#bubbly!reader

“Anywhere is fine with me.” You peer out of the side of your eye as you mull over a secluded spot you can bring him to interview him. He’s in his full regalia – blue suit, red shorts, cape. The whole ordeal. 

“I imagine privacy is the best,” you muse out loud, “but I don’t have an office – we work in a shared space.” Your tone is apologetic as you begin walking. “My apartment is near here, though, if you don’t mind.” You send him another smile, inwardly cringing as you do. You need to get your nerves out of the way. 

“If that’s where you think is best, lead the way,” he says, gesturing forward while leaning down to collect your bag. 

“Oh! You don’t have to do that, I can carry it!” You try to take the overstuffed tote from him but he simply shakes his head, knocking a curl loose onto his forehead. The way it falls, nearly brushing his eyebrow but not quiet, makes something in the back of your mind ring with familiarity. You brush it off, sure you’ve just watched too much footage of him. 

As you walk him the five minutes to your apartment, you start chatting happily, filling the silence as you always tend to do. 

“I actually had to twist Clark’s leg. He’s protective about his interviews with you, you know. I actually asked him where I should meet you, trying to figure out where would be the best to have a quiet conversation, but he wasn’t any help. Anyway, my apartment is small but it should work fine. Plus, nobody would be there to interrupt.”

“He brought up me talking to you a bit ago, actually, saying you write more humanitarian pieces? Less gossip or news, more think-pieces?” He sounds genuinely interested, large hands adjusting where they hold your bag with both hands in front of him. He looks a little silly, holding your frayed bag like that, walking around in his tall boots. The cape honest-to-god flutters behind him as he walks. 

“I do! Well, it’s what I like to do anyway. The Daily Planet doesn’t post them regularly, though, only when I have something really good to present.” You shrug, happy you get the chance to write for a living at all. “We’re turning here. Anyway, I like investigative journalism, of course, but something about writing about people, the human experience, and really just digging into a subject outside of the general norm of the news is always my favorite.”

A hand brushes your shoulder as you both cross a street and make a turn, adjusting you to walk closer to the buildings, Superman by the street. The thoughtless gesture makes that same chime of familiarity hums, running down your back to the base of your spine. It’s the sort of thing Clark does all of the time. He’s always pressing a hand to your back or shoulder to guide you along, swapping places to be closer to the road, covering corners as you pass them due to your habit of bumping them, and tugging you away from the fray of people so you don’t get trampled. 

You smile privately to yourself at the thought. Superman and Clark sharing the same simple, thoughtless, and incredibly endearing way of watching out for the people around them makes sense in a way. While Clark is just a lowly civilian like you, only in the fray of danger in the sense of offending some higher-up subject of a scandalous article, he’s always felt good in the same way the heroes do. 

You shake your head once to yourself, aware you’ve stopped talking and Superman is talking. 

“And that’s a really good thing, I think, wanting to know people for who they are beyond what they do. Sometimes the why is more important than the what, in some ways.”

“Oh, I completely agree.” You jump into your favorite article you wrote – a think piece analyzing Metropilis culture, structured by an interview with an older woman who’d lived in the city her entire life, creating a grand scope of how the city has breathed and grown like a living thing as the years passed. 

You lead him up the narrow staircase to your apartment, biting a grin at how he has to run slightly sideways to fit in the cramped hallway, and jiggle your keys in the door. “Sorry, it takes the perfect mix of jiggling the lock and bumping the door to - ah ha! - get it open.”

You talk inside, letting the hero trail behind you, ignoring how adrenaline thrums in your veins. It makes your neck warm and heavy with the pulse of blood from your rapidly beating heart. It doesn’t help whatsoever that you’re incredibly aware that he can hear how nervous you are by your heart rate, so you busy yourself with your kettle. 

“I’m making a pot of tea, if you want some. Please make yourself at home, I’ll be ready in just a minute – promise!”

Superman strolls around your small two-bedroom with an interest that makes you self-concious. You make an effort to not say the cliche it’s not much! comment, instead busing yourself with the kettle and picking a tea. You wonder if he has a preference as you pull down your favorite. 

If he does, bully for him, you need the calming relief of sipping something familiar and safe as you tackle the biggest interview you’ve ever had. 

You also repeat the mantra I love my home decor, I love my home decor over and over as he runs a finger across the books in your shelves and eyes the art on your wall. 

“Okay!” You announce, setting the electric kettle to heat and turning to open your laptop on the counter. You hold up your recording device and give it a small shake. “Make yourself comfy, I’m ready whenever you are!”

The interview goes smoothly, any small hiccups easily overcome as you settle into your favorite version of yourself – fully at ease as you slip into a sense of worn confidence as you ask your prepared questions. This is what you’re good at, what you’ve been doing for coming on ten years, your craft and passion. You love interviewing, talking to people, taking a list of initial questions and deciding on the fly where you need to dig and where you need to breeze past. The story flows easily, you catch the grooves of conversation and follow them to the trail of a story. 

The life Superman paints for you is idyllic – a rural upbringing with parents he adores and adore him, unknown biological parents who sent him to Earth to do good. A sense of responsibility – ‘If I have these powers, this ability, this purpose I was sent to Earth to fufil, and I sit by and do nothing, well, that makes me the worst kind of person, doesn’t it?’

You slowly become endeared to him as the interview progresses, a sort of comfort only gained by spending time with a truly good person. It reminds you of Clark again (a habit you regretfully admit you have, linking life to him in your mind). 

“Okay, I think I have what I need, thank you so much Superman!” You nod at him, wait a second, and turn off the recording. 

The second the formal process of the interview is over, the anxiety of sharing a space with the Superman resurfaces. You pick up your long-cold tea between two hands and send him a small smile. 

“I can find a way to send you the piece before it publishes, if you’d like. I can’t say I’ll edit for you, journalistic integrety and such, but as a thank you for your time and willingness.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

You send him a soft smile, sip your tea, and grimace. You turn to your microwave to warm it, fingers tapping on your countertop. 

You’re trying to think of another way to politely tell him you have what you need, certain there are many other places Superman needs to be other than sitting at a barstool in your kitchen, when he speaks. 

“I am curious, though, if you don’t mind me asking.” His voice is all timber, taking on a quality you can’t quite place. It’s nearly nervous, actually, but you brush off that possibility. What could you know that would make Superman nervous?

“Oh! Of course, what’s up?”

“Are you seeing anyone?” You cough, loudly, face flooding with heat. You’ll kill yourself later for how many times you’ve blushed in front of this man, you’re sure, but you’re so bewildered.

“What?”

“No, no that came out wrong, oh gosh.”

“Sorry, Superman, not that you’re not,” you gesture wildly, “but I don’t – I’m,” you’re lost, bumbling. If Superman asks you to sleep with him, you have to say yes, right?

Isn’t it against some sort of ethics code to sleep with a subject while in process of writing about them?

Why are you second thinking the possibility of sleeping with Superman? Why are you going this way at all with your thoughts? 

“No, no, I’m sorry, that’s not the question I wanted to ask. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, sorry, you stunned me a little.” You return to heating up your tea as you ask, “What question did you want to ask, then?”

“Well, Clark. You know him well?”

“Yeah! Yeah, really good guy.” You spin on your heel to nod empathetically at him. You 100% don’t mind buttering up Clark for Superman, wholly grateful to him for getting him this interview. You’re not sure how his initial question relates to this one, though, sure he’s trying to find a seque into leaving as soon as possible.

You’re wholly and utterly confused and baffled by where this conversation has ended up, blinking rapidly at your microwave.

“You really seem to light up when you talk about him.” Superman’s head tilts, violently blue eyes piercing into you. “I noticed, earlier, anyway. I agree, he’s a good guy.”

You stand, frozen on your feet. The microwave beeps and you ignore it. After a second, your head tilts, in a mimic of his. This is where he was going, you guess. Heat floods through your body now, a full on flush head to toes. “Are you … sorry, I just. Are you trying to set me and Clark up?”

You’re confounded by the situation. Off balance, unsure if you would ever dream of this happening. You decide, no, this is far too ridiculous for you to think of, so it must be reality. More reasonable than Superman trying to sleep with you, you suppose, but still such an odd situation to end up in.

You start to giggle, watching the way Superman fidgets before crossing his arms and leaning back on his stool. The legs creak under his weight and he sends you an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, don’t want to intrude.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you wave him off, snickering. You retrieve your tea and sip it. “Are you thinking of starting a new career as a matchmaker, or something?”

“Or something,” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed at being caught so easily. “I imagined that would come out a little smoother, I’m sorry.”

You shake off his apology again. Your heart is pounding again, under the amusement, as another thought comes to mind. “Did, uh, did Clark ask you to ask?”

“Do you want him to have asked me to ask?”

“This is starting to feel like a really bad riddle,” you say, chewing the inside of your lip. The answer is yes, of course. The thought of Clark asking Superman to try and guage your feelings about him sends a sort of nervous thrill through your body. 

Your handsome, kind, sort-of perfect coworker turned close friend showing interest? Never would ever be a bad thing. 

“I think I have my answer. Thank you,” he says, standing and saying your name as he offers you his hand. You swear you can see a sort of pink tinge to his cheeks. “Please let Clark know when you’re done with your piece, I’m looking forward to reading it.”

“Yes! Yes, of course, thank you so so much,” you say, shaking his hand enthusiastically and bouncing from the awkwardness of the past few moments in an effort to return to trying your best to make a good impression on him. “Please let me know if you ever want to meet up again, I’m always happy to interview you.”

“How’d it go?” Clark asks, voice by your ear. You don’t even jump, used ot his attempts to sneak up on your while you write at work. 

You lift your hand, waiting for him to place something in your palm. He does, of course, and you’re pleased to see a muffin. “Oooh, you woke up earlier to go to the bakery?” You ask, excited. You take a bite and your eyes roll back. “This is perfect, thank you.”

“Yeah, of course. How’d it go with Superman, though?”

“Oh! Really, really well. Thank you for getting me the interview.”

Clark stares at you a moment. You smile, tight lipped and waiting. You raise an eyebrow slightly, prompting him to let you know why he’s staring at you like you’ve suddenly grown a second nose overnight. 

“What, that’s it? No play-by-play? No commentary about his biceps, no rant about how the article is going to go? You icing me out?”

You’re amused and tickled that he cares. “Don’t want to break any trust, you know, he can be secretive.”

“Oh, come on,” he groans, taking a step back and shaking his head. “You’re insufferable!”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you wink, excited to be able to use his words against him. “Serves you right for all of the articles with no inside juice!”

Clark rolls his eyes. As he turns to walk back to his desk, you realize he’s not carrying breakfast for himself. Frowning, you grab a napkin from the stash in your desk, break your muffin apart, then jump up to follow him.

You set the half of the baked good on his desk before leaning up against the divider between his desk and anothers, cheek mushed against your hand. 

“It went really, really well. I think I’m going to center it around his insistence on violence-containment. It’s been ages, forever maybe, since a hero has cared about keeping damages down. Of course, they all care about civilian safety, but he’s taking it a step further. He doesn’t see a situation with any sort of casualty as a win, you know? That’s new, next level thinking, really admirable.”

Clark is watching you as you talk, eyes jumping between yours. When you’re finished with your tirade, he leans forward slightly, brushes a crumb off of your cheek, and leans back into his seat. 

“That’s really good, I’m happy it went well.” He’s so sincere that your heart feels a little swollen. You don’t deserve his friendship. 

“It ended really weird though, I think Superman wants to play matchmaker or something,” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself. 

Clark’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses and he reaches up to ruffle his curls as he laughs, shaking his head. “And now you’re back to teasing. Go, shoo, I have actual work to do.”

“I’m not lying!” You say, unable to keep a serious face as Clark laughs. His guffaw is impossible to ignore and you end up giggling with him. You do meander back to your desk, though.

“Sure thing, sure thing.”

You settle back at your desk, taking another bite of your muffin and sighing happily. You sit for a moment, listening to the chatter of the office and the clicking of keyboards. After a few minutes you scooch your chair back to watch Clark, observing how he bends over his desk, legs too long to fit in his chair and suit jacket just this side of too big. 

Something in you warms, the same warmth you’d felt all night, at the idea of him talking about you to anyone, nonetheless Superman. 

Perhaps it’s time to act on this silly crush. The flirting you send his way is returned, friendly enough in nature but, when paired with the daily treats for breakfast and the way his hand tends to linger on your waist when he passes … maybe somethings there. 

You roll back closer to your desk, pressing a few buttons aimlessly on your laptop as you mull it over. Something in you is scared to act on your feelings, of course, but a bigger part is excited about what could be to really ignore the prompting. Okay, Superman, you think, I’ll give it a shot.

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• Sevika develops a crush quietly and catastrophically. One compliment from you and she’s replaying it in her head three days later while staring at the ceiling trying not to smile.

• You start calling Sevika pet names long before either of you are even together. Completely naturally, too. “Thanks, honey.” “Move over, sweetheart.” “You okay, pretty girl?” Like it means nothing.

• Meanwhile it means everything to Sevika.

• The first time you call her “baby,” she genuinely loses her train of thought mid-sentence.

“Could you pass me that thing over there, baby?”

Sevika stares at you for a full second too long before nearly fumbling it into your lap.

• You do not realise the effect it has on her at first because she hides it terribly but silently. Slightly pink ears. Looking away. Suddenly very interested in literally anything except your face.

• Pet names from you feel strangely intimate to Sevika. She isn’t used to softness being directed at her so casually. You say them so easily, like affection towards her is the most natural thing in the world.

• Sometimes you use them absentmindedly while focused on something else, which somehow affects Sevika even more.

“Hold this for me, sweetheart.”

And now she’s standing there holding three bags and completely in love with you.

• Once she finally works up the nerve to call you one back, it comes out painfully awkward.

“Careful, uh… doll.”

You smile at her so warmly she spends the next hour avoiding eye contact.

• Her favourite is “pretty.” Especially because you say it so sincerely every single time.

“There’s my pretty girl.”

Sevika has to physically look away to survive it.

• If someone else teased her for getting flustered over pet names, Sevika would deny it immediately.

Then you’d walk in and say, “Hi, honey,” and she’d nearly walk into a wall.

• Everyone else notices before either of you do. Especially because Sevika acts completely normal and level-headed around everyone else, but around you she suddenly forgets how words work.

• You are painfully good at making her feel included. Sliding into the seat beside her. Saving her a drink without asking. Talking to her like she’s already important to you.

• She never knows what to do with your affection. If you touch her arm while laughing, her brain fully short-circuits for a second.

• You mistake her awkwardness for disinterest at first because she’s so stiff and quiet around you. Meanwhile Sevika goes home internally screaming because you smiled at her for too long.

• Sevika is the type to rehearse conversations beforehand and still mess them up.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Sev!”

“Yes… Good.”

She thinks about it for the next six business days.

• You think her nervousness is adorable. Not in a patronising way. Just because she’s this intimidating-looking woman who suddenly turns shy when you look at her too directly.

• She loves listening to you talk. Loves it. You’ll go off on a tangent about something tiny and she’ll just sit there watching you with this soft, dazed expression she hopes you don’t notice.

• You absolutely notice.

• Sevika gets jealous easily, but mostly because she genuinely cannot imagine someone like you choosing her. If someone flirts with you, she immediately withdraws and assumes she already lost.

• Which means you end up having to be the brave one most of the time.

• You’re the first person who makes Sevika feel wanted instead of merely tolerated.

• Her love language becomes quiet acts of care before she even realises what she’s doing. Carrying your belongings. Remembering your favourite snacks. Fixing little things for you without mentioning it. Giving you her cape the moment it gets even slightly cold.

• The first time you hug her properly, she freezes for a full second before melting into it so completely it nearly breaks your heart.

• Sevika’s flirting attempts are tragic.

“You look nice.”

“Thank you, honey!”

“…Yeah.”

She has to leave the room afterwards.

• Once you start dating, she gets clingier than anyone expected. She just always seems to drift toward you naturally. A hand at your waist. Knees touching under tables. Kisses on the forehead. Sitting impossibly close. Constant, blatant staring.

• You call her beautiful casually one day and she genuinely stops functioning for a moment.

• Sevika falls hard. The kind of hard where she looks at you and quietly starts imagining a future before she even realises it.

-

Sevika had spent the last twenty minutes pretending to read the same page.

Not even reading it, really. Just staring at it while being painfully aware of you two tables over.

You laughed at something someone said, bright and warm and easy, and Sevika immediately looked down again before you could catch her staring.

Too late.

“Sevika!”

Her shoulders tensed as you approached. Of course you were approaching. Of course. Her brain immediately abandoned her.

You stopped beside her table with that familiar smile that always made her chest feel weirdly tight.

“There you are. I thought you left.”

“Nope,” she answered.

A pause.

Then, because apparently humiliation built character, she added, “Still existing.”

Smooth.

Your smile twitched like you were trying not to laugh, but not in a mean way. Never mean.

“Mind if I sit?”

Sevika nearly said no out of pure panic.

Instead she jerked her head in what she hoped looked like a casual gesture. “Yeah. Sure.”

You sat across from her, resting your chin in your hand. “You always come here?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you always look this stressed?”

That startled an actual laugh out of her. Short and rough around the edges, but real.

“Do I?”

“A little.”

“Sorry.”

Your expression softened instantly. “Why are you apologising?”

Sevika opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Because how was she supposed to explain that being around you made her feel like every thought in her head was tripping over itself?

You tilted your head slightly, eyes soft but inquisitive. “You know, I used to think you hated me.”

“Hated you?” Sevika repeated, horrified.

“Well, yeah. You barely talked to me.”

Because if Sevika talked to you for too long she risked spontaneously combusting.

Instead she muttered, “Not great at talking.”

“I noticed, hun.”

There was that smile again. Warm enough to melt steel.

Sevika looked down at the table before she embarrassed herself.

“You make me nervous,” she admitted quietly, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Silence.

Then:

“Oh.”

Sevika wanted to launch herself directly into the sun.

“Not in a bad way,” she rushed out immediately. “Just… you’re pretty and kind and- I don’t know. My brain kind of doesn’t know what to do with that and shuts down.”

Your face went pink so fast it nearly distracted her from her own humiliation.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Sevika stared at you like she’d just asked whether water was wet.

“Obviously.”

You laughed softly, looking suddenly shy yourself as you ducked your head.

That alone gave Sevika enough hope to keep breathing.

“You make me nervous too,” you admitted.

“No I don’t.”

“You really do.”

“How?”

You looked at her for a long moment, smiling a little.

“I also think you’re pretty. Like- really pretty. And you… you look at me like I’m important.”

And that-

That hit Sevika so hard she forgot every coherent thought she’d ever had. The words landed somewhere deep in Sevika’s chest. For a second, all she could do was stare at you.

Her mouth opened slightly. Closed again.

You laughed under your breath. “See? There’s that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one where you stop functioning for a second.”

Sevika groaned quietly and covered part of her face with one hand while you laughed properly this time.

Not mocking.

Fond.

Way too fond.

loving the idea of Nikolai scolding you for the messes you seem to spawn in:

He comes back to the hotel room and damn near trips over his own two feet trying to get in; A perfectly disassembled rifle strewn about the carpet like a macabre Picasso. "What the fuck is all of this?!"

cue exasperated old man

Though, he also can't complain about your results.

You're a fucking genius with everything you touch. A priceless asset to him.

Any gun he hands you is like giving a kid candy, or a puppy a treat. All starry-eyed and overeager to understand its internal mechanisms or fire it off yourself just to witness its power firsthand.

had to snatch a weapon with a grenade launcher attachment straight out of your hands.

you'll be the death of him

internally, he's always thankful to have you around.

Nikolai not having to ask you anything because you've already done it beforehand:

you're always making sure everything is in perfect shape, keeping the vehicles' gassed up, that clinking sound the engine had been making is now a smooth rumble... He's... actually proud to hear that you've taken care of his helo ahead of time...

doesn't like being called 'Niko' or 'boss' or 'sir' any goofy name you come up with for him. It's: Nikolai.

(Upon meeting Price & Gaz) you realize Nikolai's never mentioned you to them

Which is confusing, given the time you've basically become his second hand. Carrying weapons crates for him, driving shipments he needs for Price and Farah to safehouses, fixing up his radio for him without asking. ALWAYS chatting up his ear with that same damning smile, even if he refuses to answer your deeply personal ones. And for the past few months, sleeping in the same cramped hotel rooms.

Not important to mention it seems.

(What he doesn't tell you, or anyone for that matter) Is that its an unconscious habit of his. He pretends not mentioning you is just a causal 'slip-of-the-mind in order to keep you safe.

Has come to love the way your eyes light up when he mentions getting his hands on new technology. He doesn't get to gush over new 'toys' with just anyone, so its nice to finally see someone else excited too.

Nikolai (once he likes you) tossing you the keys with a smile. "Don't start," he warns before chuckling at your obvious enthusiasm. "-just drive before I change my mind."

Nikolai trying to show you how to fly the helo with you in his lap (i think he'd be greedy or even teasing and pull your back right up against his chest) "What, мое солнышко (my sunshine)? This is how it works, I assure you."

Nikolai seeing you all sweaty and concentrated over the open hood of the car, watching the way your ass and thighs move when you bend over... He loves to torture himself by following the curve of your spine from your shoulder blades downward.

fratboy!matt who memorizes vey's order at the cafe.

fratboy!matt who is really committed to his relationship.

fratboy!matt who plays lacrosse and hockey with chris.

fratboy!matt who's only friends are vey, chris, nick, nate, and rosy. he doesnt really like the other fratboys.

fratboy!matt who helped chris get into college last minute.

fratboy!matt who barely agreed to being a fratboy, only after hours and hours of begging by nate and chris. mostly nate.

fratboy!matt who still lives outside the frat house with nate, even though they have their own rooms at the house.

fratboy!matt who sees rosy as a best friend, and only that.

fratboy!matt who already knows hes going to marry vey.

fratboy!matt who loves smoking and majored in business.

fratboy!matt who doesnt know all about vey's trauma, but giving her time to open up to him.

bubbly!reader who loves matt with her whole heart.

bubbly!reader who has some deep trauma, resulting to her majoring in psych to actually figure herself out.

bubbly!reader who has a part time job at the dance studio.

bubbly!reader who is the definition of a soft girl.

bubbly!reader who's going to marry matt one day.

bubbly!reader who's best friends are rosy, matt, nick, and nate. maybe chris sometimes.

bubbly!reader who is very smart.

bubbly!reader who is sensitive, but knows how to stick up for herself and isnt afraid to put someone in their place.

bubbly!reader who first time went to rosy's house, was literally starstruck and ran to rosy's mom giving her a big hug.

bubbly!reader whos lowkey really freaky...

bubbly!reader who only goes by her nickname, vey, as she doesnt like her real name because its the same name her mom has, vera.

You bite your lip, trying to breathe and remind yourself who is sitting next to you. Self-councious for a moment, you tug the bottom of your skirt down and press your hands into your knees to stop the kicking. You’re being a lot – you’re aware you can be a lot! Usually you think that if people don’t like chatty, happy you, then they can just leave! But this is Superman. Literally Superman. One of the most coveted sources around and you have him sitting on a random city skyscraper asking for love advice. 

Granted, you’d just finished a rather thorough interview with him about a recent battle with an unknown monster in the city, but still. Decorum. Manners. Some sense of social awareness. All of the things your mom once tried to pound into your head. 

Out of the corner of your eye, like you would scare him by turning your head, you watch Superman. Take in his raked back hair, inky black. His cut jaw, slightly tensed as if he’s holding his teeth hard together. Actually, you think, brows furrowing slightly, he looks a little more than tense.

You assumed he was so still next to you because he was feeling awkward – who wants to hear about some strangers love life? You chalked it up to common social feign of not caring. Obviously he has some sort of stake in the game, he was the one who mentioned it in the first place, but now you’re curious. 

You take the initiative to turn toward him more, heart pounding rapidly and suddenly as you twist slightly on the roofs edge to do so. Ensuring your steady in your seat, you tilt toward the man next to you and watch him for a moment. 

His hands are pressed into fitsts on his thighs, arms rigid. Superman always stood with an extreme posture, strong and true. Now, though, it feels forced. Frozen in place. You’re not sure if he’s breathing, though you do know he can go hours without it. 

You rake your eyes over him, a sense of knowing pooling in your gut. Your years of journalism have taught you how to do this well – how to take someones posture and response to questions you’re asking and figure out which following questions will get the real story out of someone. 

“Off the record, just as a reminder,” you start. The sudden sound of your voice seems to have snapped Superman somewhat out of his trance and he turns his head to look at you, eyes just this side of unreadable. “Who is it?”

Superman tilts his head in question, arms coming up to cross over his chest. His usual pose, sure, but also a little defensive. He’s protecting himself from something. “What?”

“Who are you thinking about while I sit here and drone on about my comparatively boring office not-quite-romance?” You scoot further from the edge, still conscious of its presence and fight to not look down. 

You kind of hate Superman for picking this meet up location but it’s fine. It’s fodder you can use to pad your article tomorrow with some sense of humor, as you love to do. 

“I wasn’t?” Superman replies, head still tilted. He looks like a dog, you think, and fail to fight back a laugh at the thought. “What?” “No, sorry, the laugh was unrelated. You just reminded me so much of him for a second, you both act like cute, confused puppies when you’re thinking.” You press your palm into your mouth, biting back your smile. 

You miss the way Superman freezes as you make the connection of mannerisms. 

“Anyway,” you press forward, waving off the thought with a careless flick of your wrist, “this is all off the record. I don’t know you or her, likely, in any way that it should really matter. And, I promise, despite all of the rambling, I’m a really good listener. Been told I give good advise, too, so go on.” You try to give him a reassuring smile and edge away from the drop off of the side of the building more, now sitting so your leg is completely unbent from how far you’ve pushed yourself away.

“I’m sure you do,” Superman mumbles, eyes watching you curiously for a moment, deep in thought. You let him, watching him back with your best placating smile. 

Honestly, you’re curious about who could get the oh-so cheery Superman so pensive like this. 

“Do you want to move away from the edge?” He asks instead of answering, hopping up and offering his hand. 

“Oh, yes, actually, I really do.” You don’t take his hand, though, opting to scooch away from the edge. “I’m kind of terrified that if I stood up like that,” you say, gesturing to him while you reach down to brush roof-gravel off of your legs and adjust your skirt, “I would be done-zo and it’s bye-bye to your favrotie reporter.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Superman says, affronted. You giggle. 

“I know, that’s what he call a joke. Hence the word ‘done-zo’ – who says that just, like, naturally?” You opt to lean against the wall surrounding the roof, feeling much more secure now that your feet are on solid ground. 

“Me, probably,” Superman muses. You smile to yourself, watching him press his hands into his hair and ensure it’s still slicked back. 

You’re getting used to him, slowly, if that’s possible. Superman, The Superman, standing in front of you and having noticeable and trackable human mannerisms. You itch to ask him about his life, what goes on when the crime fighting is over. Is he lonely? The thought makes you sad: someone who brings comfort to thousands shaking up alone in some random apartment at the end of a long day literally saving the world. 

You shake off the thought, back to the topic at hand. “So, you were about to tell me: who is she?”

“Was I?” Superman asks, and it comes out on the back of a chuckle. 

“You were,” you press.

“She’s…great, actually. I can’t say much,” he warns, giving you a meaningful look. You raise your hands in a placating measure before gesturing for him to go on. “She’s just someone I met and got used to, over time. Her being in my life felt like such a change in routine, at first. She was so her and so unapologetic about it. And I thought, wow how can I ever get used to such a vibrant person near? And then I did. Turns out, actually,” he chuckles, low. You smile, just for yourself, at the sound. It’s so warm and natural and safe-sounding to hear. “she’s just like anyone else. Weird, I know, coming from me.

“She became a part of my routine. And, yeah, she’s bright and lively but also sweet and gentle when she wants. And, yeah, I just wonder if part of me got so used to that routine,” he cuts himself off, jaw locking in some sort of determination. His face sets, suddenly, as he looks over your shoulder. “My advice? For your guy? Give him more time, maybe he’ll come around – have some faith.”

He gives you a smile, poster worthy and media trained. You can see instantly how it’s different than his natural ones and something ticks in response to that in the back of your mind. “Thank you. I’m assuming it’s time to go? Gotta jet?” You ask, joking. It’s paired with an awkward smile and sort of small, mock superhero pose to break the tension. You immediately cringe a little at yourself but are rewarded by another homey chuckle so you chalk that up as a win. 

“Yes, I do. But you know how to reach me, I’m always up for an interview with, quoting you here, my favorite reporter.”

“Oh,” you scoff, pushing away from the wall you’re leaning against and collecting your bag, “we both know that’s Clark. My charm hasn’t had quite enough time to set in. Trust that it will, though!”

“I do,” Superman says, shaking his head at you and beginning to float up. 

-

The newsroom is lovely – blue light from outside trickling through the windows in hazy trails, masked by the rain. Low lights left on peoples desks illuminating the space in a gentle glow (the overhead ones were shut off hours ago). The hum of a few computers left on and a few stragglers still typing or scribbling on notebook paper. Lois is bent over her voice recorder, headphones plugged in, furiously scribbling her transcript down with her favorite blue pen in a worn notebook, as is her usual routine. 

You’ve long since gotten over the weird sense of competition every new news writer feels, battling over who stays the longest in the office. Late nights seem to shout: I have the most important work here! I have the best story, the best source, the headline article, right here! 

Now, though, you’re fully aware that that’s a misconception every baby writer grows out of. Actually, you’d quite like to go home. You’ve a cat and a crockpot meal waiting for you, plus a warm couch and a podcast to catch up on. With a frustrated huff, you check your phone again for the time, switching to the weather app.

The main thing keeping you from your glorious, comfortable, oh-so-lovely apartment? The pouring rain. The sudden storm that swept through on the tail of some elemental meta-human causing a ruckus downtown. You were actually tasked with documenting the event and the mostly-finished article blinks up at you on your laptop screen. You want to finish it at hime, in bed, with your makeup off and hair wrapped in a towel, not in the tight pony tail you deemed cute this morning but is now causing a pulsing behind your ears.

At this rate, your chicken is going to dry up inside of the pot. With a determined glance out of the window, you snap closed your laptop and shove it into your bag. Your thin bag, one of the cute trendy totes you bought online after seeing a million videos. 

After some consideration, and several glares at the window, currently being pounded with rain, you take the jacket off of the back of your chair and begin wrapping it around your laptop before shoving it back into your bag. 

Great – now you’ll just be walking aroubnd with an oddly shaped bag. Hopefully nobody sends a suspicious-bomb report out on you. 

Staring morously down at your cute heels that are doomed to be ruined by the wet streets, you stand up and switch off the salt rock lamp on your desk. 

Clark looks up at the sound, automatic smile tilting confused when he sees you. 

“Where’s your jacket?” He asks, jumping up and shoving his own laptop into his sensible, leather, zippable, stupidly-probably-waterproof bag. 

“Wrapped around my computer,” you say, putting on a play roll of your eyes as you lift the bag. You tone it as a joke, certain nobody else needs to share your ire of the weather. The bad day is yours, certainly there’s no reason to share it. “It’s a shorter walk home then taking transport, just means a fifteen minute walk in the sudden flash.”

“Oh,” Clark answers, biting his lip and obviously thinking for a moment. “I think I have,” he hums, cutting himself off and spinning around in a slow circle, twisting so he has to hop over his own foot. “Yeah! I have an umbrella – I’ll walk you.”

Clark looks thrilled, holding his cheap little umbrella up to you with a little wave. 

“Clark, silly boy,” you tease, already fully aware that there’s certainly no way you’re now leaving this office unless it’s under the cover of the flimsy thing, “you’re place is another fifteen minute walk past mine – it makes more sense for you to take the bus.”

Clark shrugs, setting his bag down and beginning to shrugs out of his suit jacket. “Not if it means you’ll have to walk in the rain. All by yourself, at that.”

“If you say you,” you conced.

“That’s all? No fight from you today?” Clark asks, looking up from retrieving his bag in surprise. 

“You’re a big boy,” you say, letting the slightlest hint of flirt leak into your voice, smiling up at him sweetly, “I trust you to make your own decisions. Plus, I’m not really in a position where I want to say no, you know? Moreso was being polite. But, yes, please take me home under yout teeny umbrella. One wet shoulder is better than a fully soaked me.”

Clark turns a little pink in the cheeks under the direct focus of one of your sweet smiles. It’s been happening more, lately, since your talk with Superman. It’s only been a few days, but you’ve certainly noticed Clark reacting much more than before. 

The day after you’d gotten back from your interview, you’d come into the office and greeted Clark with your usual, “hey, handsome! What’s the news?” – a cheeky joke you’ve had with him for ages. But, unusual, he’d jerked his head up at you, eyes wide, and blushed and stuttered through his hello. It’d taken him a few more tries to get back into your playful routine, but by lunch he’d been back to normal. 

Well, the new normal where sometimes your teases would get the usual quippy reply and other times you’d get an endeeringly genuine smile from him, a hand at the back of his neck, peering over his glasses and asking, “you really think so?” or something of the sort. It was maddening, how downright adorable this man could be. 

This is the Clark you’re faced with now as he offers you his suit jacket, smiling so sweetly and gently in a way that lets you know it’s just for you. He has to tilt his head down and his curls nearly fall over his eyes as he does so, his glasses slipping just a little down his strong nose. You’re caught by the dimples, as you sometimes are, as they come in full force against you. 

“For your wet shoulder,” he says, pressing it into your hands. 

You’re a little stunned, wondering if Clark knows just how powerful that little smile and head dip combo is when put to use, so you take the jacket and stand dumbly for a minute as he walks past you.

“Wait, wait,” you say, jumping to chase after him, “but you’re going to get wet!”

He’s at the doors when you catch up, damn those stupid long legs, and he shrugs, hands in his pockets and bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Like you said, I’m a big boy. Nothing I can’t handle.”

You look at him, a baffled laugh coming out under a breath. “Well, okay then.”

You sling the jacket over your shoulders, laughing a little more when you realize the sleeves come far past your hands and the hem to your knees. Clark snorts, a genuine sound that has you looking up in amusement only to see it mirrored. 

“Sorry, it’s just,” he’s grinning, reaching forward to grab your arm and begin rolling up the sleeve for you. You let him do the other without saying a word, just watching him work carefully at the task, making each fold even and neat. “There, you’re back to functional.” He gives your wrist a brief squeeze, big hands warm and fully encircirling your arm. 

“Thank you,” you say, voice warm without you meaning it to be. It’s just that he does this, sometimes. Sweet, small acts showing he cares for you in a way beyond a work crush and into something more. Something gentle that keeps alive this little fire in you burning with the question of if this could grow into more. 

“Of course,” he says off-handed, unaware of how he truly affects you under the teasing jokes and casual flirting. “You ready?” He asks, opening the umbrella and holding a hand on the door. 

You shrug. “Sure, handsome, go for it.”

You’ve both failed to consider a few things that become obvious as you begin your trek to your apartment. One – Clark is significantly taller then you, making the umbrella awkward to use and nearly useless. Two – the umbrella is truly very tiny. You’re unsure if you could even use it comfortably alone – how in the world did Clark think he could fit under it, even? – nonetheless together.

You can’t help but laugh as you tumble down the sidewalk, soaked and clutching your bag to your chest under Clark’s jacket. 

Clark wraps an arm around you and tuggs you to his side, all warm and firmness that you can’t even focus on over the ridiculisouness of the situation. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” Clark comments, sneaking small glances down at you between surveying your surroundings and deftly directing you around large puddles and away from the street. “You looked like you were going to walk out to your death earlier, I was afraid you were petrified of the rain or something.”

“No, no, just a little grumpy is all,” you admit, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand to catch a droplet and grinning up at Clark. “You’ve fixed that though, as usual.”

“Have I?” Clark asks, sending a shocked but pleased look down at you. Before you can respond or he elaborate, though, the sky roars in sudden thunder and the skies truly open.

Before had been a steady downpour, sure, but nothing insane. This is a rampant beating of water that drenches in it’s path. Floodgates open, akin to someone dumping a full bucket of water over your heads. 

“Oh, oh gosh!” Clark calls, reaching around you more firmly to catch you as you trip over your heels. 

“Hah!” You burst out, caught in a fit of giggles, “I love when you say gosh, it’s so endearing.” You’re truly caught in the storm of it now, pun not forgiven in your current state, overcome with the giggles and unable to keep the comment in. 

“That’s nice, sweetheart, but we’ve got to,” Clark sighs, tugging you into his warmth. You realize with the sensation that you’ve begun to shake with the chill of the rain – something Clark has likely picked up on if the way his hand is now dragging up and down your arm is any indication. “Here.” Clark drags you to a small enclave, tilting the umbrella to give you some reprieve from the rain. 

It works and you’re given a dry spot, if only for a minute, to look at each other. 

Clark’s white undershirt is plastered to his skin, revealing a toned body that you’ve caught outlines of where and there but are truly distracted by now. I mean, you knew Clark was strong before, but this? This is beyond what you expected. 

Embarrassed and not wanting to be caught oogling his delicious pecks and seriously biteable arms, you dart your eyes up to his face and have to stop a coo from leaving you. 

He looks like a drenched poodle, hair stuck to his forehead and glasses fogged. You’ve the urge to take them off of his face and clean them but there’s not a dry scrap around to do so. You opt for reaching up, tilting on your toes to do so, and gently pushing his hair to the side and brushing the edge of your sleeve against the lenses of his glasses, clearing his way a little. 

He’s sweet like this, watching you do as you please to him, an arm still encased around your waist. You could kiss him, you think, and you’re fairly sure he’d reciprocate. He’s right there, bending ever so slightly to make your reaching his face a reality. You’re on your toes, tucked under an umbrella, swept away in his arms.

You can’t quite fight the urge, despite the way your brain tells you to slow down! Stop! Don’t risk loosing him, not by rushing, not by assuming! So you quickly use your hand cupped on the back of his neck to tug him down and yourself up to press your lips to his cheek. 

You slip back down to your heels, patting him once on the shoulder as you do so. You’re a little embarrassed and a lot shy, despite the pleased pink that shrouds Clark’s face and the way he’s looking at you, eager and elated, so you tilt your head to survey the surrounding street. 

“Quite the pickle we’re in,” you comment, watching as rainwater collects and surges through the street. Nobody is out, those sane sane people, and you’re still a little ways away from your apartment.

“Yeah, right,” Clark clears his throat, blinking several times. “Well, I was going to suggest we run, but there’s the issue of your shoes.”

You both stare down at your soggy heels, very impractical for running but also very cute and very fitting for sitting at your desk and writing your pieces.

“I could take them off, run barefoot?” You offer, about to bend down and do so.

“Or,” Clark stops you by pulling his arm tighter around your waist. Your tummy flutters at the movement. “I could carry you?”

“Carry me?” You ask, confused for a moment. “You don’t have to do that.”

Clark sends you a look, exasperated, calling you silly girl like he sometimes does. “Sweetheart,” there it is again, that petname and responding flutter in your throat, “you know I don’t mind. Plus, I don’t really trust you to not fall on your face.”

He has the good sense to look apologetic as he says it but you still huff in disbelief. 

“I totally would not fall. Probably would beat you to my place, that’s what you’re afraid of!” You say, all bravado as you tilt your nose in the hair. “But, I’ll take you up on the offer,” you finish after a moment, voice several notches lower and shyer. “Just because I don’t want to run across the street barefoot! It’s gross,” you insist. 

“Uh-huh, okay,” Clark chuckles, something bright in his eyes. “You ready, then?”

“Want me to climb on your back?”

Clark’s chuckle turns into a bright laugh as he shakes his head and closes the umbrella, securing it in his bag. “Okay?” He asks, bending to scoop your legs but waiting for your nod before picking you up. 

He carrys you easily as he begins a moderately fast jog through the streets, your squeals trailing behind you as you giggle in his arms. It’s sort of like flying, you think, with how high you feel, your full heart brimming with affectin and the joy of simply being picked up and carried. 

You arrive at your apartment fairly quickly and absolutely drenched, both dripping to the bone. Clark setting you down is a gentle heartbreak, a loss of his touch after the last fifteen minutes under and in his arms. 

You shiver, pulling your sopping hair from your neck before digging in your bag to find your key. “I hope our computers are okay,” you mumble, finding the key and unlocking your door. “Come in, come in, I’m sure you’re freezing.”

“Yeah, okay,” Clark says, a little belated, kicking off his soggy shoes to step inside.

after a moment of squinting, eyes unaccustomed to the dim of the room and contactless, spencer realizes that you’re not holding a hotel pillow. rather, it’s covered in little pink daisies and looks far more comfortable than the rocks on his bed.

“i was wondering if i could take the chair in your room?” you ask, continuing despite how spencer’s mind is now racing with thoughts of your pink daisy sheets that he was aware of before tonight (this morning?) but wasn’t expecting to be reminded of when his mind is still hazy enough to crave the warmth of your body next to his.

“you—yeah.” spencer shakes his head in one, fast motion, rapidly switching to nodding when he realizes that could be misread as a no to your question. it makes him dizzy but wakes him up just enough to dig himself out of dreams. when he opened the door, there was a moment where his heart thudded in his chest, sure you were coming here to climb in his bed for other reasons.

not that you ever had before or that he thought you were the type to, of course not that—never that. it was just that his mind was stuck in a molasses of sleep that so frequently rewarded him of dreams where scenarios like that happen. or, even better, dreams where you two simply sit next to each other, your stocking-ed leg pressed against his pants, knocking together, hands intertwined, a warm glow emanating from somewhere for you to read to him by.

those dreams were the worst, just real enough that he could feel the love emanating from your breath, know that you want him close too, only to be yanked away with the spasms of beeps from his phone serving as his alarm.

“yes, of course you can stay here,” spencer finally says after his tragedy of a nod, moving past you and into the bed area of the room to yank the pillow he was using from the bed, “but you take the bed, i can take the chair.”

“no, spence, it’s like 3 in the morning and you’ll get a headache. i intruded on you, i’ll take the chair.”

spencer is shaking his head no before you finish, turning to stare at you. subconsciously, you mimic how he holds his pillow under his left arm and spencer makes a note to research if it’s actually true that attraction causes people to mimic each other.

and, fuck, this is why he had to put distance between you two because his brain can’t just be normal about things. you’re an affectionate person, spilling over with hugs and hands on arms and kisses on cheeks and he can’t help but analyze everything for a sign that it might be more.

“no, really, i’ll take the chair.”

you laugh at him, shaking your head and making your way closer. “let’s just share,” you suggest, tossing your pillow onto the side of the bed not made messy by spencer and rubbing your eyes with two closed fists, digging in deep. “i’m exhausted and we have to get back to it tomorrow. i’m not winning this fight and i can’t have my best brainiac impeded by a headache tomorrow.”

“no, it’s really—“

“spencer.” your eyes are earnest when you look at him, wide and tired and so so hypnotic. he can’t say no, not when you’re blinking up at him, only lit by the obnoxious street lights filtering in through the cheap hotel curtains, in your pajamas, taking in a tired, tiny voice.

“yeah, okay,” he says, forfeiting the back and forth and allowing himself to give in, just for tonight.

you yawn in response, hand coming up to cover your triumphant smile. you look exhausted, climbing into bed and shoving your feet under the sheets with much more aggression than necessary.

spencer climbs in after you, stretching his legs out and flexing his arm so his shoulder pops with a loud click. it’s a testament to how close you are to sleep that you don’t wince and tell him he shouldn’t do that—you always get onto him for it.

“hey,” spencer says after a moment, mind slowing but still moving fast enough to keep him on the cusp of sleep.

you makes a small sound, high pitched, as you roll over and press your forehead to his bicep. “what?” you say, voice half asleep, half complaint.

“is that my academy sweater? i’ve been looking for it everywhere.”

“mm,” you hum, head moving up and down against his arm. “you left it at my place. i like wearing it—miss you less when i do.” your voice is trailing off, spencer’s heart is pounding, and he nearly misses the soft sigh you let out before tacking on, “makes m’feel like yours.”

"I'm not!" Spencer insists, too quick, too defensive—so, so predictable. An evil grin pulls at your lips, the anticipation of his reaction almost as satisfying as the reaction itself. You finally glance up at him, resting your cheek against your fist, tilting your head in mock thoughtfulness.

"It's okay," you say, voice soft, teasing, pulling at a thread he won’t acknowledge. You lean forward in your chair, just enough that the space between you shrinks, just enough that your presence wraps around him like warmth. "I like the attention."

Spencer scoffs, shaking his head as his hands return to the pages in front of him. He won't engage, but you know him too well. You've got him rattled, at least a little, and that's enough for now.

You enjoy this with him: the push and pull. Spencer is your favorite person, the teasing some as naturally as breathing. You catch yourself feeling the truth behind a lot of the show you put on for him, belly warm with the implications of melting fully into the jokes you put on for him.

The precinct is quiet, save for the occasional shuffling of exhausted officers or the hum of printers churning out reports. It's a dead hour of the steel day where exhaustion weighs heavy, settling deep in your bones. Dusty sunlight sprays across the room, catching dirt in its eternal dance. It makes everything hazy, dreamy, and you catch yourself staring off into the distance, caught in the mist of it all. It’s been over 24 hours since anyone has properly slept, and you're toeing the line between restless and delirious, stomach clenched with the unsatisfied need to move, to be anywhere but here, hunched over these haphazardly assembled journals.

A bed would be nice. Sunlight, unfiltered by unwashed police station windows, even better.

You roll your shoulders back and stretch, arms reaching high over your head, joints cracking in protest. Then, with practiced ease, you tilt your head left, then right, seeking relief from the tension coiled tight in your neck. You're about to cross your arms out in front of you, ready to push the last bit of stiffness from your shoulders, when Spencer exhales sharply through his nose.

"Please, stop," he says, setting his papers down with a finality that makes your hands freeze mid-motion.

Your first instinct is panic. You don’t flinch—Spencer doesn’t snap, not really—but you can’t help but wonder if this is it, if you’ve finally worn him thin. It’s always been a fear, even if you’d never admit it aloud. You’re a lot, and Spencer has more patience than anyone, but patience isn’t infinite.

You're afraid for a moment you've found a habit of yours that sets him off - a task you've apparently been unsuccessful in over the past two years. You're well aware that you can be a lot; you're high energy and excitable to a fault. You never have trouble keeping friends but keeping friends who are never exasperated with you? Well, you would have said it was impossible before Spencer. 

He doesn’t give you time to overthink it—a habit you have bt pretend you don't. If questioned, you'd insist it's only the sign of a good profiler. Instead of walking away or rubbing at his temples like he’s fighting off a migraine, Spencer stands and moves behind you.

"Can I?" he asks.

"Yeah, of course!" you answer instantly, too fast, without question. You’d let Spencer do anything to you.

It's only when his hands press into your shoulders that you realize what he meant.

The first touch is firm, hesitant, as though he's waiting for you to pull away. You don't. You wouldn't dream of it. Instead, your head drops forward, a sigh spilling from your lips before you can even think to stop it. His fingers are long, deliberate, pressing slow, rhythmic circles into the muscle, and you swear you can feel the tension unraveling beneath his palms.

“Wow, love, you’re a pro,” you mumble, voice crumbling as your facade fades.

The nickname earns the same response as always—a subtle stiffening of his hands, a sharp inhale, the unmistakable warmth creeping up his neck. You think it’s funny, the way Spencer, who can talk for hours uninterrupted about quantum theory, short-circuits over one little word. You said it absentmindedly once, ages ago, and it stuck.

Now, though, you don't say it to witness the exciting rush of blood under his skin or the way he rolls his eyes, pretending to hate it. Instead, you say it fondly, melting like putty under his hands. 

Spencer doesn’t acknowledge it, but his hands keep working, traveling up the length of your neck, fingertips pressing carefully into the space where your skull meets your spine.

"You haven't slept, have you?" he murmurs in lieu of a reply, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head once. "Too restless."

He makes a noise, something soft and knowing, something that says I see right through you. You fidget under the weight of it, suddenly needing to justify yourself.

Spencer caught you, more than a handful of months ago, awake one night while away on a case. It was usual for you to not sleep while away, too pumped from the adrenaline from the day. It's a habit you've always intended to keep for yourself - you get awfully melancholic when awake late at night and really, you don't mind the hours alone to think. Since then, though, he's looked at you with those worried puppy eyes when you emerge from your hotel room, voice probably a little too loud for the morning.

"Plus, nobody else has either," you add, as if that changes anything.

Spencer hums, unconvinced. "We've all napped here and there," he counters. His thumbs find a knot between your shoulder blades, and you gasp when he presses into it, hard enough to send a dull ache radiating through your spine.

"I'll be okay," you say, but the words lack conviction. of course. Your body betrays you—sinking, pliant, as if you could just let go, just for a moment, just for tonight.

"You always say that," Spencer murmurs. His hands slow, broad palms sweeping a path down your upper back, methodical, grounding.

"And I always mean it," you try, but your voice is softer now, words slurring at the edges, betraying you in ways Spencer doesn’t miss. "Ow, Spencer," you groan after a few silent moments, biting down on your lip, pain lancing through your entire back. Probably a necessary evil but damn that hurts.

"Sorry," he says, though he doesn’t sound very sorry. He kneads the muscle again, gentler this time, and you can’t even bring yourself to care that you must look ridiculous, half-melted into your chair.

Your breath hitches when his fingertips graze the base of your neck, feather-light, a touch so gentle you could almost believe you imagined it. The room is warm, humming with something unspoken, and you could swear Spencer’s hands linger just a moment longer than necessary.

The exhaustion presses in, heavy, relentless. Your eyelids droop, your breathing evens out, and you think, just before your mind slips under—

This is nice.

Too nice.

Don’t get used to it.

But as you drift off, lulled by the steady press of his hands, the warmth of his presence, the quiet affection he gives without saying a word—