entirely too smug about the way her body moves before she can stop it. 

He kisses down her throat, over the spot where her pulse is doing something humiliating, then lower still, along the top edge of her bra, and she should probably let him. She should probably enjoy the fact that Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, walking campus hazard, has decided her chest deserves sustained attention. 

But the second his mouth leaves hers properly, some spoiled little part of her lights up in objection.

“No,” she whines, which is not her proudest moment, and is made worse by the fact that Garrett pauses against her skin like he’s trying not to laugh. She reaches down and gets her fingers in his hair, gentle but insistent, tugging him back up until his face appears over hers again, curls mussed, mouth shiny, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that makes her want to either kiss him harder or shove him off the bed. “Come back.”

His grin spreads slowly. “Bossy.”

“You stopped kissing me.”

“I was kissing you somewhere else.”

She pouts. “Wrong somewhere.”

He gives one of those little laughs that starts in his chest before it reaches his mouth, warm and low and stupidly pleased, and then he comes back happily, because that’s the worst part of Garrett. 

He has all this cocky-boy resistance in theory, all this mouth and attitude and captain-of-every-room energy, and then she asks for him directly and his body gives him away before his ego can file an appeal. He kisses her again, deep enough that the complaint evaporates under her tongue, and for a few seconds she forgets about the chain entirely.

Then he pulls back to sit up on his knees, one thigh planted on either side of her hips, and reaches behind his neck for his shirt.

“Oh,” she says before she can stop herself.

Garrett pauses with the hem already half up his stomach, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

His teeth catch at his bottom lip. “I was about to ask if you needed a minute to process.”

She narrows her eyes at him, which would probably have more force if she were not lying under him with her skirt bunched around her waist and her hands already drifting up his exposed stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you’re still looking.”

And she is. Tragically. Openly. With no legal defence. The shirt comes off the rest of the way and lands somewhere near the chair, and Garrett is there above her in the soft lamplight, shoulders broad from hockey, stomach tight under her palms, chain resting against his chest like it’s been placed there for the express purpose of ruining her life. 

It's not even that fancy. That’s the insulting part. Just a gold chain. Simple. Warm from his skin. Sitting right at the base of his throat.

Her hands slide up his stomach, over the hard shift of muscle when he breathes, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth without meaning to.

Garrett’s grin softens into something more dangerous because he knows. Because Garrett is many things, but oblivious is not one of them, especially not when a girl is looking at his chest like she’s discovered a new academic field.

“Baby,” he says, amused.

She doesn't answer. She hooks two fingers under the chain and pulls. Garrett comes down with it, one hand shooting to the mattress beside her head, the other catching her waist as he laughs into the space above her mouth. “Jesus. Okay.”

She smiles, breath already uneven again. “Come here.”

“I was here.”

“Closer.”

His mouth hovers over hers, his chain trapped between her fingers, the metal a little warm, a little slick where it’s been resting against his skin. “You always this demanding?”

She tugs again, smaller this time, mostly because she likes the way his eyes drop to her mouth when she does it. “Only when you’re slow.”

Garrett stares at her for one beat, and then the smile goes all bright and helpless at the edges, like she’s pleased him against his will. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, bending until the chain brushes her collarbone and his mouth is almost on hers again. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

The second time is quieter, though quiet in the hockey house is a relative concept and mostly means no one is actively breaking furniture within their line of sight. They're downstairs on the couch after dinner, the living room dim except for the television throwing blue-white light over everyone’s faces and the standing lamp Tucker keeps insisting gives the room ambience, which Dean keeps calling divorced dad lighting. 

A movie’s on, something Logan picked with the confidence of a man who would be asleep within twenty minutes, and sure enough he’s already slumped in the armchair with his head tipped back and one socked foot on the coffee table, snoring faintly through the loudest action sequence anyone has ever failed to respect.

Garrett’s stretched out behind her on the couch, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other lying heavy over her waist. She’s settled half on top of him, half against him, legs tangled beneath the old throw blanket that smells faintly like fabric softener and Garrett’s laundry detergent and whatever popcorn crime Dean committed earlier. 

The whole room has that late-night, lived-in warmth to it. Empty bowls on the coffee table, Tucker leaning on the other end of the couch with his phone in one hand and his attention somehow still half on the movie, Dean sprawled on the floor with his back against Allie’s legs while she runs her fingers lazily through his hair like she’s rewarding a large, badly behaved dog.

Garrett’s chain has worked its way out again. She doesn't mean to start fiddling with it. Her hand is just there, resting against his chest, and the chain is right under her fingertips, cool at first and then quickly warming up. 

Her thumb catches the tiny curve of one link. Then another. Then she’s sliding it back and forth lightly against his skin, not really thinking, only listening to the movie and the steady sound of his breathing under her cheek and the occasional thud of Dean kicking the coffee table because he refuses to understand where his legs end.

Garrett lets it happen for a while. Long enough that she forgets she’s doing it. Long enough for the metal to move in a tiny, repetitive drag under her fingers, a private little rhythm tucked beneath explosions and the muffled rain starting against the windows. 

His chest rises under her palm. His hand at her waist flexes once, absent, and she shifts closer without lifting her head. Then his fingers close around her wrist. Warm and sure, stopping the motion.

She glances up. “What?”

Garrett looks down at her with the deeply patient expression of a man being tortured in a way he’s not allowed to enjoy too obviously. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.”

“Doing what?”

His eyes flick to the chain. Then back to her. “That.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her hand, caught in his like evidence. “Was I annoying you?”

“No.”

“You stopped me.”

“Because,” he says, lowering his voice as Dean makes a disgusted noise at the movie and Allie tells him to stop talking before she smothers him with a cushion, “you keep touching my neck, and I’m trying to be a decent citizen in a communal living space.”

Her mouth twitches. “Your neck?”

“My chain is on my neck.”

She bites back a smile. “That’s very scientific of you.”

“I go to college.”

“For hockey.”

He sucks at his teeth, a grin spreading across his face. “For hockey and the pursuit of knowledge.”

She laughs into his chest, and he immediately looks pleased with himself in that quiet Garrett way, like making her laugh while half the room is asleep counts as a personal win. 

His hand slides from her wrist to her fingers, lifting them to his mouth. He kisses her knuckles once, soft and warm, then again, slower, like he can get away with it because nobody’s looking directly at them. The contact sends a stupid little wave through her, low and gentle, a sudden looseness in her ribs and the sense that her body has settled another inch into his.

“Stop playing with it,” he murmurs against her hand.

“I didn’t know it was an activity with rules.”

“It is now.”

“Sounds controlling.”

“Sounds like you’re too hot for your own good and I’m a responsible man.”

She lifts her head just enough to look at him properly. “You’re so full of shit.”

Garrett smiles like that’s his favourite thing she’s said all day. “A little, yeah.”

Then he threads his fingers through hers and brings their joined hands down to rest against his stomach, trapping her there with him. Garrett’s hand stays wrapped around hers. Firm. Warm. His thumb moves once over the side of her finger, slow enough that it feels accidental and deliberate at the same time.

The third time, she should know something’s wrong with the whole arrangement because Garrett offers it too easily. It's the morning of her exam, a big one, the kind that has lived in the back of her head for three weeks like an unpaid bill and ruined several perfectly good evenings by existing near them. 

She’s already eaten half a banana, stared at her notes until the words lost meaning, changed shirts twice, and accused Garrett of breathing too loudly while he sat on her bed watching her spiral with the sort of affectionate calm that made her want to throw a highlighter at him.

“You studied,” he says, for maybe the fourth time, lying on his side with one elbow propped under him and his curls still damp from the shower. “Like, a disgusting amount. I know because you made me quiz you last night and I learned things against my will.”

She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her top down and then immediately undoing the smoothing because now it looks too deliberate. “That doesn’t mean I know it.”

“That’s actually exactly what studying means.”

“No, studying means I knew it at midnight in your bed while you were half asleep and kept pronouncing things wrong on purpose.”

“I was keeping morale up.”

She turns to glare at him, and he grins at her from the bed, annoyingly gorgeous and unhelpfully relaxed, his chain sitting against his bare collarbone because he hasn’t put a shirt on yet. Which is also rude. Honestly, the whole morning has been a campaign of emotional terrorism.

“I’m serious,” she says, and the words come out thinner than she wants.

His face changes then. The grin doesn't disappear entirely, because Garrett without some amount of grin would be genuinely concerning, but it settles. He sits up properly, feet hitting the floor, and reaches for her when she comes close enough. His hands land at her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs pressing once like he’s reminding her she has a body and it's standing here, not drowning somewhere in the imagined future of a badly answered essay question.

“I know you are,” he says. “I also know you’re gonna kill it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What, kill it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. You’re gonna… respectfully and academically dominate.”

“Garrett.”

He laughs under his breath and tugs her closer until she’s standing between his knees. Then, with the sudden seriousness of someone remembering an ancient ritual and not a bit he came up with seven seconds ago, he reaches behind his neck and unclasps the chain.

She looks down at it. “What are you doing?”

“Good luck.”

Her eyes lift to his. “What?”

He holds it up between them, gold catching the morning light from her window. “It’s lucky.”

She stares at him. “Your chain is lucky?”

“Extremely.”

“You’ve never said that.”

He looks almost offended. “I don’t tell everyone my deeply personal athletic superstitions.”

“You told Dean you had to wear the same socks for playoffs.”

“That was different. He touched them.”

“That feels like a public health issue more than a superstition.”

Garrett ignores this, and gestures for her to turn around. She does, suspicious but too nervous to fight him properly. He stands behind her, and for a second the mirror catches both of them: her in exam clothes and stress, him shirtless and too calm, chain hanging from his fingers. 

He lifts it around her neck, his knuckles grazing the sides of her throat as he brings the clasp together. The metal lands cool against her skin, heavier than she expects, and something in her chest gives one stupid little pull.

“There,” he says, hands settling briefly on her shoulders. “Guaranteed.”

She touches the chain with two fingers. “Guaranteed?”

“Yeah.”

“If I fail, I’m blaming your jewellery.”

“If you fail, I’ll fake my death and start over somewhere chainless.”

She laughs then, finally, and it comes out shaky but real. Garrett’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, his mouth tipped in a way that’s half smug and half proud of having pulled the sound out of her. 

He bends and kisses the side of her head, quick, easy, like he doesn't know the chain suddenly feels like some ridiculous little anchor against her collarbone.

“Go,” he says. “Ace it. Then come back and be unbearable about it.”

She does ace it.

She walks out of the exam hall two hours later with the weird, floating, slightly manic clarity of someone who knows the questions landed exactly where she needed them to, who wrote until her hand cramped, who remembered the thing from the bottom of page seven that she had absolutely expected to die with no audience. 

She calls Garrett from the sidewalk and says, “I think I nailed it,” and he shouts so loudly through the phone that a girl walking past looks over in alarm.

“Tell the chain I said thank you,” she says later that night, when she’s in his room again, sitting cross-legged on his bed with takeout containers open between them and his hoodie swallowed over her exam clothes because the adrenaline crash has finally arrived and brought a mild existential fog with it.

Garrett looks up from stealing one of her fries. “What?”

“The chain.” She taps it where it still sits at her throat. “Your ancient family luck charm.”

There's a pause. It's tiny. Almost nothing. But Garrett Graham has many gifts, and hiding guilt from his girlfriend while his mouth is full of stolen fries is not one of them.

Her eyes narrow. “Garrett.”

He chews slowly.

“Garrett Graham.”

He swallows. “Okay, before you get mad–”

“Oh my God.” She sits up straighter. “It’s not lucky?”

“It’s, uh, lucky adjacent.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve worn it to some good games.”

“You told me it was extremely lucky.”

“I was trying to get you out of your head.”

“You lied!”

“I motivated.” He points at her with a fry. “And you crushed your exam, so actually, where’s my thank you?”

She stares at him for one second. Then another. The chain’s warm now from her skin, and the fact that he made it up should be annoying. It is annoying. 

It's also so Garrett that something in her gives up and goes soft around the edges despite herself, because he saw her standing in front of the mirror two seconds from vibrating through the floorboards and decided the solution was to hand her something of his and make it sound official enough for her nervous system to believe him.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says.

His grin comes back immediately, bright with relief and bad ideas. “But effective.”

“You’re never getting this back.”

“Baby, I look really good in that chain.”

“I look better.”

He studies her for a second, eyes dropping to where the gold sits against the oversized neckline of his hoodie, and his mouth does something slower. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher. “You do.”

Her fingers move to the chain. His eyes track the motion. The takeout goes forgotten between them, steam thinning in the cartons, the lamp laying warm light over his bed and the stupid little lucky-not-lucky object at her throat.

She crawls toward him, slow enough to make his brows lift.

“What?” he asks, though his hands are already moving to her waist when she pushes the cartons aside with the care of someone who doesn't want to get sauce on his sheets but absolutely does want to ruin his evening in other ways.

“You want a thank you?”

Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes. He tilts his head, trying for casual and missing by a heroic distance. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no to gratitude.”

“Good,” she says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft enough that he follows when she pulls away.

His hands tighten on her hips. “Good?”

“Mhm.”

Then she slides off the bed onto her knees between his legs, and Garrett goes very, very still. For once in his life, he doesn't have a comeback ready.

She looks up at him, the chain hanging forward from her neck, gold swinging slightly in the space between them, and his eyes drop to it like he’s experiencing several personal revelations at once.

“Still think it’s lucky?” she asks.

Garrett exhales through his nose, a smile breaking helplessly at one corner of his mouth as his hand comes up to brush her hair back, careful and warm and already a little wrecked. 

“Baby,” he says, voice low with absolute reverence and zero shame, “I’m about to start fucking worshipping it.”

The fourth time is after a home game, which means the hockey house is operating at a volume level that could probably be reported to local authorities if local authorities hadn't long ago made peace with the fact that Briar hockey players were simply going to make too much noise. 

The living room is packed in that loose, post-win sprawl of bodies and beer and boys shouting over one another from distances that don’t require shouting at all. Someone has put the game highlights on the television and every single person in the room is pretending they're not watching themselves while absolutely watching themselves. 

Logan is arguing with a guy from the second line about whether his assist should have been cleaner, Tucker is sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer in hand and the calm expression of a man who played very well and doesn't need to scream about it, and Dean is stretched in the middle of the room like a Renaissance painting sponsored by bad decisions, loudly explaining to Allie that his defensive effort has layers.

Garrett’s on the couch below her, sitting with his legs spread, one arm hooked along the back cushions, hair still damp from the post-game shower and curling messily. He looks good in the obnoxious, lived-in way he always does after a win. Tired under the eyes, mouth lazy with satisfaction, hoodie pushed up at the forearms, chain glinting at his throat every time he turns his head to answer someone. 

There's a faint bruise starting near one cheekbone and stiffness in the way he holds his shoulders that he’s pretending doesn't exist because men who willingly block shots with their bodies have a complicated relationship with the concept of pain.

She’s standing behind the couch with her arms looped around his shoulders, her cheek resting against the side of his head, close enough that when he laughs she feels it before she hears it. The room smells like beer and aftershave and pizza grease and wet pavement dragged in from outside. 

Her chin is tucked near his temple, and his hand comes up every so often to touch her wrist where it crosses his chest, as if checking she’s still there even though she’s been draped over him for fifteen minutes like an affectionate scarf.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs near his ear.

Garrett tilts his head slightly toward her. “I got checked into the boards by a guy built like a refrigerator.”

“I saw.”

“You also yelled ‘get up’ at me.”

“You did get up.”

He huffs. “Supportive.”

“I’m very motivational.”

He smiles, eyes still on Logan across the room. “Yeah, Coach, you’re a real asset.”

She presses her thumb into the muscle at the top of his shoulder before he can get too smug, and his mouth shuts in the middle of whatever he was about to say. There’s a small drop in his posture, a breath leaving through his nose, his head tipping forward half an inch because the pressure hits somewhere useful.

“Oh,” she says softly, pleased. “There he is.”

“Don’t sound so happy about my suffering.”

“I’m happy about being right.”

He hums quietly. “You usually are.”

She starts working at his shoulders properly, thumbs pressing slow circles into the hard knots there, fingers sliding under the edge of his hoodie collar. Garrett tries to keep participating in the conversation around him, because Garrett Graham could be dying and still find time to chirp a teammate, but she feels him lose focus by degrees. 

His answers get shorter. His hand drops from his beer to rest loosely on his thigh. When she presses into the muscle beside his neck, he makes a low sound under his breath that is almost nothing and somehow still deeply satisfying.

Dean notices, of course. Dean would notice a private moment through drywall.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he says from the floor, voice carrying with surgical precision. “Captain’s getting a little spa treatment.”

Garrett doesn't open his eyes. “You jealous, Di Laurentis?”

“Of a shoulder rub? No. Of your girlfriend looking at you like you just returned from war? Little bit.”

Allie leans around him. “He did get slammed pretty hard.”

Dean points at her. “See? This is why I date women. Compassion.”

Tucker takes a sip of beer. “You date Allie because she tolerates you.”

“That too.”

She ignores them, and keeps working her thumbs into Garrett’s shoulders. The only problem is the chain. It keeps getting in the way, slipping under her fingers every time she moves toward the base of his neck, catching lightly against her knuckle, dragging sideways over his skin. She shifts it once. Twice. The third time, Garrett reaches up without looking, catches her wrist, and then lifts his other hand to the clasp.

“Here,” he says.

She pauses. “What?”

He takes the chain off in one smooth motion, turning his head enough to glance up at her with that soft, amused look that always feels worse when other people are around because it's not performative. It's just his face, open for one second before he remembers to make a joke. “Here, baby. Wear it before you strangle me with it.”

The room hears baby. Naturally. The room reacts with the dignity of wolves spotting an injured deer. Logan’s head snaps over. “Oh, wow.”

Dean sits up so fast Allie has to move her knees. “Did he just give her the chain?”

Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Big night.”

Garrett points vaguely at all of them without turning around. “Everybody shut up.”

No one shuts up. That would go against the entire founding philosophy of the house.

She bends down anyway, smiling despite herself, hair falling forward over one shoulder. Garrett lifts the chain around her neck from where he sits, reaching back and up, his fingers careful as they brush the sides of her throat. It's an awkward angle, and he fumbles once with the clasp.

Dean gasps. “He’s putting jewellery on her. In public. Garrett Graham has fallen.”

“I will throw this beer at you,” Garrett says.

“No, you won’t. Your girl’s wearing your chain and touching your shoulders. You’re domesticated now.”

Logan lifts his cup. “RIP to a slut.”

Garrett finally opens his eyes and looks over. “I’m still alive, asshole.”

“Physically,” Logan says. “Spiritually, you’re picking baby names.”

She laughs into Garrett’s hair before she can stop herself, and his hands settle briefly at her collarbone once the clasp is done, thumbs brushing over the chain where it sits against her skin. 

The touch is quick. Almost hidden. But his eyes stay there for a second too long, and the whole loud room blurs slightly at the edges in that private way it sometimes does around him, even when Dean is three feet away preparing to be the worst person alive.

The chain is warm from Garrett’s skin when it lands against her throat. Something about that should not matter as much as it does.

Garrett’s head tips back until he can look up at her. “Good?”

She nods, fingers touching the chain. “Good.”

“Can I have my massage now, or are we hosting a ceremony?”

“Ceremony,” Dean says immediately. “I have a speech.”

“No one wants that,” Tucker says.

“I do,” Logan contributes, raising a hand.

Garrett groans and drops his head forward again, but she can see the grin at the corner of his mouth, tucked away where the boys cannot fully get to it.

She goes back to his shoulders, the chain now resting against her instead of him, rising and falling gently with her breathing as she works the tension out from under his hoodie.

The boys keep going, because of course they do.

“Whipped,” Dean says.

“Tragically,” Logan adds.

“Clinically,” Tucker says, which makes Allie laugh so hard she almost spills her drink.

Garrett lifts one hand just enough to flip them off without opening his eyes. “Keep talking. I’m cutting all of you from the power play.”

“You can’t cut me from the power play,” Dean says. “I am the power play.”

She leans closer, thumbs pressing into Garrett’s neck, and murmurs, “They’re not wrong, you know.”

His eyes open slightly. “Careful.”

“What?” she says, voice innocent near his ear. “You gave me your chain in front of everyone.”

“You were choking me with it.”

“I was massaging your shoulders.”

“Poorly.”

She pinches him lightly.

He laughs, catching her wrist and bringing her hand down just long enough to kiss the inside of it, quick and warm and entirely too natural for a room full of men actively trying to ruin his reputation. Then he lets her go and sinks back against the couch, shoulders finally loosening under her hands.

Across the room, Logan makes a wounded noise. “Oh my God. He kissed her hand. We lost him.”

Dean presses his beer to his heart. “He was so young.”

Tucker, dry as dust, says, “He died doing what he loved. Pretending he wasn’t in love.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks once, but the smile wins. She feels it more than sees it, the small shift under her cheek when she bends down again and rests against him for a second, her arms around his shoulders, his chain warm at her throat, the whole loud, stupid house moving around them.

“Love is a strong word,” Garrett says, which is exactly the sort of thing Garrett says when everyone is looking and the truth has wandered too close to the middle of the room.

She smiles against his cheek. “Mm.”

His hand comes up and covers her forearm, fingers curling there, thumb sweeping once over her skin in a slow little pass that says more than his mouth is willing to risk with Dean waiting to pounce.

Around them, the boys keep chirping, the television keeps replaying Garrett’s goal from the second period, someone in the kitchen shouts about beer pong, and the chain rests against her collarbone like a tiny, ridiculous victory.

Garrett turns his head just enough that his mouth brushes near her temple, hidden from most of the room by the angle of her body.

“You look good in it,” he says quietly.

Her hands pause on his shoulders for half a second.

Then Dean yells, “I can see you whispering sweet nothings, Graham,” and Garrett closes his eyes like he’s begging a very unhelpful God for patience, and she laughs so hard into his hair that the chain jumps lightly at her throat.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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“More or less. Here’s the thing with Joel. He’s got a bite that matches his bark, but he barks a lot less after you get to know him. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

You’d been visiting Bill and Frank that afternoon, arriving around lunchtime with as many jars of tomato sauce as you could carry, and a satchel of tomatoes from your greenhouse. In exchange, you’d be leaving with a crate of strawberry jam and a container of fresh fruit. That had been the way of things for the past few years, ever since you crossed wavelengths on the radio. 

Though it took Bill some convincing, Frank had told you when you met that the three of you would become friends. He had been right. And as time wore on, the years stretching too long to keep convincing yourself that your husband was still alive and might make it back home, your reason for remaining where you were shifted. 

You knew you weren’t the only radio friend they’d made, and while you’d never previously met them, you’d heard about Tess and Joel from time to time. You knew they hailed from the Boston QZ, that they were smugglers who came bearing gifts that were near impossible to find outside of FEDRA controlled areas. The batteries in your radio, for example, came to you from them by way of Frank. 

“Joel!” Frank called out when you were closer. “Come meet our other dearest friend.” 

The gruff stranger seemed less than enthused to be meeting anyone at all, giving you a discerning once over before addressing Bill. “Can we make this quick? Gotta get back with what I came for.” 

Bill’s mustache twitched in a quick frown. “You can talk in front of her, Joel.” He jerked his head toward you. “I’m assuming Tess not being here and you being in a rush are related?” 

Joel nodded. “She’s in lockup. Got busted on curfew. Need somethin’ to trade to get her out.” 

“Alright, well, I’ll go grab what you ‘came here for’.” Bill used air quotes as he turned and headed back to the house. “You should get goin’, too,” he told you. “Make sure you get home before dark.” 

You told him that you were heading out soon, the man patting your shoulder and then leaving you standing there with Frank and Joel. 

“Well, sorry that Tess isn’t here,” Frank said, filling the silence. “Would’ve liked you all to meet. I guess this means we’ll have to have you all over when you clear things up back at the QZ.” 

Joel just grunted, his eyes still appraising you but starting to give up some of their sharpness. 

“Anyway…” Frank went on, giving Joel your name. “She grows the best tomatoes I’ve ever tasted. Remember the gnocchi we served last time you and Tess were here?” He cocked his head in your direction. “Starring her tomato sauce.” 

You laughed under your breath, half at how his introduction made you sound like the Tomato Queen of the Apocalypse, and half because Joel still seemed unenthused. “Nice to meet you, Joel,” you said through a smile. 

Bill returned from the house with three bottles of barrel aged whiskey - the good stuff that he’d rescued from the liquor store, not the swill most people made due with. He handed them over to Joel, who in turn produced a ziplock bag full of FEDRA batteries. With just a few more words exchanged, the handsome scowl disappeared back down the path, and you headed in the other direction, towards home. 

Over the next few years you would see him at Bill and Frank’s a handful of times. Sometimes with Tess, sometimes not. Frank had been right again. Joel’s bark softened, his scowl no longer suggesting how bad his bite was. You even dared to call yourself his friend once, and he hadn’t corrected you. 

Friend or not, though, you were unprepared for his arrival at your greenhouse door. Especially because he showed up with a kid in tow. You had been watering your tomatoes when you heard footsteps, setting the can down with a gasp when you saw who it was. 

“H-hey.” You said hesitantly. “What brings you all the way out here?” Your heart thudded heavily in your chest, like you could already feel the news he was about to share. 

He handed you a sealed envelope with your name written in Bill’s writing.

Tears slid down your cheeks as you read it. You realized that they had probably tried to send you a message over the radio, but your batteries had conked out just a few days earlier. You’d been hoping to replace them on your next scheduled visit. 

Joel cleared his throat as you pocketed the letter. He didn’t mention the girl at his side or Tess’ absence, and somehow you knew the two things were connected. 

He told you then that he was leaving the QZ, heading west with no idea if or when he’d be back. A goodbye of sorts. If your heart hadn’t already broken with the news he’d brought, that would have done it. He was the last person left hat you knew and trusted. If he was gone, too, what was left for you? Tomatoes? 

“Let me come with you.” It came out small and raspy, even though your resolve was firm. 

He started to protest. It would be a long, hard journey, with dangers far worse than infected. You didn’t need to put yourself through that. What about your garden? 

“Joel.” You shook your head, swallowing more tears. “I was never staying here for the tomatoes. If they’re gone and you’re leaving and Pete’s never coming home… Then it isn’t home anymore.” 

He sighed, eyes softening more than you’d ever seen. You watched him think it over, gaze flicking to the girl. She shrugged, then looked at you. “I’m fine if tomato lady wants to come.” 

Despite the way sadness clawed at you over the loss of your friends, you snorted, her moniker for you reminding you of how Frank first introduced you to Joel. He would have liked her, you were sure of it. 

“Alright,” he said after a few more seconds. “We’ll head out in the morning.” 

That night you made them Bill and Frank’s gnocchi, and served it with your sauce. 

---

Part One, House of the Rising Sun

Chapter One | Let Me Rise

Chapter Two | Lost to the Promise Land

Chapter Three | Lessons in Regret

Chapter Four | My Pulse is Clear

Chapter Five | All the Restless People

Chapter Six | No Stranger to the Wind

Part Two, Ain’t No Love in the Heat of the Sun

Chapter Seven | Meet Me at Your Worst

Chapter Eight | Nobody Sings on Empty

Chapter Nine | Leave Me Here on the Other Side

Chapter Ten | Blinded by the Sight

Chapter Eleven | Before the Dawn of Separation

Chapter Twelve | Never Meant to Cause You Any Pain

Part Three, My Race is Run Beneath the Sun

Chapter Thirteen | Plagued by Phantom Noises

Chapter Fourteen | The Icarus to Your Certainty

Chapter Fifteen | Coming Soon

Extras, In the Cracks of Light

Won’t Say I’m in Love

"Yeah."

"I don't see it." Lois says, lips pressing together while she raises her coffee mug to take a sip. You'd seen her pour the sugar in earlier— it's a wonder she can close her eyes at night and sleep.

Cat giggles, nudging her chair and jostling the cup unintentionally. "It's the tall man-blue eyes-brown hair combo." She says, more to you.

You hum, shrugging a bit and looking back at your phone again. "Either way, he's hot."

It's too late to be out— realistically you knew that, but somehow every time you'd managed to fish your phone out of your bra in the loud and sticky club, even as the time got later and later you still didn't magically find yourself at home. Funny how that works.

Fearing the moment the lights would come on and blind you, throwing you out into the Metropolis night with fuzzy vision after being flashbanged as a signal to get out, your friends dragged you out shouting something about an Uber over the music.

You nearly fall out the doors and into the bouncer, muttering an apology that's met with an eye roll that just makes you giggle. "Has aanyone told you how tall you are? You're like… like… tall."

You're mostly ignored, just pointed in the direction of your friends across the wide sidewalk as they climbed in the back seat of a car, one of them leaning in the passengers side window to talk to the driver.

You aren't aware of your own clumsy steps before you're leaning heavily on her back, poking your head in as well.

"We can buddy up, she'll sit on my lap. Come onnnnn…" She whines, and you automatically nod in agreement.

"Yeah, we can cuddle up." You add unhelpfully as you grin and rest your chin on her shoulder, blinking slowly.

He just shakes his head. "No, not in my car. Just order another for your friend."

Considering your other three friends were piled in the back seat and this girl you were hugging from behind like a corny prom photo was the one who ordered this one, you could deduce they were probably talking about you.

"No, come on. She'll be so good. We're really chill." She promises, and is met with a scolding look from this stranger.

You make an effort to stand up straight, pushing your hair out of your face and taking a breath that is meant to be sobering and reassuring. "Don't even worry about it. I got it. I'll get my own car, I'll meet you guys at your place in like half an hour."

"No, no way. We're not going to leave you here." She insists, holding your arm to keep you both upright as you fish out your phone again. She turns back to the driver again. "Can we at least wait until her car gets here? You can't expect me to leave my friend— a gorgeous young woman, mind you— on the side of the street by herself at one in the morning!"

Before he can argue, because you knew your friend would definitely fight on your behalf nd he was more than capable of kicking everyone else out of his back seat when one of them was already asleep, you grab onto her again. "Hey, don't worry about me. I'll be right behind you, and I'm not by myself, I've got my close personal friend the door guy to make sure I don't get killed." You point back at the doors, to the bouncer that is still pointedly ignoring your group.

She relents.

"Okay, okay. Fine. Text me when you get in the car, and when you get to the building and I'll let you in."

You nod, taking the time to hug her, much to her drivers dismay, before stepping back so they could get in and be on their way.

You open your phone as the car disappears down the street, mindlessly opening some social media app you can't even see clearly before remembering you're supposed to be getting a ride. You laugh a little to yourself at your forgetfulness, leaning back against the brick of the building as you try and find the app you actually were looking for when… your phone freezes, and then black screens. Dead.

You smack it, as if that would somehow CPR your phone back enough to summon a ride, but it obviously doesn't work. You huff, turning in the direction of the club doors again. "Hey, sorry, mister tall guy, can I borrow your—"

He's gone.

You look around, squeezing your eyes shut before opening them again to try and get a better grasp of your surroundings. Apparently you'd been walking during your scrolling excursion, and suddenly you had no idea where you were. You couldn't be far from the club, it had only been a few minutes, but alas, it was too late for your drunk brain to redeem itself on this one.

"Shit…" You mumble to yourself, making a conscious effort to blink again and take a deep breath. It was cold out tonight, surely that would help in the absence of a slap in the face.

Find street sign. Find street sign, figure out where you are.

The club wasn't far from your own small apartment, but it was much farther from where your friends were all going where they had room for all of you to have a sleepover after the night out. You just had to find your way home, charge your phone, and then call a ride to their place. That couldn't be too hard!

(It was, apparently, too hard.)

You feel like you've walked up and down the same streets a million times, not recognizing anything and praying you don't look as drunk as you feel right now.

(You do.)

Clark could see it from the roof of whatever company building he was sitting on, just swinging his legs and looking at the stars. When he heard the muttered and slurred curses of a confused and highly intoxicated woman nearly falling into the street, he pushes himself up almost immediately and steps off the ledge. The least he could do was check if she was okay and not actually alone this late.

It wasn't until he tracked the humming down that he noticed it was you, though.

He would laugh if he weren't so worried. Or disappointed. Or a healthy combination of both. He shouldn't be, though, and he knows that. He'd been in your orbit at work for quite some time now, and he knows how you're the type to show up clean and professional but still regale everyone with tales of your outrageous weekends both presently and in your college years.

Just last week you'd told everyone about your 21st birthday, when you went out to a bar that held hostage your shoe until you paid (that, thankfully, also had seating that didn't require your feet to be on the ground. You remembered to pay, but you didn't remember to get your shoe back until the next day. Also the time you and your best friend in college had two days off so you drove all the way to Gotham City the same day without a plan on where to stay, went to some kind of show, made friends there and stayed with them before leaving the next afternoon.

You were messy and fun, and adventure glimmered in your eyes even when you looked at him like he was the most important person in the world. You had more in common than you knew, the near ability to shapeshift outside of work the way he did into the city's greatest hero. It was no wonder he was falling in love with you, really.

"Hey, miss?" He lands just behind you, jogging a little to catch up.

"Pay my rent and then we can talk." You mutter an automatic response you always give to men on dark streets this late into the night, not even bothering to look his way as you looked up for any hint at where you were.

Clark does laugh, this time. "Fair." He agrees, stepping in beside you and following your swaying steps so he could step in if you were about to fall.

"Sorry, what I meant to say was piss—" You cut yourself off hard when you finally catch a glimpse at the man next to you. Superman, to be terribly precise, complete with the costume. Uniform? Super…Suit? No matter. "Holy shit."

He raises an eyebrow, dimples popping when he can't fight the smile. Laughter rumbles deep in his chest, even as you stop walking and grab his arm.

"Oh my God! I know you!"

"Yeah?" He chuckles, holding out his free arm next to you in case you need further steadying.

"Yeah!" You nod, giggling as you look up at him. "You were… I saw you on TV… yesterday. Yeah, yesterday. Or today? I don't know, but I definitely saw you. Recently."

More recently than you know.

"Oh, yeah. Do you trust me to help you get home, then? You look a little lost." He says gently, careful not to be patronizing.

You huff, holding up your phone. "I'm not lost, Mr. Man. My phone just died and I couldn't call a ride. Now I'm walking home."

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Alright. Just… let me have my piece of mind and walk you the rest of the way home, then?"

Your expression shifts then, from exasperated to a smile as you tuck some of your hair back behind your ears. "Okay." You agree with a shrug, unable to help but be a little giggly at the concept of Superman walking you home.

Clark chuckles, nodding a bit and starting to walk in the direction of your building. "C'mon, then." He urges you, knowing you were too drunk to notice him leading the way. "Have a good night?"

"Yeah, good, but my friend's driver wouldn't let me in the car." You shrug, following along beside him. "You know, I was saying yesterday to some of my friends at work that I think you kind of look like our other friend." You add in a mumble.

"Oh?" He asks, trying to sound more casual than he definitely felt about you somehow almost clocking him past his glasses.

"Yeah. You've actually done interviews with him. Clark Kent? We work at the Daily Planet."

Ohhhh no.

"Oh! Yeah, I think I might remember him." He replies, clearing his throat and looking at the sidewalk ahead. Change the subject. "Do you like working there?"

"Yeah, I love it." You slur, almost tumbling over a dip in the sidewalk but you catch yourself. Clark almost gets to breathe a sigh of relief that you let him change the subject before you keep talking. "He's great. I think he's taller than you, though— is he taller?"

Clearly, you weren't letting this go. However, you were clearly still under the impression that he and Superman were distinctly two separate people, so he obviously hadn't blown anything too badly.

"I… yeah, I think he was a little taller." He agrees, unsure what else to do or say.

You look up at him, almost assessing as you walk. (Stumble.) You were making one of the most unwise— possibly funniest— decisions you've ever made in your life.

"He's real sweet, isn't he?" You ask, smiling.

"Yeah, he's really… he's nice."

"Cute, too. And God, he looks good in a white shirt. Oh, I, like, die when he takes his jacket off." You giggle, pretending to fan yourself.

Clark's heart nearly stops, stuttering in his chest before coming back to life. "Uh, I think we turn here." He mumbles, guiding you carefully around a corner onto your street. His cheeks are burning hot, tinged pink in the poor lighting.

"Don't tell him I said that, obviously." You add, words tangling together in your mouth and coming out kind of slurred again. "But yeah, he's like, so cute. Got that sexy, nerdy sort of thing going on. But he has social skills, you know?"

You were flirting with him, terribly, laying it on thick— though this time you didn't fully understand how your system was simultaneously backfiring and doing exactly what you wanted. Pitting men against each other without them knowing, or making them at least think they had competition, often made them step up their game. Did you actually think Clark was hot? Obviously, even if you would never tell anyone at work that in so much detail. But did you also think Superman was hot and present and very hopefully walking you right to your door? Also yes, and also obviously, you wanted him to come inside with you when you got there— friends entirely forgotten, but surely they wouldn't mind when you got to tell them tomorrow morning that yes you ghosted them, but "guys, I slept with Superman" is an undeniably appealing story to tell for far more reasons than one.

"Nope, definitely won't tell him." Clark, no— Superman— promises quickly with a shake of his head.

"You do look a bit like him, though." You add, feeling as though you've successfully seeded the roots of insecurity the same way you often did to men at bars, circling back to stroking his ego just enough. Terribly toxic, you knew, but absolutely worth the shot when you were handed one. "I'm not sure what it is, though…"

"Yeah," He laughs awkwardly, scratching at his jaw and distinctly avoiding eye contact. "Don't know what it could be."

Superman had very kindly declined your suggestion that he come inside when you made it to your apartment, even if he did have to fly you up to a window because you left your keys at your friend's house during pres before you went out. You were content; that was story enough for you.

You strided straight into the Daily Planet office on Monday morning, heels clicking against the flooring and echoing with the chatter of the space while you made a beeline for Cat's desk, the only person who would care, other than your friends, of course.

She was over the moon for you, of course, gushing over every scarce detail you managed to remember through the fog of your own creation, manifested by the consumption of about twelve drinks.

When Clark arrived, twenty minutes late for the day but only ten minutes later than you, you almost completely zone out of the barrage of questions Cat was still asking you. Because he's carrying his grey jacket, not wearing it. This must be the best week of your life.

Whatever higher power exists in this universe has shone their blessings upon you today, and you know it because you got to touch Superman's biceps and see Clark Kent's shoulders stretch out the fabric of his white button-up first thing in the morning two days later, and he even gives you an awkward smile and a half-wave in greeting.

Your drunken attempts at flirting hadn't worked on Superman, but— even if you didn't know it yet—they had certainly worked on Clark Kent.

Because he’s Clark.  

Because he’s standing two inches to your left, warm and solid and unnervingly gravitational. Wearing a suit so perfectly tailored it looks like it was sewn directly onto his DNA. Smelling like bergamot and something woodsy you’ve never been able to name, but now permanently associate with the sound of his laugh in your apartment at 1 a.m.

And because the second you start hacking like a Dickensian orphan, his hand is on your back. Guiding you away from the crowd like you’re a spooked horse, and not a grown woman brought to her knees by a two-syllable word.

“Did Perry just—?” you rasp, coughing up remnants of French bubbles and the last of your dignity.

“Yeah.” Clark says, voice maddeningly even.

You whip your gaze to him, blinking through the watery aftermath of your near-death experience. He looks down at you with those absurdly sincere eyes—soft with concern, brows pulled together, mouth pressed like he’s fighting a smile and failing spectacularly.

As if he didn’t just let his boss reclassify your situationship in front of Metropolis’ glitterati.

Well.

Situationship is being generous.

Clark Kent is your coworker. Your lunch buddy. Your plus-one to weddings, holiday parties, and three separate Thanksgiving dinners. Your 2 a.m. ‘why’s my radiator making murder sounds’ hotline. He knows your coffee order, your backup coffee order, and the fact that you’ve watched Zootopia six times and still tear up when Judy apologizes.

Just friends, though. 

The kind of friends who text good morning and good night with clockwork regularity. Who eat takeout on each other’s couches and occasionally, accidentally, fall asleep there.

The kind of friends who’ve kissed once, after an adrenaline-fueled stakeout involving a high-speed car chase. Twice, if you count that city-wide blackout incident (it was cold, there was an editor deadline). Plus that night on your birthday when you were barefoot and tequila-blasted.

Okay, so. Three times.

Still. It doesn’t matter.

Because if there’s one thing you’ve made clear—crystal, etched-in-stone clear—it’s this:

You do not date your coworkers.

You’ve told him that. Out loud. Possibly more than once. Possibly more for your benefit than his.

But still. It was said.

And now, thanks to Perry White’s tactless cannonball into polite conversation, the entire, champagne-soaked room thinks you’re Clark Kent’s girlfriend.

All because your boss has the tact of a sledgehammer and the observational skills of a meddling grandmother.

And you know Perry doesn’t mean to stir trouble. He just has this thing—this deeply inconvenient habit—of assuming things with such ironclad confidence that people around him spiral into identity crises trying to catch up. 

He did it to Jimmy once. Referred to Eve Teschmacher as his fiancée at a staff party, and Eve spent the rest of the night making Pinterest boards while Jimmy stared wistfully out a window like a Victorian widow.

Now, apparently, it’s your turn.

The G-word dropped like a live grenade, right in front of donors, council members, and a man you’re 90% sure owns your entire apartment building.

Because this crowd loves a wholesome office romance. It sells well with old money.

Only—you’re not Clark’s girlfriend.

Which is why you end up marching him off the dance floor like a woman preparing to commit a very polite, very public homicide.

You duck behind a decorative ficus, dragging all six-foot-four of Kansas sunshine and understated muscle with you. You wedge yourself between the waxy fronds and the wall, your champagne flute dangling like an accessory to crime.

The ficus doesn’t judge. The ficus understands.

Clark follows, bemused and obedient. Of course he does. Because he’s Clark. If you walked into the ocean with that look on your face, he’d probably roll up his slacks and follow you in, just to make sure you didn’t drown out of spite.

Now it’s just you, him, and the oppressive weight of whatever the hell that was.

“Since when are we dating?!” You hiss.

Clark blinks at you. That dumb, beautiful blink that usually precedes something devastatingly earnest.

“We’re not.”

You point your flute at him like a weapon. “Try telling Perry White that.”

Clark’s face doesn’t even twitch. No panic. If anything, he looks… amused.

You narrow your eyes. “Wait. Did you know he was going to say that?”

He has the audacity to look sheepish. Sheepish, like a golden retriever who just chewed through your slipper and is now asking for belly rubs.

He rubs the back of his neck. His glasses slip. You resist the deeply feral urge to fix them.

“He asked who I was bringing. Your name came up. And he just kind of... assumed.”

“And you didn’t correct him?”

He shrugs, helpless. “I didn’t get the chance! He turned and started yelling at Jimmy about photos for the Sunday editorial.”

“So, you lied by omission.”

He looks deeply offended at that. “I didn’t lie. I just… didn’t not-lie.”

“You—” You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a shriek. “Clark. That’s an affirmative gesture.”

“I panicked!”

“You do not panic!”

“I do!” He winces. “…sometimes.”

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind. Like you’ve lost your mind, which, frankly, might be true. Because you’re currently hiding behind a $2,000 shrub, accusing the most decent man in the tri-state area of emotional subterfuge. And he’s just standing there. Tall and warm and somehow still so Clark about it.

“You didn’t think to give me a heads-up?” you ask. It comes out quieter than you intended. A little too vulnerable. A little too real.

That lands. He falters, gaze softening.

“Well, I figured if I told you, you wouldn’t come.”

Oh.   

Well.

That koi pond’s looking pretty inviting again. Maybe you could just slowly tip over. Become part of the landscaping.

To his credit, Clark looks abashed. Not guilty, exactly, because guilt would imply he thinks he did something wrong, that he thinks he shouldn’t have done it. And he doesn’t.

He’s not apologizing for what he did. He’s just hoping you'll understand.

“I didn’t think he’d bring it up so publicly,” he says, quieter. “I just… I wanted you here.”

And there it is.

The truth.

Devastatingly simple. So very Clark.

Not calculated. Not strategic.

Just: he wanted you here.

Your brain is doing that thing it does sometimes—going absolutely, irreparably blank, like someone yanked the cord on your central nervous system. You’re vaguely aware that you’re blinking at him. Possibly breathing through your mouth. Possibly functioning as a human person and not, say, a potato in a backless dress.

And Clark—sweet, earnest, idiot Clark—sees your stunned silence and mistakes it for discomfort.

“I can fix it,” he offers gently. “I’ll talk to Perry. Tell him it was a misunderstanding. You don’t have to pretend.”

And it’s the way he says it—careful, soft, leaving space for you to bolt—that makes your heart ache.

Because here’s the thing about Clark. The infuriating, utterly devastating thing.

He never asks for more.

Not when he walks you home after work (he never asks to come up). Not when you grip his hand after a bad interview to keep yours from shaking (he lets go the moment you’re calm). Not when you pass out on him in the back of a cab (you woke up tucked into your couch, blanket pulled over you, with a sticky note on the coffee table that says: Lock your door next time – C.)

Not even after that tequila-flavored birthday kiss, where you smeared lip gloss all over his face then bolted after. Like a bad SNL skit about some drunk, commitment-phobic Cinderella.

And still—he let you run.

He never pushed, never assumed. Just waited.

Like he’s doing now.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because somewhere between the newsroom coffees and late-night stakeouts, Clark Kent stopped feeling like an almost and started feeling like a constant.

And constants are hard to ignore.

Every time you came close to being brave—your hand hanging too long on his arm, a goodbye that lingered like an apology—he’d just smiled. Quiet. Steady. Waiting for you to take the wheel, to take the first turn.

And you never did. 

Because you didn’t know how to make that turn without demolishing the fortress you’d built in your head. The one labeled Professionalism. The one with a drawbridge made of Healthy Boundaries and a moat full of Reasons Why This Would Be A Terrible Idea.

(“It’s nothing personal,” you’d told him. “I just hate when things get messy, you know?”)

And now, you’re here. Wearing a dress that should belong to someone brave enough to own the word girlfriend, standing next to a man who’s taken up residence in your head longer than you dared admit.

You release a slow, quiet breath.

You stare at Clark. At the soft furrow in his brow. At the way he’s watching you like this could still go either way.

You sigh.

“Fine.” You try for a thin smile. “Let’s just get through tonight. Free wine, fancy cheese. Public deception. What could go wrong?”

He doesn’t answer. Just studies you for a beat, eyes tracing your face like it’s a puzzle he’s halfway through solving.

Then he smiles. Offers his arm.

You take it.

And it is, in no uncertain terms, the first of a hundred bad decisions you make that night.

⟢

The ballroom smells like champagne and generational wealth.

Not in the cute, Gatsby-party kind of way, but in the I own two private islands and casually commit tax fraud kind of way. Everything here glitters, but none of it’s gold—it’s just money. Inherited, laundered, bottled in Chanel and weaponized with dental work.

And you?

You’re on Clark Kent’s arm like you belong here.

Which is objectively hilarious, because the only thing less believable than you fitting in with this crowd is the way Clark’s looking at you, like you’re the sun and the moon and possibly the reason crops grow.

Like this isn’t pretend.

“Stop that,” you mutter, snagging a new flute of champagne from a passing tray.

“Stop what?”

“That face. The…” You wave your fingers vaguely in his direction. “The you face.”

Clark blinks. “I only have one face.”

“Yeah, well, it’s being extremely rude right now.”

He just laughs, quiet and fond. Like you just said something brilliant and not… whatever that was.

You want to be annoyed by how warm it makes you feel. Want to hate how your brain is already cataloguing every inch of this moment like it’s something to keep. His laugh. His dimples. His arm, warm and steady against yours.

And you really want to hate how good he is at this, at making you feel like you belong here. Like you’re the only person worth talking to in a room full of senators, tech CEOs, and women who have themed rooms for their dogs.

You do a slow lap around the room, grazing shoulders, laughing at the right beats, touching his arm just often enough to sell it.

It works.

For twenty minutes.

Until you see her.

⟢

She arrives like a Bond villain in couture.

Crimson dress. Cheekbones that could cut glass. A walk like she’s never tripped in her life and never will. She’s not just beautiful, she’s designed. Engineered. The kind of woman perfume commercials are based on but rarely deliver. The kind who definitely doesn’t choke on champagne or second-guess every decision that’s led her to this night.

And she is zeroing in on Clark like a heat-seeking missile with a point to prove.

You clock her before he does. Of course you do, you're in survival mode. You’ve been scanning the room since you stepped into this nest of designer shoes and whispered nepotism, and she registers as an immediate threat to your fake girlfriend equilibrium. 

Not because she’s stunning. (She is, but that’s not the point.)

Not because she’s poised. (She is, but again, not the point.)

But because she walks like she’s been here.

Specifically, like she’s seen Clark Kent in fewer layers.  

Clark turns just in time to catch her smile.

“Well,” she purrs, silk over steel. “If it isn’t my dear old Clark.”

You can’t help but recoil a little.

She steps into his space like she owns it. Her perfume hits a second later: spiced rose and something solvent-adjacent that makes your eyes sting. You want to sneeze and maybe commit a felony.

“If I’d known you were coming,” she murmurs, voice syrup-sweet, “I’d have worn something more impressive.”

Clark laughs, sheepish.

And then—he does it.

The Tell.

That tiny, nervous hand-to-the-back-of-the-neck thing. Most people think it’s adorable.

But you know better. You’ve studied his micro-expressions like a thesis project. You know exactly what this means: he’s uncomfortable.

And that?

That’s when you do your thing.

The irrational thing.

The stupid, impulsive, completely not in line with the boundaries you’ve constructed thing.

You reach for his hand.

And you know, objectively, that it’s insane. You’re a grown woman. A professional. You once ghosted a guy for calling you his girl before the drinks arrived. And yet, here you are, reverting to some prehistoric lizard-brain instinct, like a cavewoman staking her claim.

And it’s not jealousy. Please. You’re just… stating a fact. With your body. With your skin on his. A casual, totally normal, not-at-all possessive gesture that says, Hi, yes, this one’s mine. Move along now, thanks. (well, not really, but the sentiment still stands.) 

Clark stills for a beat.

Then, like it’s nothing, like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before, he laces his fingers through yours.

His thumb sweeps over your knuckles, once.

Your stomach drops like a trapdoor.

The woman in red notices. Her gaze flicks to your hands, then rises, slow and surgical, to your face.

She smiles.

“So. You must be the girlfriend.”

The word lands like a trigger.

Your fingers twitch, just slightly. Clark feels it. He squeezes back, the same way he does when you’re bracing for a hostile interview subject or one of Perry’s pre-deadline tantrums. It’s comforting. Familiar. Terrible.

You manage a tight smile. “That’s me.”

She tilts her head. “And how did you two meet?”

Oh great. A pop quiz. Fantastic.

Your brain immediately queues up rom-com tropes like a panicked Netflix algorithm: Bookstore? Farmer’s market? Coffee spill on the subway?

But Clark beats you to it.

“We met at a press event,” he says smoothly. “Urban renewal project a few years back.”

Your head snaps toward him.

Because that—that actually happened.

It wasn’t a date. Wasn’t even notable at the time. Just a dreary Tuesday outside City Hall. The heat lamps weren’t working. The mayor was late. You were freelancing for the Star, he was already with the Planet, and you’d both been assigned to cover the same nothingburger speech about revitalizing the east end. 

He’d offered you his coat without a word. You’d taken it without thanks, shivering and suspicious. Then you spent the next twenty minutes ranting about corrupt zoning and the death of civic architecture while he stood next to you, silent and warm, like a human space heater with good manners.

Afterward, you ended up at a diner.

Not a date. Just two reporters swapping quotes and insults over stale coffee and off-brand syrup.

He’d ordered pancakes at 9 p.m. You’d let him steal your fries. And somewhere between your fifth sidewalk-related rant and your third refill, you made him laugh so hard he choked.

You’d felt it, then, sitting next to a bottle of ketchup.

The click.

The terrifying, bone-deep tug that said:

Oh no. I like this one.

Six months later, fate handed you a desk across from his.

And the rest is… well, apparently public knowledge now.

“Yep,” you nod, voice a little strangled. “Urban renewal. Very romantic.”

The woman hums, like she’s storing ammo for later. Then, with a smile sharp enough to cut glass, she glides away toward a man in cufflinks worth more than your car.

You don’t breathe until she’s gone.

“Um, I didn’t realize we were using real stories?” you mutter, heart still thumping.

Clark glances down at you. “Sorry, I panicked.”

“You don’t panic.” 

He doesn’t argue. But something in his face shifts, soft and sad and unreadable. He looks at you like he’s about to say something honest.

You glance down, quick.

You're still holding his hand. So is he.

He lets go.

Slowly, like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

⟢

The balcony is blessedly empty.

Probably because it’s humid as hell out here, and everyone inside cares more about keeping their blowouts intact than breathing in the sticky, unfiltered city air. But you? You need this. The suffocating heat. The wide open pace. The faint echo of taxi horns and distant sirens—a reminder that you’re not actually trapped in some weird Jane Austen adaptation directed by Jordan Peele.

You lean forward, pressing your hands on the railing, trying to coax your pulse back to a human tempo.

Clark follows you out, but stays a careful two steps behind. Like he knows the precise radius of your storm and refuses to step inside without permission. It’s a quiet kindness. Space that doesn’t feel like distance.

You inhale slowly, eyes closing for a beat.

The air tastes like rain and asphalt. Like real life.   

Clark’s voice is soft behind you. “You okay?”

You nod without turning. “Just needed to get out before I jumped into that koi pond.”

He chuckles, quiet.

Then, before your brain can filter it:

“Just to clarify, do all your exes look like they model for French perfume ads? Or was it just the one?”

He blinks, startled. “Exes?”

You squint at him. “Don’t play dumb. That woman back there? Looked at you like she wanted to climb you like a rope in gym class.”

Clark’s ears go red. Not metaphorically red. Actually red. Like, visible, cartoon-blush red. The tips go first, then the flush creeps down his neck like a slow tide. He shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She didn’t—”

“She did,” you cut in. “Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t ask if you came pre-assembled or if she gets to unwrap you herself.”

He groans into his palm. “Can we not—"

“She was practically eye-fucking you in 4K,” you press on, smiling now. “Dilated pupils, Clark. That’s science. Fight, flight, or—”

He covers his face with both hands. “Please stop.”

“—or fuck,” you finish sweetly. “The third F, my friend.”

Clark makes a noise that might be a cough or a laugh or the beginning of a stroke. His palms drag down his face, like peeling off his skin might end this conversation.

And yet—he’s smiling.

Blushing, grinning, breathless in that way that makes your stomach do its new favorite party trick: the trapdoor plummet.

When he drops his hands, his smile softens. His eyes hold yours.

You look away first, swallowing hard. Your brain is a foggy slideshow of every touch, every almost, every loaded glance you shoved into a junk drawer so you didn’t have to think about this.

A sharp twist of frustration curls in your gut. At the stupid spark of jealousy in your stomach. At the fact that he still hasn’t really answered question. At the way he’s looking at you now, like you’d handed him the key to your diary and asked him to read the entry titled Things I Pretend Not to Want.

Then:

“She’s married.”

You blink. “What?”

He shifts, sliding his hands into his pockets. “To James Rourke.”

You turn, brows climbing. “Councilman Rourke? The guy who tried to bulldoze the community garden to build condos for cats?”

“That’s the one.”

You gape at the skyline. “She… she looked at you like she wanted to eat you alive.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking to the ground. “Well, I guess I’m pretty… digestible.”

You turn to look at him.   

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Clark is digestible. Soft-spoken. Palatable. Quiet in a way people mistake for easy.

The kind of man that most people think they can swallow in one bite.

Until you get close.

And then? He’s anything but easy.

He’s dense with layers.

Steady like a metronome. Kindness like bedrock. Justice braided into his bones, so rooted it makes the rest of the world seem shallow.

Unshakable, once he’s decided someone is worth his time.

You stare out at the city, trying to give shape to whatever soup of feeling is currently flooding your system.  

Clark’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“Do you remember what you said that night? First time we met.”

You blink, squinting over at him. “I said a lot of things. Mostly bullshit about gentrification. Think I also insulted the mayor’s hairline.” 

He smiles. “Yeah. But before that.”

Your brow furrows, trying to catch up. “I don’t—what?”

“You said you didn’t trust anyone who orders pancakes after noon. Said they’re either emotionally stunted or hiding something.”

You snort. “I stand by that.”

“I know. And I remember thinking…” He steps a little closer, voice softening. “Gosh, I hope she doesn’t notice I’m hiding how much I like her.”

Your brain promptly bluescreens. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Because surely, surely, this man did not just say that.

Because what the hell does he mean, he liked you?

Back then? That was years ago.

You were still covering city council meetings with a flip phone and a caffeine addiction. Still wearing drugstore eyeliner that smudged by 11 a.m. You weren’t polished or poised. You were barely sleeping, freelancing three jobs, and still flinching every time someone called you “ambitious” like it was a slur.

You weren’t anyone worth noticing.

But he had.  

Not just noticed—liked. Enough to hope you didn’t see it.

And now he’s just… stating it. Like a weather update.

“You what?” you croak, voice thin.

Clark shrugs, all slow warmth and maddening calm.

“I liked you,” he says, plainly. “Still do.”

The words hit harder the second time.

Silence hums between you, thick with all the jokes you used as armor, all the near-misses you dismissed because it was easier to pretend you didn’t see. You’ve built a fortress around your heart brick by sarcastic brick.

And now? You’re standing outside it.

You think of that woman from earlier. About how she looked at Clark, at the surface-level version of him. The tall, handsome, suit-and-glasses archetype.

But she didn’t want him.  

She didn’t want the man who brings you tea when you’re on deadline. Who once read zoning laws just to help you win a bet. Who blushes when you call him cute but doesn’t flinch when you snap at him.

She didn’t want the man who holds your sharp edges like they’re sacred.

But you do.

You always have.

You feel it then, the full gravity of it. The years of soft glances and half-steps, all the ways he’s waited for you to arrive.

And you realize, with bone-deep certainty, that nothing is going back to normal after this.

Not the easy friendship. Not the 2 a.m. radiator calls. Not the fake labels or the dumb rules.

This is the edge. The point of no return.  

You take a quiet breath. Turn to him.

And before your brain can interfere—before fear or logic or whatever else you’ve used to stall can catch up—you kiss him.

Clark freezes for half a second, then exhales against your mouth, bending down until you’re no longer reaching. Your fingers slide under his open collar, brushing the warm skin at the base of his neck. His hands settle at your waist, thumbs tracing slow arcs through the fabric.

When you tilt your chin to deepen the kiss, he follows.

It tastes like every moment you’ve spent beside him, ignoring the inevitable. All the ways he stayed. All the ways you let him.

And when it breaks—eventually, reluctantly—it’s only because you remembered that oxygen remains necessary, and that people still exist. Somewhere behind you, a poor waiter probably just got a front-row seat to the collapse of your entire emotional perimeter.

Clark exhales slowly, forehead resting against yours. You feel his heartbeat thudding against your chest. Or maybe it’s yours. It’s hard to tell the line when you’re this close.

“So… was that still part of the cover?” He murmurs, smiling.

You groan, muffling it into his shoulder. “God, you’re such a dork.”

He chuckles. “Taking that as a no, then?”

You ease back just enough to see his face. Watch the way his lashes lower, the faint crease between his brows, like he’s bracing for whatever you’ll say—or won’t. His hands remain exactly where they are.

“…Okay.” You whisper.

His brows lift. “Okay?”

“Okay, as in… I’m not gonna run. Not gonna spiral. I’m… I’m going to be normal about this.”

His smile grows, slow and warm.

He nods, once.

“Okay.”

⟢

Later, after you’ve thrown together a half-hearted excuse for leaving the gala two hours early—after Perry shoots you a knowing glance at the way your fingers lace together as you explain—after the cab ride home where his knuckles brush yours again and again, too often for it to be an accident—

You’ll finally talk.

Shoulder to shoulder on your too-small couch, feet tangled under a worn throw blanket.

You’ll say too much, probably. Little truths and big fears. Maybe you’ll laugh. Maybe cry a little. He’ll listen the way he always does, patient and unflinching. And when your voice starts to fray, he’ll take your hand.

You'll kiss him first, again, sliding into his lap the way you’ve wanted to all night.

His hands will fumble with the zipper as he helps you out of your dress—too big, too eager—but you’ll only laugh, feeling breathless at the way he’s a little clumsy when it’s just the two of you.

He’ll lift you, carry you to bed with your legs around his waist. Lay you down and kiss his way from your collarbone to the curve of your hip, tasting skin, making up for lost time.

He’ll press into you slowly, watching your face, voice hitching as he breathes out your name.  

He’ll make you come with his hand between your bodies, hips rolling deep and firm and relentless until you arch under him, nails digging into his shoulder while he buries his face in your neck.

Afterward, you’ll suggest pizza. You’ll call him a freak for liking pineapple and he’ll call you a coward. You’ll end up with half-and-half.

He’ll put on Zootopia for you again. You’ll roll your eyes but watch the whole thing anyway. Doze off on his shoulder right as the credits roll. 

There will be ordinary days. Good days. Hard days. Days where the world feels too heavy and you forget what it’s like to breathe easy.

But through it all, there will be this:

The way he’s looking at you now. While you’re standing on the balcony of a grand ballroom, wrapped up in the gentle embrace of a summer night and the man who's filled the silence inside you without ever saying a word.

And the quiet, bone-deep certainty you first felt in that diner eight years ago, ketchup on your lips and denial lodged in your throat:

Oh no. I like this one.

Only now, there’s no more oh no.

Just a steady, unshakable yes.  

⟢⟢⟢

epilogue

The smoke alarm is going off again.

You’re barefoot in Clark’s kitchen, wearing his too-big flannel, waving a dish towel at the ceiling like you’re trying to scare off a ghost. The toaster has betrayed you. Again.

“Why,” you cough, “do you even own a four-slice toaster? Are you secretly feeding orphans in the walls?”

From the hall, his voice floats in, warm with laughter. “It came in a bundle with the blender!”

“That’s not a real answer!”

He appears behind the island, hair damp, towel slung around his neck, looking far too pleased with himself for a man whose only contribution to breakfast was peeling a banana.

You point the towel at him. “This is why you need to cook.”

“You said you were sick of my pancakes!”

“Yeah, well, maybe you can cook something other than pancakes.”

“Toast?”  

You try to scowl. You really do. But it’s hard to maintain righteous indignation when Clark Kent is shirtless and moving toward you like that, all soft edges and fond grins. He takes the towel from your hand, tosses it aside, and kisses you with the kind of patience that still makes your knees go stupid.

“Morning,” he murmurs, like it’s brand new. Like he didn’t just spend the better part of sunrise with your thighs on his shoulders. Like he wasn’t the reason you had to crawl out of bed on unsteady legs, sore in all the best ways.

“Hi,” you breathe, brain pleasantly short-circuited.

This is the part no one ever talks about.

Not the kiss. Not the confession. Not even the mind-numbing sex.

The after.

The everyday.

The toothbrush beside yours. The quiet negotiations of drawer space and dinner preferences. Grocery lists written in two sets of handwriting. Your earrings on his nightstand and his socks tangled with yours in the laundry basket.

The inevitable moment when the blush fades, when the thrill settles, and you finally, fully see the other person.

And still choose to stay.

He reaches past you to unplug the offending toaster, fingers brushing your hip. “You’re staying here tonight, right?”  

You blink. “Clark. I practically live here.”

“Right, but—you said you needed time. To ease into the whole label thing.”

You just stare at him. “You bought me a toothbrush.”

He hums. “I bought you three.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Okay, okay. Fine. I’m your girlfriend.”

His smile widens. “You’re my girlfriend.” He tastes the words like they’re something sweet. Then, with a teasing glint: “Want me to get you a mug?”

You groan. “Absolutely not.”

“A shirt?”

“I will smother you with that shirt.”

He’s laughing again, wrapping you up in his arms like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And maybe it is now.

This is your new normal: mornings that smell like coffee and burnt toast. A love so steady, so deeply woven into every inch of the ordinary that you don’t even notice it; until one day, you realize it’s always been there.

You kiss him again, soft and certain. Punctuation at the end of a promise.

The smoke alarm chirps once more.

You don’t even flinch.

⟢

You say it exactly one week later.    

Half-asleep in his hoodie, one of his three toothbrushes lodged in your mouth. Clark’s sitting up in bed, talking you through his latest draft on a new infrastructure bill.

You mumble the words through minty foam, not even thinking.

Then you freeze.

He does too.

For half a second, the world goes still. Then Clark gently closes the laptop, sets it aside, and gets up without a word. He crosses the room in two long strides, smiling the whole way.

He cups your face in both hands, foam and all.

Then, standing there in his bathroom—with mint in the air and toothpaste on his thumb and his bare feet sinking into a dog-shaped bathmat—he says it back.

“I love you too.”   

It was so small, so ordinary, and yet for him, it felt monumental.

He froze, fingers hovering in midair. The smile faded, replaced by something uncertain and heavy.

You stirred at his touch, blinking drowsily. “Clark?” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

He blinked rapidly, quickly forcing a soft smile. “Hey,” he whispered, his hand finding yours. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “You’re always awake first,” you teased, squeezing his hand before turning on your side. “You should try sleeping in for once.”

Clark chuckled quietly, but the sound felt distant to him. He leaned forward and kissed your temple, lingering there longer than usual. You didn’t notice, already half-drifting again, but he did. He noticed everything.

Because in that quiet moment, a thought took root in his mind and refused to leave.

You were getting older. Slowly, beautifully, naturally. Time was leaving traces on your skin and in your hair—and he wasn’t changing the same way. His reflection had looked the same for years now. The fine lines that came and went with stress disappeared almost overnight. Even the gray that sometimes threatened his temples would fade within a week.

You, on the other hand, were fully human. And though he loved that. He loved every second of your life’s rhythm…it terrified him too.

He lay there for a long time, tracing his thumb over your knuckles, listening to the sound of life outside the bedroom. Somewhere down the hall, Leia was laughing with Jon over breakfast. She was seventeen now—sharp, confident, witty like her mother. Jon, thirteen, had inherited his father’s restless curiosity and his mother’s stubborn heart. They filled the house with noise and chaos and light.

And one day, Clark realized with a pang, they would be grown. They would have their own lives. And he… he might still look the same. Still be the same.

But you wouldn’t.

He swallowed hard and blinked back the stinging in his eyes.

When you finally sat up and stretched, noticing the way he was watching you, you gave him that soft, familiar look—the one that always made him feel seen. “What’s wrong?” you asked.

He hesitated, then shook his head with a small, practiced smile. “Nothing,” he said, though his voice betrayed him.

You studied him for a moment, frowning slightly. “Clark…”

He sighed, defeated. His fingers brushed the side of your hair again, and this time, he couldn’t hide the tenderness in the motion. “I saw a gray hair,” he said quietly.

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Oh, that? Yeah, I found one last week.” You smiled, amused at his reaction. “It’s just one, Clark. Or a few, maybe. Comes with the territory.”

But he didn’t laugh with you. He just looked at you, eyes full of something far deeper than worry. “I know,” he murmured. “It’s just… sometimes I forget that time doesn’t move the same for me. And then I see something like that, and it hits me all at once.”

You softened instantly.

He looked down, his voice quieter now. “I don’t ever want to lose you,” he admitted. “And I don’t know how to… how to face that I might, one day, have to.”

You reached out, taking his face in your hands. “Clark,” you whispered, pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. “You can’t think like that. You’re not losing me. Not now. Not for a long time.”

His eyes glistened. “But someday…”

“Someday doesn’t matter right now,” you interrupted gently. “You can’t live in that fear. We have today. We have Leia, and Jon, and every morning that starts with you beside me.”

He closed his eyes, breathing you in. Your warmth, your scent, the pulse of life beneath your skin. He nodded slowly, because you were right. You always were.

Later that morning, after you’d gone to make coffee, Clark stood by the window and watched the sunlight dance across the kitchen where Leia was helping Jon with cereal. Their laughter echoed through the house, bright and alive.

He looked at you, with your hair pulled into a loose bun, a silver thread or two catching the light.

You were aging. He wasn’t.

-

One night, after you’d fallen asleep, he sat in the living room in the dark, his hands clasped together so tightly they trembled. The house was still, save for the gentle hum of your breathing down the hall.

And then, softly, like a man afraid of being overheard by the universe, he began to pray.

“Please,” he whispered into the quiet. “If there’s anyone listening… if there’s anything left in me that’s still human enough to be heard…please.”

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, the tears slipping through his fingers. “Don’t make me live without her. Don’t let me watch her fade while I stay the same.”

Clark’s voice broke, raw and pleading. “I don’t need to fly. I don’t need to be strong or invincible. I’d trade it all, every ounce of power, for one lifetime with her. Just one. Growing old together, the way people are supposed to.”

He bowed his head, the weight of years pressing down on him. He thought about how your hair had begun to curl differently now, how your hands bore faint traces of time, how your eyes—still bright, still fierce—carried more softness when you looked at him these days.

He remembered the first time he’d seen you, young and full of laughter. How you’d teased him, how you’d made him feel human even when the rest of the world insisted he wasn’t.

And now, as he sat in the quiet of your shared life, the thought of you slipping away while he stayed the same tore something deep inside him.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was small. “Let me be like her. Let me age. Let me feel it all. The aches, the years, the growing old. Let me earn every second with her.”

You had stirred at some point, perhaps sensing that the bed was empty. Quietly, you padded into the living room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. The moment you saw him—his face buried in his hands, his shoulders trembling—you knew.

“Clark? Honey?” you whispered gently.

He startled slightly, wiping his eyes quickly, but you’d already seen the tears. You crossed the room, kneeling before him, taking his hands away from his face.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, the words caught in his throat. “It’s nothing, I just—”

“Don’t,” you said. “Don’t lie to me.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, your eyes searching his, your thumb brushing the dampness from his cheek. Finally, he broke. “You’re changing,” he said quietly. “And I’m not. And I hate it.”

You blinked, caught off guard, but before you could speak, he continued, his voice trembling. “Every time I see another year touch you, it’s beautiful…and it hurts. Because I know I’ll stay the same while you…” He swallowed hard. “While you keep moving forward.”

You cupped his face gently. “Clark,” you murmured, your voice full of tenderness. “That’s what love is supposed to be. Moving forward together, even if the steps don’t always look the same.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. You could feel the faint tremor in him, the quiet desperation.

“I don’t want to outlive you,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be here without you.”

You kissed his forehead, your lips lingering there. “Then don’t think about how much time we have,” you said softly. “Think about what we do with it.”

Clark’s eyes opened then, glassy but full of devotion.

You smiled through your own tears and added, “Besides… when I grow old and gray, you’ll still be the same man who makes me feel like I’m the luckiest woman on Earth. That won’t change.”

He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he pulled you close instead, burying his face in your shoulder. You held him there, your fingers threading through his dark hair as the quiet night settled around you.

Outside, the stars burned bright and ageless, but inside the Kent home, there was something far more enduring.

A man who could live forever, praying only for the chance to grow old.

-

The years had passed quietly. They crept in with gentle familiarity, one silver strand at a time, one softened line, one slower morning. You were well into your later years now. The house had grown quieter, still full of love, but slower somehow, softer. Leia and Jon had their own lives, their own homes, yet they visited often. The laughter still echoed in these walls, but it came from the memories now as much as the moments themselves.

You moved more carefully these days. Your hands trembled slightly when you held your tea. Clark never let you carry anything heavier than a plate. He still looked almost the same—the same strong lines of his jaw, the same impossibly bright eyes. Maybe a touch more silver at his temples, but it suited him in that effortless way everything did.

Sometimes, when the two of you went out, to the farmer’s market, or to the park to feed the birds, strangers would smile kindly and say, “How lovely that you brought your mother out today.”

You always laughed it off. Clark, though, would just smile politely and squeeze your hand, his eyes soft and aching.

You and Clark sat together in the home you had built, still the same place where Leia had taken her first steps, where Jon had learned to fly for the first time (through a window that had long since been replaced). The walls carried laughter in their beams and love in every scratch, every photograph framed on the shelves.

The evening sun poured through the window, painting you both in honeyed light. Clark sat beside you on the couch, reading a book with one arm around your shoulders. His hair was still thick and dark, his face still the same boyish handsomeness it had always been. There were barely any changes, perhaps a softness in his eyes that came only with time, but not a single line that betrayed the years.

You, however, had changed.

Your hair, long streaked with silver, was gathered loosely at your neck. Your hands bore the quiet story of years lived fully, creased, delicate, and a little unsteady. There were days when the aches in your body slowed you down, when Clark had to help you out of bed or hold your arm as you walked down the porch steps.

You hated needing help. You hated feeling small when once you had been strong.

But Clark never seemed to see you that way.

He treated you with the same care he had when you were young, the same reverence, the same awe, as though every wrinkle and every gray hair was a miracle he was lucky to witness.

Still, that didn’t stop the doubt from creeping in.

You watched him for a long moment, studying the man who hadn’t changed much since your youth. The same broad shoulders, the same earnest face.

When he caught your gaze, he smiled. “What’s that look for?”

You hesitated before answering, voice soft but trembling. “Do you still love me?”

His smile faded, replaced by quiet concern. “What kind of question is that?”

You looked down at your hands. “I mean… really love me. Even though I’m…” You gestured to yourself vaguely. “Old. Slower. I can’t keep up like I used to. You’re still… you. Still strong, still young. Sometimes I look at us, and I think…what do you even see in me anymore?”

Clark set the book aside and came to sit beside you. He reached for your hands, holding them carefully, as though they were made of glass.

“I see you,” he said softly.

You shook your head, tears forming. “Clark—”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “You listen to me. I see the woman who taught me how to live in this world. The woman who showed me that being human isn’t about what you can lift, or how fast you heal, or how long you live. It’s about love. It’s about what you give to others.”

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, tracing the faint blue veins beneath your skin. “You gave me everything, sweetheart. You gave me Leia and Jon. You gave me a home. You gave me laughter, and warmth, and a reason to come back every night.”

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks. “But I can’t even do much anymore. You’re always taking care of me now. I feel so… useless.”

He smiled sadly and leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You could never be useless to me. Do you know what it means to take care of you? It means I get to repay even a fraction of what you’ve done for me. All those years you worried over me, patched me up, waited for me to come home in one piece…you think I ever forgot that?”

You let out a shaky laugh, still crying. “I just don’t want to be a burden, Clark.”

He shook his head. “You’re not. You’re my heart. You always have been.”

You sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind outside, the creak of the old house. His arm came around your shoulders again, pulling you close.

“Do you remember,” he whispered after a moment, “when we were young, and you told me that even if we could never have kids, we’d still be a family? Just the two of us?”

You nodded faintly.

“Well,” he said, voice full of quiet emotion, “now it’s come full circle. The kids are grown, living their own lives. And it’s just the two of us again. Still a family. Still us.”

You smiled through your tears, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, the same rhythm you had known for decades.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “You’re everything to me, gray hairs and all. You’ve given me a life I could never have imagined. You’re still my miracle.”

You smiled softly, eyes closing as warmth filled your chest. You realized that time hadn’t stolen anything from you. It had only deepened what you already had—love that was stronger than youth, truer than beauty, and far greater than time itself.

Clark held you tighter, and you could feel him smile against your hair.

“Always,” he murmured. “I’ll always love you.”

-

Clark had always thought he understood time. He could fly faster than it, move through it in the blink of an eye, but time—real time, the kind that wears away at the edges of a person’s soul—was something he could never escape. It always caught up, not to him, but to the ones he loved.

He saw it first in you.

When you both were young, he never thought much about how it would look one day—how your hair would silver while his stayed dark, how the laugh lines at your eyes would deepen while his reflection stayed frozen, unchanged. You used to tease him about it. He used to laugh. But now, when you reached for him at night, your hand a little frailer, your breath a little slower, he realized that time had drawn a line between your worlds.

He watched you live in full color. Each year marked with growth, change, wisdom…and he, forever the same, remained a witness.

Leia grew up in that same light. His little girl, the one who once slept curled against his chest, was now a woman—a brilliant, graceful woman who had inherited his eyes and your warmth. He still remembered how she used to reach for him with her tiny hands and call him “Daddy.”

Now Leia came to visit with streaks of gray in her hair and a laugh so much like yours that it ached.

And Jon…still the same mischievous smile, still the same spark. But even Jon had changed, grown older. His shoulders ached after long flights, his powers waned in small, barely noticeable ways.

One evening, Clark stood by the window of your home, the golden light fading into a soft indigo dusk. You were sitting in your favorite chair, a blanket over your legs, reading a worn book. Leia sat across from you, her hair tied up, glasses perched on her nose as she helped you with something on your tablet. The resemblance between you two struck him. Not in the way people always said, “She looks just like her mother,” but in the way she moved, the gentle patience in her gestures, the small hum she made when she was thinking.

And then it hit him. Leia, too, was aging. Slowly, naturally. Like you.

It was something he had always wondered about in silence. Whether his children would inherit his longevity or your humanity. He had always told himself it didn’t matter. But now, seeing the faint silver threading through Leia’s hair, it crushed him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Because one day, one day soon, by his measure, he would be the only one left unchanged.

He pressed his forehead to the glass, closing his eyes, trying to steady the ache in his chest. For all his strength, for all his power, there was nothing he could do to slow this kind of loss.

He had imagined, long ago, that maybe he would outlive the world itself. But now, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want eternity. He wanted this—the wrinkles on your hands, the laughter that grew richer with age, the quiet mornings when you’d wake up beside him and mumble that the coffee was too strong.

He wanted to grow old with you.

He would have given up his strength, his powers, his flight, his entire Kryptonian legacy, just to sit beside you as equals, gray and human, both fading together.

That night, after Leia left, he carried you to bed. You were half-asleep, murmuring something soft and familiar, and as he tucked the blanket around you, he found himself whispering,

“I wish I could slow down with you.”

You stirred, eyes half-open. “Hmm?”

He smiled faintly, brushing a stray strand of white hair from your face. “Nothing, sweetheart. Go back to sleep.”

But he couldn’t. He lay awake for hours, listening to your breathing, memorizing the rhythm of your heartbeat.

He would sit sometimes on the porch, long after you had gone to bed, looking out at the stars he once flew among. He used to feel at home up there. Now, home was wherever you were.

-

One night, as he brushed your hair before bed, an old habit he’d never let go of, you looked up at him in the mirror and asked quietly, “Are you ever tired of taking care of an old lady like me?”

He froze mid-motion, his reflection meeting yours. “What?”

You smiled, faint and teasing. “Be honest, Clark. You could be out there doing anything, seeing the world, saving it, living. And here you are, tying my robe and making sure I take my pills. Don’t you ever get tired?”

He set the brush down, stepping closer. “No,” he said simply. His voice was steady, sure. “Never.”

You turned slightly, looking up at him. “Not even when people mistake me for your mother?” you asked softly.

His lips curved in a sad smile. “Every time that happens,” he said, his hand finding yours, “I just think…if they only knew.”

He bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “If they only knew how much I love you. How lucky I am to have you. How every day I wake up and thank whatever force in this universe let me find you.”

Your eyes shimmered as you looked at him, still as impossibly gentle as he’d been the day you met.

“Clark…” you whispered, voice cracking slightly. “You’ve loved me through everything. Through years and years. You’ve held me together even when I felt like I was fading. You never once made me feel like I was a burden.”

He cupped your face in his large, warm hands. “You’re not a burden,” he said softly. “You’re my everything.”

You smiled faintly, leaning into his palm. “You know,” you said, your voice fragile but calm, “I’ve loved you all my life. Every version of you. The farm boy, the reporter, the man who could catch the world if it fell. I loved you as a boy, a teen, a man who became the symbol of hope. I watched you become a dad.”

He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

“I don’t know how much time I have left,” you continued. “But I can tell you this, Clark Kent. Loving you… that’s a life worth living.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. He pulled you close, holding you so gently as though afraid you might break, but you didn’t—you just melted against him, your head resting against his chest, listening to that steady heartbeat that had never changed.

Outside, the world carried on, but inside, everything was still.

You closed your eyes and smiled. “You’ll be all right, you know,” you murmured. “When I’m gone. You’ll have the kids, and you’ll have the stars.”

Clark’s voice was low and shaking when he whispered, “None of it means anything without you.”

You looked up, tracing his jaw with your trembling fingers. “Then make it mean something for both of us,” you said softly. “Live for both of us.”

He kissed your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in.

When you finally drifted to sleep against him that night, he stayed awake for hours, just listening to you breathe, memorizing every sound, every small movement, because for Clark, every moment spent with you was a prayer answered.

He never got tired.

Not of you.

Not even for a second.

-

A few years later, the house that had been your home was quiet that night.

Not silent—the kind of quiet that feels alive, that hums softly with the rhythm of breathing and memory. The rain outside tapped gently on the windows, a calm, slow cadence that seemed almost deliberate.

You were in bed, the blankets pulled to your chin, your hand resting in Clark’s much larger one. Leia sat by your other side, fingers curled around your wrist, while Jon knelt at the foot of the bed, head bowed. The lamplight was dim, golden and kind, painting the room in a soft glow that made everything look almost eternal.

You had grown frail, your breaths shallower now. But there was still a faint smile on your lips—the same one Clark had fallen in love with decades ago.

He had known this day was coming. He had told himself he was ready, had rehearsed this moment in his mind a thousand times. But now that it was here, he wasn’t ready at all.

“Clark.”

When your chest stilled, he didn’t move. Neither did Leia or Jon. The air felt heavy, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

Clark bent forward, pressed his forehead to yours, and whispered your name like a prayer. “I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”

Leia reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. She had tears in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “She knew, Dad. You were always right here.”

Jon swallowed hard, his throat tight, eyes glassy. “Mom’s… gone.”

Leia nodded softly. “Yeah.”

Clark didn’t answer. He sat there for a long time, still holding your hand, tracing the lines of your palm as if he could memorize them once more, as if his touch alone could tether you back.

Hours later, when the rain had stopped and the night grew still, the three of them sat together in the living room. Leia leaned her head against Clark’s shoulder, while Jon sat cross-legged on the floor, staring into the quiet fireplace.

It was Jon who broke the silence. “You know,” he said softly, “I read somewhere that when a person dies, their brain keeps working for about seven minutes. Like… it replays their life. Their memories. Everything they loved.”

Clark looked down at his son, his expression distant but tender. “I’ve heard that too.”

Leia shifted, looking up at her father. “Seven minutes,” she repeated quietly, almost to herself. “That’s not very long.”

Jon shrugged, rubbing at his eyes. “I just hope… I hope I was in some of those minutes.”

Leia turned to look at her little brother, her lips parting in surprise. She was quiet for a long moment, remembering the smile on your face during your last moments.

Then she smiled—through the tears, through the grief—that same soft, knowing smile she’d inherited from you. “Jon,” she whispered, her voice cracking but sure, “I’m a mother now.”

Jon blinked at her, confused.

Leia reached out and gently took his hand. “We were all of her minutes.”

She looked at both of them, her father, still immortal and ageless in body but weary in soul, and her brother, who had inherited your humanity, your kindness.

“If her brain really played those seven minutes,” Leia whispered, “we were all of them. Every single one.”

Clark felt something in his chest break open. The truth of it was so simple, so piercingly real. You had poured yourself into this family—every heartbeat, every breath, every laugh and sleepless night, every whispered “I love you.” You had loved them with every part of yourself, and that love didn’t fade. It lingered in the air, in the walls, in them.

His eyes closed, and the tears came then, silent and unrestrained. He reached out and pulled both of his children close—one on each side, his arms wrapping around them the way they once had when they were small.

As the night deepened, Clark whispered to the stars outside the window—softly, reverently, as though you could still hear him,

“Thank you for giving me forever.”

-

Clark closed his eyes. He let himself believe that maybe you weren’t really gone. Maybe those seven minutes weren’t an ending, but a bridge—a soft, golden moment stretched across eternity, where you’d wait for him, smiling the way you always did when he came home.

And when his time finally came, he knew he’d find you there, waiting with open arms, whispering, “Welcome home, my love. I’ve been saving every minute for you.”

(also guys good thing clark woke up after this nightmare! coincidentally, he had this nightmare the night he found out you were exposed to some cosmic energy that also renders you immortal! wow, so no one actually dies! haha im coping so hard)

-

taglist

@vql3rie @celestialend @diannelucille @minienix @evermoresivy

@nixandtonic @bl00dstained @tqd4455 @vestafir @sweettbepbo

@skzvibes-blog @sweetheartdiariess @blackwidownat2814 @zandra-42 @ysuftmikey

@soupiemeowmeow @bookishbabyyyy @DreamingofTomorrow @1-800-peakyblinders @kissesofstars

@qtmoonies @Casiopea2 @buckystwilight_ @buckystwilight @princess76179

@kaiparkerwife @vinecstasy @averyhotchner @angelicp0etry @multifandom-loser

@ladamari68 @httpstoyosi @jakesphere @alina02 @kaorisakamotofan

@randomfangirlof @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @animegamerfox @thychuvaluswife @clarkclit

@tayhobart @obsessedwthdilfs @kneelarhmstrung @helalokithor @loveelylani

@kissmxcheek @toplinehyunjin @jvanilly @angelbunny222 @sheslikecherrypie

An age-gap grumpy/sunshine friends-to-lovers (and eventually friends-to-lovers-to-enemies-to-friends-to-lovers) fanfic that starts pre-outbreak. Series is now complete and spans from Spring, 2000, through Fall, 2029, in the HBO timeline.

My casting of the OCs

Lavender Ch. 1

Lavender Ch. 2

Lavender Ch. 3

Lavender Ch. 4

Lavender Ch. 5

Lavender Ch. 6

Lavender Ch. 7

Lavender Ch. 8

Lavender Ch. 9

Lavender Ch. 10

Lavender Ch. 11

Lavender Ch. 12

Lavender Ch. 13

Lavender Ch. 14

Lavender Ch. 15

Lavender Ch. 16

Lavender Ch. 17

Lavender Ch. 18

Lavender Ch. 19

Lavender Ch. 20

Lavender Ch. 21

Lavender Ch. 22

Lavender Ch. 23

Lavender Ch. 24

Lavender Ch. 25

Lavender Ch. 26

Lavender Ch. 27

Lavender Ch. 28

Lavender Ch. 29

Lavender Ch. 30

Lavender Ch. 31

Lavender Ch. 32

Lavender Ch. 33

Lavender Ch. 34

Lavender Ch. 35

Lavender Ch. 36

Lavender Ch. 37

Lavender Ch. 38

Lavender Ch. 39

Lavender Ch. 40

Lavender Ch. 41

Lavender Ch. 42

Lavender Ch. 43

Lavender Ch. 44

Lavender Ch. 45

Lavender Ch. 46

Lavender Ch. 47

Lavender Ch. 48

Lavender Ch. 49

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART ONE | TERMS AND CONDITIONS

The restaurant is fairly quiet, the music playing in the back is dim. It's the kind of place that takes months to get into, but one mention of his name and his table for two is ready in an hour. It's a perfect setting for romance, for love 

Except Harry Castillo doesn't believe in love.

Not at his age. 

He couldn't, not after her.

Melissa. The girl he'd been slavishly devoted to his entire college experience. The one he overheard at a frat party months before graduation calling him pint-sized to a group of tittering girls. 

"But the sex is decent and he's loaded, so I'll put up with him." 

Put up with him. Like he was an annoying pet. He broke up with her that night, tears in his eyes, a hole in his heart and the engagement ring from his mother still in his pocket. 

When he told his younger brother the next morning over coffee at his apartment he'd just shrugged. 

"That's how it is for guys like us." 

And that was supposed to be a comfort? How? 

And as his date, a thirty year old art curator sits across from him now, rambling on about the things she'd seen recently at work, the people she'd talked to, the daily minutia of her life, Harry finds his attention drifting. 

Not to anyone in particular, that isn't his way of operating. He'd always been a one woman man his whole life. Relentlessly monogamous. But he's bored, the conversation manufactured as if she's reading from cue cards. 

His mind drifts to the kitchen with Lucy, the conversation, the admittance that he didn't think he was capable of love. 

"You will. It'll be easy," Lucy had said. 

This doesn't feel easy. But then again what did Lucy know? She didn't even know what she wanted. He shifts in his seat when he hears his name being gently cooed by the girl across from him. 

"Pardon?"

She fingers the stem of her wine glass anxiously. She's clearly worried she's doing something wrong. 

"I asked if you've been using Adore for long?" 

"I've never actually used a dating service before," Harry replies politely. "You're my first." 

Her cheeks tinge pink, eyes downcast, the very picture of demure supplication.  

"Hopefully your last," she says with a gentle smile. 

She's very soft. Everything from the fabric of her clothing to her voice is soft. 

He offers a low chuckle, a rich sound. He knows that he's a catch, a proclaimed "unicorn" from his matchmaker at Adore. He knows the looks he gets aren't just for looks, but for his sizeable bank account. 

And his mother has been very firm. She wants him to marry and he hates to disappoint her. 

"You're almost fifty, Harry. It's inappropriate to be single at this age." 

The woman across from him is traditionally beautiful, but what woman isn't at thirty? She has smooth unblemished skin, light voice. Botox at the forehead, lips plump from injections. 

It's all tastefully done but what remains is nothing of true interest, nothing that sets her apart from the millions of women he sees in New York every day. 

But she's smart, she's accomplished, she comes from money, she'd understand his world. 

"Would you like a second date?" He asks as he walks her to her front door later that night. 

His driver is idling at the curb, keeping the car warm against the New York autumn chill. 

She beams at him, eyes sparkling. 

"I would love that."

"He's perfect."

"No one is perfect, Gemma,” you remind her gently. Everything you do with Gemma is gentle because she's a gentle creature, long limbed, big dark blue eyes, auburn hair, like a doe come to life. "He's just a man." 

"A perfect man," she swoons, coming to stand opposite your desk. "Rich, six feet, amazing hair and body. Smart, kind." 

"And he's straight?"

"Ha ha." 

You smirk before going back to photographing the small miniature portrait in front of you on the desk. A new acquisition, a piece from the 1700's. A coup for the gallery. 

As the art preserver here at The Chapel Gallery you work in the back rooms of the gallery, in a part of the building the visitors never see. Back here the light is colder, whiter, and everything smells faintly of varnish, aging wood, and linen.

The floor is concrete, scuffed from decades of furniture being dragged across it. You’ve stopped noticing. There’s a tall window, but it’s been treated with a UV filter that dulls the sun to a diffused gray-blue haze. Still, it’s enough.

 You like the quiet of it. The way it catches in the dust floating over a stretched canvas. The hush. Your own breathing. The gentle hum of the fume extractor overhead.

Gemma is the exception. Bouncy, sweet, colorful. You like her in your space. Gemma showed up on her first day in heels too loud for the old gallery floors, holding a latte and a dozen questions about framing protocols, and you liked her immediately for admitting she could never do your job. There was respect in her voice when she said it. 

You'd bonded immediately over a love of Henry Ossawa Tanner and ethnical restoration. You moved quickly to lunches together, and then drinks after work and then a casual friendship that you appreciate in a city that feels cold. She loves to visit you in this space bringing coffee or baked goods, the two of you talking about everything from Rembrandt to The Real Housewives. 

And now she stands in front of you, phone in hand showing you a picture from what you can only assume is Google. 

"Isn't he handsome?" 

He looks like any other rich guy to you. They all start to blend into a mix of fancy watches and stiff hair after a while. 

"Sure." 

Your tools rest in their tray; scalpels in their tray, cotton swabs in jars, solvents labeled in your handwriting. Everything with its place. Everything under control. The paintings arrive with their wounds and histories, and you restore them with a loving hand. 

Gemma doesn’t interrupt, not exactly, but her presence changes the air. She’s lighter, glossier somehow. You hear the quick staccato of her heels before you see her. Always rehearsing the next exhibit, the next acquisition, the next donor she’ll have to charm.

 Her voice echoes through the storage corridor when she’s on a call, naming names you don’t recognize. Its collectors, old professors, gallery patrons who write checks large enough to get their opinions framed.

You prefer the paintings because they don’t perform. They don’t flatter. They don’t lie about what time has done to them.

Sometimes she asks what you think of a piece. You don’t always answer. When you do, she listens in that serious way of hers, her lips slightly parted, like she's memorizing the shape of your opinion even if she’s already decided on hers. It works, mostly. You restore. She sells and curates.

You move behind the canvas while she moves in front of it.

"What does he do?"

"Private equity." 

You hold in a groan. He's just like every other guy she's dated. All rich, all handsome, all in finance and all the most boring men on the planet. You can feel her eyes still on you and you know what she's going to say before she says it. You brace yourself. 

"When are you going to try dating again?"

"Never."

Your sweet, hopelessly optimistic co-worker leans on your work table, big eyes sad. "The divorce was six years ago. When are you going to try again?"

"When men stop being assholes so..." you put on a faux pondering look, "never?" 

She giggles, a bit nervous about her date, a bit tickled by your seriousness. "Don't you miss sex?"

You look over at her innocent face, amused. You're only a few years older than her but you feel like you've lived a lifetime in comparison. 

"I have sex, Gem. Sex isn't the issue. It's living with a man that doesn't appeal to me. And I'm not gay, though I wish I was, so romance isn't really an option anymore." 

You weren't always this way when it came to love. But it was a classic case of Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy and girl get married. Boy cheats. Boy gets girl new pregnant. Girl moves on. 

You wish it wasn't such a fucking cliché. 

You think of you phone in your pocket. The message from earlier. You scowl. Gemma's phone beeps and she swipes to open the message, her face breaking into a beam. 

"He's here," she says, going on her tiptoes and bouncing. "He's coming down here to get me! You can see him!" 

She looks completely elated and there's a small, secret part of you that misses that. The excitement of a first date. Just then a gurgle sounds and she gets a strange look on her face, blanching before placing a palm over her stomach. 

"Oh fuck." 

Gemma has what she calls a reactive stomach. Which basically means that she has to aggressively empty her bowels when she gets anxious. 

"I'll tell him you're freshening up," you tell her, making a shooing motion. She casts you a thankful look before rushing off to the loo. 

You shake your head, mouth curled into a smile. She is ridiculous at times but you really do adore her. You go back to photographing the miniature portrait, excited to get to work on bringing the original color back from underneath all that grime.

The sound of footsteps grabs your attention. You glance up to see a tall man with dark wave hair that curls under his ears and large expressive eyes. He's dressed well and in one arm holds a large bouquet of pale yellow roses. 

"Hello." 

He smiles politely at you, plump lips curling under a perfectly manicured beard.

Harry Castillo. 

"Gemma just went to freshen up," you tell him with a motion to one of the desk chairs. "She'll be back any second."

"Great." 

He doesn't move to the chair. Instead he moves deeper into your workroom, eyes casting from one piece to the next. He places the bouquet onto one of the empty tables before surveying the exhibit you just finished restoring. 

He stops in front of a small, clay pot, clearly taken with it. Despite it being behind protected glass you wince when his face nears it.

"Do you mind stepping back from the artifacts? Everything here is incredibly delicate." 

Harry nods unbothered, hands behind his back. "Understood." 

He finds himself intrigued by what you're photographing with such focus. His legs carry him to the side of your desk. You're so invested in the task at hand you don't even hear him near. 

"Rosalba Carriera." 

You almost drop the camera. "What?"

"That's a Rosalba Carriera isn't it?" Harry looks puzzled. "I'm sure of it. My family owns several." 

You hold in a scoff of disgust. Of course his family would buy up art and keep it for themselves. You stare over your shoulder at him, your expression cold. Men like this make you want to scream. Money, looks, arrogance. He has it all in spades. 

"I love pastel painting," Harry continues, thrown off by your muted response.

He thought you'd warm to him and his art knowledge. He's been told he's charismatic, but the longer you derisively stare at him the more he's concerned he's been lied to all his life. You're like a cat; back arched, claws extended. Everything about you screams back off and so he does, eyes trained on yours. 

"Yes," you finally offer when he stands on the opposite side of your workspace. "It is a Rosalba Carriera. One of her earliest." 

Harry can see that the entire portrait is grimy with age. The edges torn in spots. He can't imagine taking something like that and making it beautiful again. 

"Restoration and preservation seems like such tedious work," Harry hums. 

He winces when he sees your jaw tic. He said the wrong thing. Fuck. Tedious wasn't the word he wanted to use. He'd meant labor intensive and exhausting with having so many hours spent over such detailed pieces. 

But he feels out of his element, trying to appear in control of the conversation. But the way your eyes dig into him has him feeling exposed. 

You don't even lower your camera when you reply. 

"No more tedious than telling rich people how to spend their money." 

That's an arrow to the gut. Despite being good at his job there is always the lingering thought that what he does is frivolous. That all the money in the world can't make him a good person. 

He can change his legs, his clothes, his home, but at the end of the day he's still that awkward boy overhearing his girlfriend saying she put up with him.

You put him back there, back to the party that smelled of stale beer and hairspray. The night his life changed, where he changed, where he saw the ugliness in perfection. 

And for that, he immediately dislikes you. 

He frowns, irritated by this serious woman behind the desk and the way she turns her attention back to the portrait, as if he's nothing, as if he's not even good enough to glance at. 

You want him gone. He wants to be gone. 

"I'm ready," Gemma announces with a flustered laugh, coming around the corner in her flouncy dress. You and Harry exhale in relief. 

"Great," Harry says extending an elbow. He can't wait to escape this suffocating space. 

He can't wait to be away from you

Your apartment is on the smaller side, but it does its job. You make decent money. Not enough for some penthouse at the top of a skyscraper but it's got a cozy vibe, something that makes you feel settled. It's a third floor walk up and by the end of the day you're usually exhausted. 

Above everything, you love that it's yours. You picked the paint, the decor, the pillows. Every part of this space is you. 

Not him.

You toss your bag onto the hook by the door and start the toaster oven. You worked late and you have a real craving for that shitty lasagna from the supermarket that you grew up on. 

You grab it from the freezer, Popping ventilation holes into the plastic and pop it into the oven. As you set the timer and heat you laugh to yourself when you realize how different your meal is from Gemma's this evening. She's probably throwing back lobster and farm to table veal. 

With Harry.

What a stupid fucking name. 

You can't help but be annoyed by his presence today, but if you're honest your bad mood started this morning at work after receiving a text from an old friend. Well, not a friend deal, more and emotional vulture. 

I hope you're doing okay. 

Huh? 

I saw the pregnancy announcement on J's timeline. I'm so sorry hun xx

You hadn't even bothered writing back. 

Harry had just been an additional irritant. Bad place bad time. Reminding you of the lifestyle Jarrod always aspired to.  

You used to own a nice place outside Manhattan with your ex-husband Jarrod. A place with quiet neighbours and tall ceilings. A place that he furnished saying that he had an eye for home design. 

He made decent money, but it was never enough. You both worked and he loved to live lavishly. When he found out about your secret account that has been the beginning of the end. 

And the irony is his new wife doesn't even work. But she's young and shiny and maybe that's what he really wanted all along, he just wasn't honest about it. 

But if you're honest you were checked out that last year of your marriage. How could you forgive him after his reaction to-

The ding of the oven catches your attention. You go to pull out the lasagna, hissing when the lip of the grill catches your wrist and the entire container goes toppling over onto the floor. 

Sauce pools over the mushed meal of cheese and pasta. You swear, throwing the pan into the sink with a frustrated cry. 

Today fucking sucks. 

Dinner is delicious. Better than the last time Harry was here with Lucy. Or the time before with Bianca. Or the time before that with Gretchen. It's his favorite steak house and he always rents the back room out when he dines here. It's quieter that way, the service more dedicated. 

Harry watches his date delicately eating her salad. But his mind is still back in that gallery basement, back on the woman who irritated him. 

What was her problem?

Harry dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He speaks lightly, eyes down as he adjusts his cuff. 

"I'm glad we could do this again." 

"Me too." 

Gemma stares at him with the practised air of a woman that was born beautiful, who went to an Ivy League, who comes from money and expects the best. 

She's a good match. And he's so tired of looking. 

"Tell me more about your job," he insists after another sip of wine. 

"It's not very glamorous," she replies sweetly. Again that picture of demure innocence that's starting to grate on him. "Not like your job." 

"I assure you private equity is pretty dull." 

"I suppose it's similar to your job in that we both act as bridges between consumer and creator. But I've taken on some curating as well. That's my real passion. I love it because it's shaping what people experience when they walk into a gallery or museum."

"That doesn't sound boring."

Gemma looks delighted by that response, her eyes sweeping across his forearm, watching the gold ring he wears tapping against the glass. 

"I guess not. Right now I’m working on curating a show on post-war artists who were overshadowed in their time, mostly women and artists of colour. It's the new piece my co-worker is photographing. She'll be busy pouring over that for the next few months." 

Harry nods, not particularly interested in hearing more about you. But Gemma is on a roll, comfortable with the topic of you since nothing else is coming to mind.

“I'm worked about the funding though,” she says, delicately spearing a piece of endive, “my co-worker says not to worry about it, but I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”

Harry nods, smiling with practised warmth. The kind of smile reserved for clients and vaguely familiar faces at weddings. 

“Your co-worker seems…” he lets it drift, then adds almost idly, “focused.”

Gemma nods, chewing quietly. “She is. Especially when a new piece comes in. She’s been handling a lot lately. We lost funding for her assistant, so she’s doing everything herself.”

“That sounds unsustainable.”

“She doesn’t really complain,” Gemma says, smoothing her napkin. “But I think it’s been wearing on her. She hides it well.”

“She’s lucky to have you, then.”

Gemma smiles at that, pleased by the compliment, even if it’s only adjacent.

“She’d never say it, but I think she appreciates the support.”

Harry feigns a moment of thought, fingers absently trailing the stem of his wineglass. He can't agree. You seemed perfectly passionate enough to insult him the second after meeting him. 

“She was a bit aloof,” he murmurs. 

Gemma gives a small, quick laugh. “She’s not always like that. She’s very funny, very blunt. She just doesn’t warm up to people easily. Especially not people who act like...well....”

She catches herself and Harry lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Act like what?”

“Like they own the room.”

He smirks. “Guilty, I suppose.”

“No,” Gemma says quickly, almost apologetic. “Not you exactly. It's just, she’s careful with new people.”

Harry leans in slightly, voice low. “You two are close?”

Gemma lowers her eyes, just for a second. “We work well together. She’s so funny and so brilliant. And yeah, a little intense. But she makes the gallery better.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. There’s something in the way Gemma speaks about you. Respect, yes, but also a sort of nervous admiration. He files that away.

“And she said not to worry?” he prompts gently, circling back.

“Mhm,” Gemma says, dabbing the corner of her mouth. “She always says that. About donors, pieces, my love life…” she trails off, laughing a little.

“Oh?”

“She doesn’t really believe in matchmaking,” Gemma adds. "Honestly, I don't think she believes in romance anymore full stop. But she told me that worrying will just make it worse and that I should enjoy the ride." 

That doesn't surprise Harry in the least. The scraps of information presented to him about you paint the picture of a woman invested in her work. He saw no wedding ring and judging by the late hour he came to retrieve Gemma and you working away, he can only surmise that you likely don't have a partner waiting at home. 

"But I worry about her sometimes. She hasn't dated anyone since her divorce and it's like she's given up." 

Harry lifts his glass, his voice flat. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, gently setting hers down. “I worry that she doesn’t believe in love anymore. I mean she told me as much. Since her divorce, it’s all been very cynical.”

That catches. Just for a second. Something shifts behind Harry’s expression. It's something small, almost imperceptible. But Gemma, watching, mistakes it for amusement.

“She calls dating a mutual performance of delusion,’” she adds with a grin, hoping he’ll laugh.

He doesn’t. Not really. He smiles, but it’s distant. His fingers are lightly tapping the base of his wine glass. “She said that?”

“Mhm.”

“And what do you think?”

Gemma blinks, caught off-guard. “I think she’s been hurt. And when people get hurt badly enough, they try to feel superior to what they’ve lost.”

Harry nods, but he’s not really nodding. His mind’s moved. You’re in it again, your sharp voice, the disinterest that wasn’t just rudeness, but something colder. Something he recognizes in himself under all the pretense. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs.

Gemma brightens slightly, mistaking it for approval of her. “But I still believe in something lasting. I mean, why else go to all this trouble, right?”

He looks back at her, as though just now returning to the conversation.

“Right,” he says, softly.

As if just realizing they've devoted the last ten minutes of their date to talk about her co-worker, Gemma turns coy. 

"But enough about that. Tell me, what is your family like? You have a brother, any other siblings?"

Harry smiles again, this time slower. Something has become very clear to him and like anyone working in private equity he knows he needs to conduct a little due diligence before moving forward. 

"Everything was delicious, the most delicious steak I've ever eaten!" 

It’s three days later and Gemma is regaling you with her latest Harry saga and you're fighting to show even passive interest. The two of you are having coffee at the cafe across from the gallery, your favorite place to relax. 

"He kissed my hand. My hand! Like something out of a romance novel." 

"Cute." 

"And he was so sweet; he took me to Central Park and did the whole carriage ride thing." 

"Fun." 

"Didn't you think he was handsome?"

"Sure." 

You offer the odd word, knowing that she's barely even registered you're there. To her you're just a willing audience 

You barely registered the man if you're honest. He seemed haughty, walking around your workplace as if he owned it. 

"And he really knows his artwork," Gemma continues. "I didn't expect someone in finance to be so knowledgeable about more obscure artists."

"Mhm." 

You remember his tailored presence, the faint perfume of old money and self-assurance. The way he looked at you like not with interest, but a kind of calculation.

"He rented out the whole back of the restaurant. We had private servers, a special menu." She's practically floating. 

"So he's new money," you say acerbically. It comes out more bitter than anticipated. "Old money is quiet, new money is loud."

"For your information he is old money," she says giving you a pointed look. "His parents started the family firm."

"So he didn't even earn his money or position himself."

"Obviously there's no winning with you today. Why are you being so shitty about him?"Gemma asks, cheeks pinking in irritation. 

'I'm sorry," you answer, feeling embarrassed. "I've just never been really comfortable with people that have that kind of money. You are, you grew up like that and it's what you want in a partner."

Gemma is in a snit now. "So now I'm shallow?"

"Not at all," you insist truthfully. "If you were ugly, do you think Harry would have asked you for a second date?" 

She's quiet and blushing further. "No. I guess not." 

I nod. My point exactly. 

"You are just two people coming together who want something from the other. It's as pure and honest as any part of a functional relationship."

The two of you are quiet, fingers tracing the lip of the plate from the scone the two of you shared.

"Well, I hope we go out again," Gemma says with a bright look. "I mean, if I'm honest, I didn't feel a huge connection, but he's so good on paper. Handsome, rich, tall, charming." 

"But do you actually enjoy his company?"

Gemma looks at you as if you've sprouted a second head. "What does that have to do with anything?" 

"Gemma," you admonish, "you're always telling me about how you want to find love and be swept off your feet." 

"I do," she insists, "I just think we have a choice in who we love and my choice should take certain things like looks and money into account. I’m thirty, I want kids, and I want stability." 

You want to tell Gemma that she’s capable of having all of those things on her own if she really wants. But you know that it’s not just that. She wants the cache of a partner up the social ladder.

“Well, then I hope this works out for you,” you say sincerely. “And if not, trying to find someone who knows about art preservation.”

By the time you reach your apartment your stomach is rumbling. You skipped lunch to work on some of the finer detailing on the portrait.  You think of the all night deli across the corner and its beckoning croissant sandwiches and make your decision quickly. You throw your sketchbook into your bag. 

The night is chilly and you pull your jacket to your chin. In true New York fashion you don't smile at anyone, you keep your head down; you ignore the fact that you're still upset about the memory of Jarrod.  

You duck into the deli, cheeks and nose chilled. The place isn't busy, not at this hour. A few night owls linger at some of the tables, tapping away on their laptops, a tired man behind the counter raising a nod your way over their phone. 

"A number two and a coffee."

You take a number and a seat, bringing out your sketchbook as you wait. The music playing is rhythmic, quiet, but relaxing. You should thank the serious looking man behind the counter for his choice in tunes. 

The door opens behind you as you debate the menu. You've been curious to try the avocado turkey on rye. 

"Number two," you tell the man with confidence. "And a coke. Thanks." 

"That’ll be $8.66."

You reach into your pocket for your wallet but an arm has come around you to place a fifty on the counter. 

"I've got it." 

The man at the till takes it without question but you whip around, shocked at the random act of kindness. Familiar brown eyes swim into view and your surprise turns to irritation. 

"You."

Harry gives you a dimpled smile. "Good Evening.”

The man at the till tries to give Harry his change but he just shakes his head, a light lift of his hand and the man pockets his large tip. You know you're scowling at this pathetic display of charitable giving. It's easy to give away money when you have so much of it. 

"I can afford my own dinner."

"I know," Harry says.

You think about paying the amount you were going to, but the man at the till is heading over to another customer to answer a question. Harry continues standing there looking at you with interest. That same calculating look you've seen in him before. 

Fine. If this idiot wants to pay for your sandwich you'll let him, considering his appearance has now dampened your mood. 

"Thanks," you mutter his way, taking a table number and slinking away into a nearby booth.

You open your sketchbook, dutifully ignoring the annoying Harry still at the counter, speaking with the man behind the till.  

You're shocked when you hear the guy laugh, a low chuckle. You've been coming to this deli for months and you've never seen the guy crack a smile, let alone laugh. 

Probably hoping for another big tip. 

You hold in an eye roll and begin to sketch lightly. Your mind is driven to darkness today. Black spiky limbs reaching for the sky. 

A can of soda is placed on the table by your elbow, accompanied by a low voice.

"Forgot this."

Fuck. You sigh lightly before taking the can from him, murmuring your thanks. When he lingers, watching you pop the tab you attempt to be cordial. This is Gemma's potential boyfriend after all. 

"This doesn't really seem like your scene."

You're not looking at him when you speak. You're taking a sip of the fizzy drink, nose wrinkling a moment when the carbonation tickles your nose. 

Harry stands next to the booth like an awkward waiter, holding an espresso on a saucer. He's dressed in slacks and a charcoal sweater, a tweed jacket over top. He went to an effort, not that you’d know because you're still not looking at him. 

"I like sandwiches as much as the next guy." 

What he doesn't tell you is that his driver was pulling up to your apartment building when he saw you exit, looking agitated. When you walked into the deli he thought it was a perfect excuse. Much better than his original idea of just showing up at your home with a proposition. 

"Okay."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. He was ready for it He watches you go back to your sketching, letting the moment stretch. You don't seem to be upset by his presence. 

The sandwiches arrive, both placed unceremoniously onto the perpetually stained tabletop. Harry motions to the chair opposite you at the table. 

"May I sit?"

You raise your head from your sketches, casting an eye around the fairly empty deli. "There are lots of open tables."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. Almost like he was ready for it. "It's not a matter of space, more the company." 

He watches you wrestle with this before lifting one arm in a casual shrug.  

"Knock yourself out."

He suppresses a grin, sliding into the booth opposite you. He can't remember the last time - if ever - he was in a tiny eatery like this with its cheap menus and yellowed floors. 

He watches you take a bite of the sandwich in one hand, the other still furiously sketching away. He watches you for several moments and eventually you feel those big brown eyes on your face and you glance up to see his sandwich untouched. Why is he here?

Harry glances down at the greasy sandwich, hiding a sneer. He wouldn't feed this to his worst enemy. 

"Do you need something?"

You're looking at him with anticipation, as if you're scared of what he might say. 

"I wanted to know if you'd be interested in an exchange of services," he says coolly. "A barter." 

This is how he is in the boardroom; this is how he commands the people he works with. Blunt, forward, confident, charming when he needs to be, but ruthless he just as easily. 

The pencil stills on the page, your nose wrinkling. "With you?"

"Mhm."

He watches the way you blink at him, head tilting slightly. 

"I don't need financial advice and according to Gemma you could buy out the entire gallery, so I don't really get what you want from me."

You feel strangely trapped by him here in the booth. You could slide out and run but would you make it? As if sensing your unease, Harry shakes his head slowly. Fingers lifting from the table briefly.  "You don't have to say yes." 

"I probably won't."

He smothers a chuckle. Gemma was right, you are blunt and you are funny.

"My mother wants me to marry," Harry tells you. "The sooner the better."

"And you're a Mama's boy?" 

He smirks. "Maybe a little." 

"Gross." 

You lean back to take a sip of coffee, eyes peering at him over the rim. "I thought you had a matchmaker?"

He shifts in his chair. "I do." 

"So then why are you here talking to me?"

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. Harry shuffles, one arm over the back of his chair affecting casual interest. 

"Because I want to hire you. I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend for the next several months because I believe it would be mutually beneficial to us both." Harry takes a sip of his espresso now, secretly amused when you drop the pencil.

"Excuse me?" You blink rapidly, lashes fluttering. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're dating Gemma."

"I went on two dates with her."

"She likes you."

"She likes my status, not that I begrudge her for it. But after two dates it’s clear that she wants a husband who will cherish her, who’s every waking thought will be about her. That's not me."

You're quiet because you know he's right. As much as Gemma liked his money, the things she liked most about her dates with Harry was the places he took her, the romance. How he held her hand on the carriage ride, how he listened about her job. Little, beautiful moments. 

Harry takes advantage of your stunned response. "Gemma is a lovely girl, but not a good match for what I need."

"And you think I'm what you need? I don't even like you." 

You stare at this man with his expensive watch and clothes and haircut. He even smells expensive. 

"You're intelligent, confident, attractive," Harry lists these things not with the affection of a lover, but an appraiser at an auction. 

"So is Gemma."

"Yes, but she's also looking for a true relationship, for love. And I can't give that to her."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'm capable of it." He regards you with a tilt of his head. "I'm selfish, I like my job, I enjoy my own company, I'm driven and I'm not very romantic."

"You're very honest," you say, almost impressed. Almost. 

"I find it saves time to be direct." 

He watches your eyes survey him, appraising him like you would a piece of artwork needing to be restored.  

"Gemma said you took her to dinner at Mastros. Then to central Park for a horse drawn carriage ride." 

"I did."

"And that didn't seem romantic to you?"

"I know it was romantic," he replies. 

"Then why do you say you're not romantic?"

Harry leans back in the booth, drink forgotten. He points at your open sketchbook. "You know how to draw. Are you DaVinci?"

"Obviously not. No." 

"No," Harry agrees with a nod. "But you know enough about art from study. You know proportions without thinking about it. If someone random asked you to draw them a cow you could do it."

"Sure."

"It would mean nothing to you, but it would look like a nice image of a cow at the end. The person would walk away happy with their picture. But you wouldn’t feel attached to the sketch nor the process. It’s no different than how I approach romance. I know what it looks like, I’m happy to give it.”

You fall quiet, arms crossing. You've never thought about romance like that. So route. 

"I've already spoken to Natalia at Adore," Harry continues. "She's setting Gemma up with two of my friends I talked into joining. They're younger and richer and hopeless romantics. Gemma will be just fine." 

You don't know how you feel about that, the way he speaks about it makes it feel like something akin to prostitution. 

"She wants romance and love along with status," Harry reminds you. "Both of those men fit the bill and either one of them would die to date a woman like her." 

"But not you." 

"No. Not me." 

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. "What's in it for me?" 

"You'd be paid very well." 

He sees the hesitation in you now. The way your eyes jerk to the side as you digest his offer. 

"How well?"

Harry takes a piece of paper folded from his pocket. He came prepared. He slides it across the table, biting back a grin when your eyes bulge open. 

"You're not serious." 

"I am." 

Anyone else would have used computer paper, but not Harry Castillo. He used heavy card stock; the amount written in thick black ink with what you're sure was a fountain pen.

"How long would this charade go on for?"

"Six months." 

"Six entire months?" You make a disgusted face. "No. No chance."

You go back to your sketching, the subject clearly closed for you. You toss the piece of paper towards him, forgotten so easily. Harry sucks in a sharp breath of air through his teeth. Rejection always stings. 

"I'll double it." 

Your eyes rise up to his. "What?"

"The amount on that paper. I'll double it." 

Harry watches the way your eyes round, lips parting. He can't deny he enjoys shocking you. He watches you slump into the booth, your eyes darting back and forth between the table and the amount on the page.

"There must be other women you could ask." 

"None that don't want love or commitment."' Harry takes another sip of his espresso before it clinks back into place on the small saucer. "Gemma told me your views on romance and that's when I knew this would work." 

You sit for several moments debating the exorbitant sum on the paper and the year of your life you won't get back. But this kind of money is life changing. 

You look at Harry, really looking at him. "Don't you want to find a girlfriend? A real one?"

"I thought I did," Harry shrugs. "I attempted it. But I don't think it's something I really need. And from what I gather, that isn't what you desire either." 

He's right. But still you hesitate, fingering the thick paper.This could be a lucrative venture couldn't it? A chance to erase debt and start a life you've only dreamt about? And it's only a year. A year could go by fast. 

But a year of secrecy, of false affection. 

"Are we... Are we allowed to find company outside the fake relationship?" 

He raises a brow. "Company?"

"Sex," you state flatly. "Unless you think this amount means I'll be your personal concubine?"

It's almost endearing watching his cheeks flush. "I don't need to pay for sex." 

"Just for a fake girlfriend." 

You watch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk. Touche. 

"Sex is not required, of course. I would only request that company outside our arrangement be as discreet as possible." 

"That seems fair." 

Harry raises a brow, intrigued. "So you're agreeing?"

"I'm thinking about it." 

Harry nods, standing and buttoning his dark blazer. You have a lot to think about and he doesn't want to rush you. He needs commitment not a lukewarm agreement. He slides over his business card. 

"My number is on the back. I'll wait for your decision, whatever it may be." 

He sticks his hand out like it's a business deal and you take it with a little smile, amused. You shake briefly and he stands the purpose of this meeting over. He gives you a dimpled smile.

 “I hope to hear from you soon.”

He knows he will.

Part I: Girl Gone Wild

Part II: RingGate

Part III: Kiss Cam

Part IV: Off the Record

Part V: Clause and Effect

THE CONTRACT

Part VI: The Devil Wears Prada

Part VII: What A Girl Wants

I actually have no clue how long this will be)

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

𝐈. The woman he sees when he closes his eyes

𝐈𝐈. The woman who waits in silence

𝐈𝐈𝐈. The woman behind the door

𝐈𝐕. The woman holding back the night

𝐕. The woman who holds her breath

𝐕𝐈. The woman who knew too much

𝐕𝐈𝐈. The woman whose name he forgets

do you like kitschy, campy romance novels? if you're reading this, I hope so.

behind the scenes & chapter notes + other extras (spoilers) :

chapters 1-5

chapter 6-15

spotify playlists

Lysa & Elaine information

the bks screen adaption

bks q&a

bks what if's

reader is generally not described past being picked up a few times, and having hair long enough to be put up

✩ chapters containing smut!

chapter one : honeymoon (6.7k words)

[ Absurd.

That is the only word that comes to mind as you stare at yourself in the mirror. “His favorite color is blue.” ]

chapter two : silent treatment (7.4k words)

[ Something is wrong. You bolt up from the pile of blankets that you call a bed and your eyes dart around the closet as you furrow your brow trying to discern why you feel so much different. ]

✩ chapter three : the smitten paladin (4.6k words)

[ You’re starting to think the planet isn’t the reason you’re so hot all the time.

You had woken up this morning feeling a bit better than you thought you’d be, your stomach is full of butterflies but you're still standing and considering the night you had you’re gonna take that as a win. ]

chapter four : sarad'ika (6.8k words)

[ Sarad'ika. 

You won’t forget it this time, you can’t. So you write it in your book, just under Mando’s favorite color you write the two little words that have been keeping you up at night. ]

✩ chapter five : lunar interlude : just a man (5.0k words)

[ Absurd.

It’s absurd how much the job pays. Din’s not even sure he should take it at this point because it’s too good to be true. ]

✩ chapter six : torment (5.1k words)

[ Okay, maybe you didn’t think this through. 

You didn’t think he’d actually come in and now suddenly the door is shut and you’re alone with him. ]

✩ chapter seven : just friends (3.1k words)

[ Maker it feels like it’s been an hour and you’re both just laying here. He was just inside of you; it shouldn't be so hard to find something to talk about at this point. ]

chapter eight : solar markets (5.3k words)

[ It’s nice to wake up excited again. 

You wish you could say that it happened more often but hopefully it will from now on. It’s going to be your first time leaving the castle grounds since you got here. ]

✩ chapter nine : shuk'la rules (5.6k words)

[ You need sex.

Normally you would be satisfied for quite some time after getting off but for some reason with Mando it was different. But it’s only been two days and you need more. ]

✩ chapter ten : lunar interlude : briikase gote'tuur (4.1k words)

[ He’s grateful for the break from you, even if brief. 

That’s not to say that he doesn’t enjoy every moment he gets to be in your presence but the more time he spends with you the harder it gets to remember that this isn’t real. ]

chapter eleven : he loves me not (4.6k words)

[ Something is wrong. 

All day it’s been wrong. 

He’s different. Distant. ]

chapter twelve : pretend (4.4k words )

[ Two days.

That’s what you’re willing to give yourself. Two days to get over it. One to get it all out of your system and one to pull yourself together. ]

chapter thirteen : lunar interlude : vercopa (3.5k words)

[ He did it.

He did exactly what he knew he needed to do.

So why does he feel worse than ever? ]

chapter fourteen : condemned (4.9k words)

[ You’re having trouble sleeping. 

You have no problem falling asleep, it’s mostly staying asleep. There’s a million different things that consume your thoughts and everytime you drift into unconsciousness you find yourself jolting awake, barely able to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time. ]

chapter fifteen : two tea parties (5.4k words)

[ “What did you do to her?”

Her voice breaks through his sleepy haze as he sits up properly. 

“Excuse me?” ]

chapter sixteen : absolution (4.6k words)

[ There’s a visceral sense of dread when you wake up, for several reasons. 

The glaring obvious culprit of your discomfort would be the fact that today’s your husband's birthday. ]

chapter seventeen : the apostate’s cabin (3.5k words)

[ Just Din. 

It’s sinking in as you walk in silence, holding his hand tightly as he pulls you towards his home. ]

chapter eighteen : portrait of a man (5.4k words)

[ It’s deliciously warm when you wake. You can feel his heartbeat and you can feel the soft traces of sunlight dancing along your back. You stretch in his arms slightly but freeze up as you feel him nuzzle his chin into your hair, planting a kiss against your hairline. ]

✩ chapter nineteen : reverence (7.3k words)

[ You really want to. 

You couldn’t possibly want to more than you currently do. 

It’s actually a bit mean. That he’s left you here in this state. ]

✩ chapter twenty : like real people do (8.4k words)

[ Mando and Din. 

All you can think about right now is how there must be two of them. 

You’re playing with his curls. ]

✩ chapter twenty one : te mirci't (9.0k words)

[ “It means I love you.” 

You aren’t entirely sure how long you stare at him, looking rather silly with your jaw practically on the floor. ]

✩ chapter twenty two : it’s you that i lie with (11.3k words)

[ Naboo has several trading ports. 

You could get him on a cargo ship. That would be the most inconspicuous form of transport. It would help if he was willing to ditch his armor. ]

✩ chapter twenty three : lunar markets (15.0k words)

[ Sneaking out of the castle gets easier every time you do it. 

It only takes a few minutes and you’re walking outside towards the forest trail, Din’s hand in yours, still giddy. ]

✩ chapter twenty four : lunar interlude : riduur (7.8k words)

[ He doesn’t deserve this.

How could he possibly be deserving of you? Yet somehow you make him feel as if he is. With your soft touch and the way your eyes get just a little bigger when you see him. ]

✩ chapter twenty five : wedding bells (11.7k words)

[ Four days of Leo. 

You were upset that Din was leaving you but you got over it rather quickly with the promise of his hasty return. ]

chapter twenty six : crucifixion (12.7k words)

[ “My room is too big.” 

He bursts into genuine peals of laughter and you gently smack his arm.

“Don’t laugh, it’s a serious issue! My room is enormous.” ]

chapter twenty seven : the apostate (6.0k words)

[ Silence.

That’s all there is in his brain. 

It’s hard enough as is for him to hear. It doesn’t help when he’s been beaten half to death. ]

✩ chapter twenty eight : a place for us (8.4k words)

[ You’d spent the better half of the day trying to get on top of him. 

Every time you managed to get close he’d simply set you down on the nearest surface with a kiss on the cheek and go back to doing whatever he was working on. ]

chapter twenty nine : the best kept secret (epilogue) (6.1k words)

[ The morning sun is warm against your face, you bask in it, unmoving and only half awake until you feel a tiny hand slapping your cheek. The illusion of tranquility is immediately shattered as you softly laugh. ]