#clumsy reader

It happens again.

The coffee you were counting on to save your morning before work at the Daily Planet? Yeah, it’s now all over your favorite white blouse. And it’s not like someone bumped into you, or the lid wasn’t on right. Nope. It’s just you. Your natural-born clumsiness, tagging along like an annoying little sibling.

“Great,” you mutter, holding the cup that’s now half-empty, half-soaked into your shirt, sticky warmth sliding down your stomach.

In the building’s glass doors, your reflection looks less like a professional reporter and more like someone who survived a caffeine war.

And then, because the universe apparently has jokes, you hear that voice behind you.

“You okay there?”

You turn slowly, and yep—there he is. Clark Kent. Beige jacket, tie slightly crooked, that boy-next-door smile that could melt the entire state of Kansas.

Your first instinct? Shrink into yourself like maybe he won’t notice you.

“I’m fine. Totally fine.” You take one step back—aaaand of course, you trip over the curb.

He doesn’t even give gravity the chance to embarrass you. His big hand catches your elbow, steadying you like it’s second nature.

“Coffee might disagree with you,” he teases, nodding at the stain spreading across your blouse.

Your face heats up hotter than the actual coffee.

“I’m a complete mess,” you mutter under your breath.

Clark just shakes his head, still smiling, still infuriatingly calm.

“Or just human. One of the most charming humans I know.”

Your heartbeat kicks up like you sprinted up three flights of stairs, and it’s barely 9 a.m.

The Planet is buzzing like always—phones ringing, people typing, printers screeching. You try to stay focused at your desk, but your clumsiness already left its mark: spilled coffee on your blouse, toppled a stack of papers that went flying like snow in July, and now… the plate.

The plate from the break room that was only supposed to hold your sandwich.

You picked it up carefully, swore you had a good grip. But of course, your fingers betrayed you, and the sharp crash of ceramic shattering against the tile floor made the entire newsroom go dead silent for a second.

Your hands start to shake. Anxiety hits you fast, like a wave. Your chest tightens, breathing quickens. Everyone’s staring. Again. You’re the clumsy one. The girl who breaks stuff.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, crouching down to pick up the shards with trembling hands, eyes burning. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

Before your shaky breaths spiral into full-on tears, a larger pair of hands intercept yours.

“Careful, you’ll cut yourself,” Clark says, voice low and steady, like he’s talking straight to your nerves.

He kneels beside you, calmly collecting the broken pieces and placing them neatly on a tray. Like it’s no big deal. Like you’re no big deal disaster.

“It’s fine,” he adds, those ridiculously blue eyes softening when they meet yours. “It’s just a plate.”

But your chest still feels tight, panic still pressing down.

“But it’s always me, Clark. Every time. I break things, I spill stuff, I trip… It’s like I can’t do anything right.”

He pauses, really looks at you, head tilted slightly like he’s trying to read the parts of you you don’t say out loud. Then he smiles. That warm, devastatingly gentle smile that feels like a hug.

“Wanna know what I see?” he asks.

You don’t answer—you can’t, not past the lump in your throat.

“I see someone who shows up every day and tries, no matter what. Even when things don’t go perfectly, you keep going. And honestly? That’s worth more than being ‘perfect.’”

A tear slips before you can stop it, but Clark’s thumb brushes it away before it can slide down your cheek.

“Clark…” you whisper.

“Shhh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

And just like that, the noise of the newsroom fades out. It’s just his eyes, steady and safe, and your breathing slowly syncing to the calm rhythm of his presence.

Later, after work, Clark insists on walking you to your favorite coffee shop. You argue half-heartedly, but deep down you’re grateful.

Of course, you spill coffee again. This time on the table.

Clark chuckles softly, grabbing a napkin and helping you mop it up.

“You know what I think?” he says, leaning an elbow on the table, watching you with that maddening calm.

“That I should be banned from being within ten feet of anything breakable or liquid?”

He laughs, the sound so warm it makes you forget the mess.

“No. I think your clumsiness is kinda… your trademark. Like a reminder that perfection doesn’t exist. And honestly, that’s what makes you real.”

You stare at him, torn between laughing and crying.

“Clark Kent… are you seriously telling me I’m an adorable mess?”

His smile widens, head tipping slightly, voice low and honest.

“Exactly that.”

Your cheeks flush hot. And yeah, your cup threatens to slip again, but for once, it doesn’t matter. Because when Clark looks at you like that, you know—even if you broke a thousand plates, he’d always be there to help you pick up the pieces.

The night ends with the two of you walking through Metropolis, city lights glowing, a cool breeze brushing against you. You trip over a crack in the sidewalk—classic—but Clark’s hand is already in yours before you can stumble.

“Guess I’ll have to stick close to make sure you don’t hurt yourself,” he teases, smile tugging at his lips.

“Is that a promise, Kent?” you ask, half-embarrassed, half-hopeful.

He squeezes your hand gently, like sealing it with more than words.

“Yeah. It’s a promise.”

And in that moment—between laughter, clumsy chaos, and long glances—you realize that even the messiest hearts can feel safe… when Clark Kent is the one holding them.

Adrian looked at you with an expression hovering between uncertainty and annoyance. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve insulted them for saying nonsense like that. But you weren’t just anyone. His features softened when you stumbled closer to him. It made no sense that this unstable figure swaying side to side was the same person who happened to be one of the best killers he knew.

You tripped over your own feet and crashed into his chest, laughing softly, the warmth of your breath seeping through his shirt. He held your waist firmly to keep both of you from collapsing to the ground. He didn’t like physical contact in excess, but yours didn’t bother him. It had become a habit—one that was annoying at first, but one he had learned to enjoy over time.

You climbed clumsily up his chest until you found a steady spot in the hollow of his neck. You stayed there with your eyes closed, breathing in his scent. You murmured something happily, but he couldn’t quite catch the words. He lifted one of his hands and set it on your upper back, giving you a few pats, as if consoling you. He was learning—you had been the most persistent teacher, and he the worst student imaginable. But in that moment of weakness, it felt like the most genuine show of affection you’d ever received.

You brushed the base of his neck with the tip of your nose, smiling when goosebumps rose on his skin and you felt his throat swallow with difficulty. You made your way to his ear and planted a small kiss on his earlobe. He let out a sharp exhale and glanced around, checking if anyone was paying attention. But he stopped looking when he heard you speak so close.

“I think I know what we could dress up as for Halloween. You could go as Chris, and I’ll go as Eagly.”

What the hell was it with you and Eagly lately?

His train of thought was cut short when a pleasant warmth settled in his abdomen. You were stroking him absentmindedly, no clear intention behind the gesture, but he always had trouble understanding certain signs of affection. It felt good, so he didn’t stop you. He was in some kind of bubble. Normally his head was a swarm of ideas, concepts clashing for his attention. In those moments when he had your warmth near him, your scent, his brain seemed to short-circuit and go into standby.

White noise, and a little sign that said: We apologize for the inconvenience. We’ll be right back.

Heat rose to his cheeks when you began planting scattered kisses on the exposed skin closest to your lips. Your caresses slid lower until he felt them dangerously close to the waistband of his pants. He gently moved you back, careful not to make any sudden movement that could send you tumbling with your terrible coordination.

“No. No exhibitionism. You’re not making me commit any infraction, especially not in front of our friends.”

He said it very seriously, but something in your brain wasn’t registering the words properly. You laughed, eyes half closed, body loose and trusting completely that he would hold you up if you couldn’t stand on your own. And you were right—he would.

He shifted his grip to hold you by the upper arms and spoke slowly, as if the problem were a neural failure rather than the effect of several beers in your bloodstream.

“We’re going to say goodbye and I’m going to take you home.”

“Home? The two of us together?”

It irritated him a little that he couldn’t just be bluntly honest with you, to tell you that you were only saying obvious nonsense. But then he remembered the pout you’d made the last time, when he told you your aim was crap while you were crying. His heart ached a little at the memory, and for a split second he wanted to pinch you so you’d share the pain. It wasn’t fair that it only hurt him.

“That’s what taking you home implies—that we both have to go together.”

He had underestimated your strength because, within seconds, you launched yourself forward with everything you had. You landed with your chin against his sternum, grinning from ear to ear. The rest of your body stayed where it was; only your top half had gone forward. He hissed at the impact and looked down at you, his chin pressed to his chest.

“I like that idea.”

You closed your eyes and puckered your lips, waiting for a kiss. Instead of giving in, Adrian separated you and half-dragged you back toward the rest of the group, who were still chatting casually.

“I think I’m gonna take her home before she decides it’s a good idea to test if she can fly like Eagly.”

Everyone looked at you both with a strange expression. Adrian searched his mental notes—what had you told him those expressions meant? Ah, expectation. Wait, what? They were going to figure it out.

He straightened you up as you clung to him like a life jacket in the middle of a storm at sea. He moved his hand from your waist to your shoulders, much friendlier.

“Don’t think that… I’m not going into her house. I won’t even step over the threshold. I’m just gonna drop her off and wait until she goes upstairs. Why would I go into her house? Pfft, that’s ridiculous.” He let out this weird fake laugh, way too loud and way too forced.

Nobody laughed with him. Not even a pity chuckle. The group just kind of… froze. A couple of them exchanged these sideways glances, others took these very deliberate, too-long sips of their drinks. The silence stretched until it was so thick you could choke on it, and Chris—poor Chris—looked like he’d just swallowed a whole ball of guilt he didn’t know what to do with.

“Yeah, buddy. Sure. You’re just gonna drop her off,” Chris said finally, shrugging in a way that screamed please, everyone, let’s just move on before this gets more awkward.

Adrian nodded rapidly, like three, four times in a row, convinced that he’d just completely smoothed over the whole situation. You waved this wobbly little goodbye, your hand flapping lazily in the air, muttering “thanks” several times. Nobody knew exactly what you were thanking them for, but they all assured you it was nothing.

By the time you reached the fire escape, you slipped one hand into the back pocket of Adrian’s jeans with this little mischievous giggle. He still had an arm locked firmly around your shoulders and gave your arm a quick squeeze.

“You’re touchier than ever,” he muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.

But he couldn’t stop staring at the ridiculous grin plastered across your face. It was… absurd. And yet, it got under his skin in the best possible way. He liked it. He liked that grin, how it softened you, made you look younger, lighter. He loved your sharp edges too—maybe more, honestly—but seeing you like this, so open, it tugged at something deep inside him. He hadn’t seen much of this version of you lately, not since the butterflies were gone and the missions had stopped. And he missed it more than he wanted to admit.

“Just because you look cuter than ever,” you blurted out, words tumbling out too fast.

You kissed his cheek, and he smiled despite himself. Compliments still hit him like bullets—unexpected, disorienting—but he craved them too, impatient for the next one. He lived for you pointing out that his hair looked good, or that his aim was deadly, or that you thought he was adorable in his glasses. “You’re a kinky boy, aren’t you?” you teased.

And he couldn’t deny it. Not really.

The climb up to your apartment took twice as long as it should have. It wasn’t just keeping you upright—though that was a whole mission in itself—but also fending off your increasingly bold attempts to peel his clothes off in the middle of the damn street. You pulled out every trick: complimenting him as Vigilante, whispering he was the “best boy,” rattling off random new facts about owls. He suspected most of them were made up, but it still punched something warm into his chest to realize you’d actually gone out of your way to look up owl trivia—just because it mattered to him.

At the door, he plucked the keys out of your hand, trying to juggle unlocking the lock while you pressed yourself against his back, arms limp at your sides, your cheek smushed against his shoulder blade. You mumbled something incoherent about how good he smelled, and it nearly made him drop the keys.

Spinning carefully so you wouldn’t collapse, he frowned down at you.

“What’s up with you tonight? Did Chris give you some of that stuff he smokes in his pipe?”

You shook your head, shoved him through the door, and laughed way too loudly. Adrian clamped a hand over your mouth, whispering sharp sshh sounds over and over that did absolutely nothing. You mumbled against his palm, words dissolving into nonsense, then suddenly went quiet. And then—your tongue. Flat against his palm. Slow.

He didn’t even flinch. His face stayed perfectly deadpan.

“If you think that’s gonna gross me out, you clearly forgot that I’ve had your saliva literally all over my body.”

You whined when he finally pulled his hand away. Your eyelids were heavy, drooping like lead weights, and he wasn’t sure you’d last much longer before passing out completely. Still, he wasn’t convinced the neighbors wouldn’t call the cops if you laughed like that again.

You stared at him for a beat too long before blurting:

“Abby’s not here. She’s with her girlfriend’s family for the weekend.”

Relief slammed into him so hard he actually exhaled.

“We’re alone.” You arched your brows up and down in this ridiculous, suggestive rhythm.

“Why are you doing that? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”

“What?”

“Your eyebrows are moving independently of your face. That’s weird. Looks like some kind of neurological malfunction. I’m worried.”

You groaned, gave up on explaining, and tugged him down the hallway by his shirt sleeve until you reached your bedroom. Then you flopped face-first onto the bed with a dull thud, limbs splayed out like a starfish. Lifting your head just enough to pout at him, you demanded:

“Lie down with me.”

“With these clothes? Street clothes? Uh, no. Absolutely not.”

“Then take them off me.” You said it with clear suggestiveness, but his sharp nod told you he’d interpreted it as nothing more than a practical task.

He bent to start tugging at your sneakers, but your whole expression crumpled. Your lip trembled, your eyes glossed over, tears pricking before you could stop them.

“Adrian… do you even like me?”

He froze mid-motion, sneaker halfway off, his hand still gripping your leg to keep it propped up. He blinked down at you like you’d just pulled a gun on him.

“What?”

“I think… I think you feel obligated to be with me.”

Your lip wobbled harder, and then tears spilled, hot and fast, down your cheeks. He finished pulling off the shoe, gave your thigh two awkward pats, desperate to redirect you. These situations always made his stomach knot—because he didn’t know how to fix you when you broke like this, and that made him feel like a failure.

“I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re asking,” he blurted finally.

The words landed like a grenade. Your tears doubled, morphing into an unstoppable flood as you dropped your head into the mattress. You wanted to curl into a ball, vanish into the sheets, but even that felt impossible.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry. Please?”

The answer was a louder, messier sob.

He gave your other thigh a couple of awkward pats, like that was going to magically fix anything. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. You knew Adrian wasn’t like everyone else—it took effort for him to show any kind of emotion. But in the past few months, you’d thought you’d broken through, that maybe you’d carved out a space where his affection lived. Never in a million years would you have expected him to say: “I don’t hate you.”

“What I meant was… I guess I like you. Like, actually like you. God, I’ve done things with you I never would’ve imagined.”

The crying stopped almost instantly. After a couple shaky breaths, you lifted your gaze. Adrian looked like his brain was doing cartwheels, like he was digging around for words he didn’t usually keep in stock.

“I’m not—” he scratched the back of his neck, glancing away, “I’m not good at this. Feelings. Or, like… saying things that don’t involve knives or bowel movements. So maybe I don’t show stuff like normal people. Not the way you’d expect. But, uh—I’m here, right? That counts for something.”

You blinked hard, drunk brain clinging to every word. Normally you would’ve stopped him, told him that was enough. But you needed more. Since the Butterflies, you hadn’t known who you were, or what you were good for. You weren’t needed. Adrian had tried in his own awkward way to pull you out of it, dragging you along on patrols, but that wasn’t your path. You still longed to belong to something bigger.

Your insecurities slipped out raw and loud, more than you wanted. And you needed him to tell you—you were worth something. At least to him.

“If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be with the others, or—hell, I’d have let you jump off that stupid fire escape to test your flying theory. I wouldn’t give a crap how you got home. I could’ve just stayed home sharpening knives, which, by the way, is very satisfying. But I didn’t. I walked you home.” He lifted a hand as he listed off his alternatives, then let it smack against his leg with a thunk. His eyes tracked your face, and when he caught your lip trembling again, he made an exaggerated tsk. “I’m here. With you. Holding you up so you don’t faceplant on the sidewalk. Stopping you from stripping me naked on Main Street, which, by the way, is illegal in several states. I Googled it. It’s a felony in Utah. Just saying.”

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh at his very specific worry about laws. You didn’t remind him that he was the one who’d once ended up in his underwear, drenched in beer, in front of the whole team.

Adrian’s words started tumbling out faster, like a faucet he couldn’t turn off.

“And I don’t like you in the boring way. Like tacos—I love tacos, I’d marry tacos.  It’s different. It’s like…you make my brain shut up. Normally it’s all noise in there. Like a hundred radio stations playing at the same time, and half of them are talking about murder techniques. But when you’re around? It’s like static. Quiet static. And that’s… actually really nice. I didn’t even know I wanted that until it happened. So yeah. You’re basically like my human white noise machine. But better, because sometimes you kiss me.”

He scratched his neck again, eyes darting up like maybe he’d find a trapdoor in the ceiling.

“And also—you touch me. Which is insane, because usually I hate people touching me. Like, don’t touch me. Ever. Handshakes? Gross. Sweat, germs, hand oil—blegh. But with you, it’s fine. It’s… more than fine. It’s… I don’t know, it’s good. Like I want it. Which means, scientifically speaking, that I definitely like you. Because otherwise I’d have pepper-sprayed you and sprinted home. Fast. I’m very fast.”

He shrugged, like he’d just presented a flawless math equation.

“So yeah. That’s it. You make me want to stay. You make my brain stop screaming. You’re the only person alive I’ll let touch me without stabbing. If that’s not ‘liking,’ then the dictionary is a liar.”

You just stared at him, chest pulling tight, while he rambled. Then, suddenly, the tears returned—hot, fast, unstoppable. But this time they were different. Your lip wobbled, and you started crying again, only now you were smiling too.

Adrian’s face twisted in horror.

“Oh no. Ohhh no, no, no, no, no. Not again. Why are you leaking? I literally said nice stuff this time! Do you have, like, a tear duct malfunction? Should I Google it? I can Google it. Wait—no, my phone’s dead. Don’t move, I’ll—”

“Adrian.” You laughed through your tears, catching his wrist before he could bolt. Your voice cracked, but you got the words out. “I’m not sad. I promise. I’m just… happy. You don’t usually say things like that and… it’s a lot. In a good way.”

He froze. Rigid. Deer-in-headlights.

“…Wait. You’re crying because you’re happy? That’s not real. Crying is for funerals. Or when your burrito falls on the ground tortilla-side-down. Not for happy.”

You sniffled, wiping your face clumsily. “For me, it is. My brain just… reacts like that. Too many feelings at once, and this is what comes out. And what you said… it made me feel safe. And wanted.”

He blinked. Hard. Mouth opening like he wanted to argue—but shutting again. Then he leaned closer, squinting like he was trying to read the fine print of your soul.

“So… you done crying now? Happy crying, sad crying—what category are we in? Because I wanna lie down with you. I like when you pet my hair while I fall asleep.”

Something warm spread through your chest, drowning out the last of your doubts. You almost laughed at how he suddenly couldn’t stop listing things he liked about you. You nodded, smiling, opening your arms in invitation.

But he shook his head, leaned over, and started undressing you again.

You couldn’t stop laughing as he fought with your jeans, cursing under his breath. He froze only when he caught sight of your underwear. You cupped his face, making him meet your eyes, biting your lip in what you thought was a sexy smirk. In reality, your eyelids were so heavy you looked like you were seconds away from passing out.

Adrian stifled a frustrated noise, kissed your forehead, and tugged your shirt off gently. When you were settled, he tucked the blanket over you, then clumsily stripped out of his own clothes. He slid into bed, hopeful you might still be awake—but your eyes were already closed.

He lay facing you, studying your flushed cheeks, puffy eyes, steady breathing. Something strange bloomed in his chest—habitual now, even if it wasn’t natural. Without overthinking, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you tight against him until your warmth quieted the buzz in his skull.

Half-asleep, you stretched out a hand, playing lazily with his curls, mumbling something dangerously close to I love you.

But then you burst into his life - literally.

It was his second week at King’s, and he was still getting his bearings. Memorizing which hallways were safe, which teachers might actually kill you for being late, which kids you absolutely didn’t want to owe favors to.

He was rounding the corner by the poison lab, head down, mind full of survival strategies-

-and then you smashed into him, hard enough to knock both of you sprawling.

"Shit!" he hissed, landing flat on his ass, his books skittering across the cracked tile floor.

You landed face-first beside him with a strangled little oof, your own bag exploding open, notebooks, pens, and a suspicious number of crumpled gum wrappers spilling everywhere.

Marcus blinked at you, stunned.

You groaned into the floorboards. "Ow. That was not stealthy."

He stared as you pushed yourself up, rubbing your forehead and squinting at him.

You didn’t look like you belonged here.

You were... bright. Not in a colorful way - you still wore the black uniform, black blazer, black converse that were a little scuffed up - but in a way that glowed out from the inside. Your eyes were too wide, too curious. You smiled too easily, like you hadn’t realized yet that doing that around here was basically waving a neon Target Me sign.

"You okay?" Marcus asked warily, gathering his books.

You grinned sheepishly. "I think I broke physics. Or my nose. One of those."

He blinked. Was this girl seriously making jokes right now?

You scrambled to collect your stuff, knocking over another kid’s pile of books in the process. The guy snarled and stomped off, muttering curses in Russian.

Marcus shook his head, amazed. "You’re gonna get eaten alive."

"Yeah, probably," you chirped, stuffing loose papers back into your bag with zero organization. "But hey, maybe I’ll trip and fall on someone important before they can stab me. Like, as a defense mechanism."

He couldn't help it - he laughed. Actually laughed, full and surprised, the sound bouncing off the cracked walls.

You lit up at that, beaming like you’d just won a prize.

"I’m Y/N," you said, sticking out your hand, smudged with ink and something that suspiciously looked like blood.

He stared at it for a second before shaking it cautiously.

"Marcus," he said.

You grinned wider. "Nice to meet you, Marcus. You wanna be my bodyguard?"

He snorted. "What makes you think I won't be the one you need protecting from?"

You shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder and nearly decapitating yourself with the strap. "I dunno. You laughed. That’s gotta mean something."

He watched you for a second longer - this chaotic, smiling, walking disaster of a person - and for the first time since he’d arrived at King’s Dominion, he didn’t feel the crushing weight of survival pressing so hard against his ribs.

Maybe it was the insanity of it. Maybe it was the fact that you clearly had no fucking idea what you were doing.

Or maybe it was just... you.

Either way, he found himself grinning, despite every better instinct.

"Yeah," he said, falling into step beside you as you headed for class. "Maybe I’ll keep you alive. Just to see what kind of mess you get into next."

You bumped into him again - completely by accident - and Marcus just laughed.

He had no idea what he was signing up for.

But somehow, he knew even then:

You were going to wreck his whole life.

And he was going to let you.

Later that day, Marcus found Billy and Lex hanging out at the graveyard, passing a blunt back and forth like it was any other apocalypse afternoon.

He needed answers. Fast.

He spotted them and jogged over, ignoring the way Lex immediately smirked when he saw Marcus’s face.

"You look like you just saw a ghost," Lex said, plucking the blunt from Billy and taking a lazy drag.

"Worse," Marcus muttered. "I met someone."

Billy perked up instantly. "Oh shit. What’s his name?"

Marcus shot him a look. "It’s a girl."

Lex made an exaggerated gagging noise. "That’s even worse."

Billy elbowed him, grinning. "Nah, man, let the poor dude talk. Maybe it's true love. Or, like, mutually assured destruction." He turned to Marcus with a gleam in his eye. "Spill it. Who’s the girl?"

Marcus ran a hand through his messy hair, pacing a little. "I don’t know her name. Well - I know her name’s Y/N. I just—" He paused, trying to find words. "She crashed into me. Like, full-on body slam. And then she tried to apologize by knocking over another kid's shit and almost broke her own neck with her bag."

Lex snorted smoke through his nose. "Sounds about right."

"And she asked me to be her bodyguard," Marcus added, voice climbing with disbelief.

Lex and Billy stared at him for a beat - then burst out laughing.

"Bodyguard?" Lex howled, doubling over. "Oh, my god, she’s gonna get you killed faster than anything at this school ever could!"

Billy wiped tears from his eyes, wheezing. "Bro. You found the human version of a banana peel."

Marcus folded his arms, scowling. "Seriously. Who is she? Why is she even here? She’s... she’s like a walking horror scene waiting to happen."

Billy shrugged, still grinning. "New recruit. Word is, her parents are small-time mobsters. Got caught up in some turf war in Jersey."

Lex chimed in, "They wanted to send her somewhere to ‘harden her up.’" He waggled his eyebrows. "Real good plan. Send a chick who trips over air to the deadliest school on earth."

Marcus stared at them.

"They sent her here to become an assassin?" he repeated, disbelieving.

Billy patted his shoulder solemnly. "The American Dream, man."

Lex smirked, nudging him. "You’re so screwed. You’re already soft for her, aren't you?"

Marcus opened his mouth to argue - but hesitated.

Because the truth was?

You had knocked into him like a wrecking ball. You had smiled at him like he wasn’t just another piece of meat in King’s Dominion’s grinder. And he had found himself wondering, even through all the chaos, what it would be like to actually have someone - something - to finally care about.

He clenched his jaw, ignoring the heat rising in his cheeks.

"I’m not soft," he muttered.

Lex and Billy immediately whooped, jeering like drunk pirates.

"He’s so soft!" Lex crowed. "Little marshmallow Marcus, gonna trip and fall in love with the girl who can’t even walk straight!"

Billy leaned in, grinning. "Better start practicing your first aid, bro. You’re gonna need it."

Marcus rolled his eyes, flipping them off - but inside, he knew it was already too late.

He was doomed.

And when he glanced across the graveyard and saw you laughing at something Petra said - backpack half unzipped, shoelace trailing, absolutely oblivious - Marcus felt a stupid, helpless grin tug at his mouth.