#folklore fics

you'd learned what love was from disney movies, from your mom and dad kissing in the kitchen, from the slow songs that filled your house on sundays when there was nothing to do but clean and laze around. each time you pictured it, your prince charming, your sunday kind of love, you pictured green eyes, messy brown hair, freckles and suntanned cheeks. conrad. in every book, in every song on the radio, in every film rolled kiss, there he was. at the end of every school year, the relief you felt wasn't from classes being dismissed. it was him, always him, waiting for you in cousins, your very own heaven. he had his mothers eyes, her kindness, her gentle touch. you had your mother's ability to fall into a fisher's orbit, natural as anything, attaching to him just as she had susannah. conrad beck fisher, the love of your life, even before you were old enough to truly understand what it meant.

the first time you were sure of it, he was fussing over your injured knee after you'd fallen off your bike, never once scolding you for crying like your brother and jeremiah had. "it's gonna be okay," he'd said softly, so grown up even when he was so young, wiping your blood on his shirt like he didn't mind the stain. you'd thought, then, that that's how you'd like to be treated forever. he was always there, cleaning up messes, bandaging scrapes, like he didn't realize how rare that was. loving him was as easy as breathing, when it was all you knew.

years later, when you were old enough not to need his help at every turn, the love only grew. you didn't always need him, but he was always there, just in case you did. you kissed him that summer, the year you turned fifteen. he'd taken you out to the beach, your birthday gift tucked safely into his back pocket. "it's not much," he said as you tore into the neatly wrapped paper, biting the inside of his cheek as he watched you, "but you deserved something special," you slid the box open, and there it was, glittering and new. a small chain with a c dangling from it. "for cousins," he clarified, rubbing the back of his neck, "so you always have a part of it with you, no matter where you are," "oh, conrad," your fingertip traced the letter, tears threatening to spill over your lash line, "i love it,"

"are you sure? i know it's not a lot, but-" you set the necklace down carefully, leaning forward, nearly kissing him, "i promise it's perfect," "good," he swallowed, and you could hear his throat shift, "you deserve it," you sat still for a moment, heart racing, your nose nearly bumping his, "can i kiss you?" "what?" he blinked, like he'd misheard you, "i- yes, yeah, please," he'd pulled you forward at the same time you'd leaned in, your lips crashing together, messy and uncoordinated. you were breathless when you pulled away, cheeks warm, giddy with happiness, "was that okay?" "that was perfect," he'd smiled, eyes bright, "i didn't know you felt that way, i would've- i don't know, i would've said something sooner,"

"that's okay," you laughed, too happy to mind, pulling the necklace from the box carefully, "help me put this on?" "of course," he nodded quickly, brushing your hair from your neck, carefully clasping it. when you turned to face him, he traced the silver lightly, straightening the charm, "happy birthday, honey," "thank you, con," you hummed, nearly giggling as he leaned in to kiss you again, light and soft. he walked you back up to the house when it had gotten too late to stay out, pausing at your door, eyes on your lips, "goodnight," "goodnight," you whispered, standing on your tiptoes and kissing his cheek before disappearing behind the door, smiling to yourself. he stood out in the hall, fingers lingering on the spot your lips had just been.

after that, you were inseparable, even more than usual. you spent every second of the summers together, and when he got into college, he'd drive up to see you through the year. time flew by, a year and then two, then before you knew it, it had been three years of nearly perfect happiness. you'd done it all together, you'd gone to his graduation and he'd been at yours, flowers in hand. you'd seen him off to college, then welcomed him back on breaks. countless hours on facetime, a constant stream of texts, everything. it all changed when susannah's cancer came back.

he became withdrawn, quiet, even angry at times. nightly calls became more sporadic, and his texts were short, the lack of affection clear. he didn't visit on his fall break, gave you some last minute excuse about falling behind on coursework. you told yourself it didn't matter, that it was normal, that all couples had rough patches. you'd work through it, because it was conrad. the behavior continued, only worsening, and soon enough it was january, and you were packing to move to new york, a long contemplated decision.

conrad pulled into the driveway of your parents house the night before you were set to fly out, bags under his eyes and an uneasiness in his demeanor. "hey, honey," he murmured as you met him outside, smiling wide, throwing your arms around his shoulders. "missed you s'much, connie," your voice was muffled by his neck as you clung to him, standing on your tiptoes, his arms around your waist. "missed you too," he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, pulling back to look at you as if he was surveying your face for damage, "you're so beautiful," you grinned, cheeks warming under his praise like it was the very first time, "stop it," you giggled, pulling him inside behind you, "i'm sure you're exhausted from the drive. do you wanna lay down?" he only nodded, following you up the stairs, the rest of the house already dim and quiet.

"i can't believe i'm leaving," you sighed, curling up on your twin size mattress beside him, "i guess it's not that far, though," "not that far," he repeated, fingers tracing your spine absentmindedly, "it's 3000 miles," "good thing there's planes," you pressed a kiss to his shoulder, "we're gonna be fine," he didn't answer, just lied there, his chest rising with steady breaths. "con?" you spoke after a moment, a hint of worry creeping into your voice. "hm?" he hummed, eyes closed. "we're gonna be fine, right?" "you didn't seem that concerned about it when you made the decision," it came out, rough and quiet, like he hadn't meant to say it, "but yeah. we'll be fine,"

"i asked you," you sat up, pressing your back against the headboard, "you told me to go. even when i said i'd stay," "what makes you think i want you to stay?" he sounded so tired, so resigned, "i want you to do what's best for you, and if you feel like that's new york, then it's new york," "then why do you sound so mad?" "jesus," he ran a hand over his face, sighing and sitting up, "i'm just- i just think maybe if you leave," he trailed off, the sentence dangling in the air, open ended. "what?" you leaned forward, brows furrowed, "you think what, conrad?" "i think 45 hours is a long drive, and 6 hours is a long flight, and i think i'm not crazy about my girlfriend moving to the farthest place she can away from me but i can't say that," he took in a breath, sharp and quick, "i think i'm scared of the inevitable and i don't want us to end up hating each other,"

"the inevitable," you echoed, voice hollow, "you think it's inevitable? you think we can't survive some time apart? we've been doing it this whole time, conrad," "no," he shook his head, running a hand through his hair, "we've been doing stanford to portland. that's nothing compared to this," "so what, then, you think we just can't manage it? like if i go, that's it?" "i think i'm scared," his voice cracked under the weight of everything he couldn't tell you, "i'm terrified and i'd rather cut our losses than end up ruining what we had," "cut our losses?" you scoffed, watching him pace your room, wringing his hands, "that's great, conrad, really. you make it sound so noble,"

"stop it," he pleaded, closing his eyes like it would slow it all down, "please, i'm trying to do the right thing here. you'll have a good life in new york, and i don't want to hold you back from that," "you're the only thing i want," you said surely, "i know i'll have a good life there, but i want you in it," "we'll only end up hurting each other worse if we let this drag out," he said quietly, " don't you get it? i'm trying to protect you," "so you've made up your mind?" you asked, afraid of the answer, "is that why you came here? to say goodbye?" "it's not goodbye," his eyes met yours, desperate and wide, "just- maybe we shouldn't pursue this," "oh my god," you exhaled, hands shaky, "you're serious," he was quiet for a moment, then, "yeah. yeah, i guess i am,"

that night, for the first time in your life, you watched conrad leave when you needed him to stay. you sobbed, chest aching, the smell of his cologne still dusting your sheets. you cried for your loss, for the life you'd have to build without him, for the exhaustion in his eyes as he walked out of your front door, out of your life. you cried for the idea that he was okay with this, with leaving you behind. miles away, he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, driving in silence all through the night. he didn't let himself cry, didn't let himself mourn what he'd ruined. he tried his hardest not to picture the expression on your face as you'd shut the door behind him, not to imagine the way you'd cried after he left.

the next morning, you did the only thing you could do. you got on the plane at your scheduled time, said goodbye to your parents, put on a brave face like you weren't breaking by the second. new york would be different, you told yourself as you watched the only real home you'd ever known disappear behind low hanging clouds. a fresh start, a new life, a reset from everything you were leaving, from the sudden, unprecedented pain conrad had caused. you would be happy, even if you missed him.

manhattan was everything you dreamed of. the nyu campus was vast and sprawling, full of open minded people, full of promise and possibility. months passed, and you were almost good at pretending you didn't think of him. you made new friends, threw yourself into your classes, joined clubs and spent every free moment keeping yourself occupied. your life was good, your friends loved you, you were really, truly, happy. you were walking home one night, slightly tipsy, very exhausted, when your phone rang. you fished it from your bag, brows furrowing when jeremiah fisher's name flashed across the screen. "jere?" you answered, pressing it to your ear, stopped in your tracks, "what's going on? are you okay? is conrad okay?" "it's my mom," it came out in a choked sob, "i- she's gone,"

your heart stopped for a moment, your breath catching, the phone nearly slipping from your hands. "what?" "she was sick, they- i thought we'd have more time," you could hardly even make out his words, "please come home. conrad needs you. we both need you," "it's gonna be okay, jere," you lied with a surprising ease, too close to coming apart, teetering on the edge, "i have to call my mom, okay? you and con take care of each other," you hung up, chest burning as you dialed your mother's number with shaking hands. "mommy?" it was something you hadn't called her in years, but it slipped out anyway, "is it true?" "yeah, baby," her voice was shaking, raw, "you need to come home, okay? i'll schedule your flight,"

the day you landed in cousin's, it was storming. it felt fitting, oddly poetic, in the painful wake of susannah's death. you hadn't even known she'd been sick, and the thought pressed at the forefront of your mind without relent, urgent and searing. if you'd known, maybe you could've seen her, could've been with her. you knew, distantly, that she wanted it this way. she was so selfless, never wanting to upset or inconvenience anyone, even in death. your parents hadn't arrived at the beach house yet, the result of a delayed flight, so you were left to face it alone, the key heavy in your hand as you twisted the lock, your carry on dragging behind you.

inside, it was hollow, quiet, dreary in her absence. "jere?" you called through the rooms, stepping almost cautiously, like you might disturb her memory, "are you here?" you were only met with silence as you continued to your bedroom, setting your suitcase across the bed, eyes falling on the framed photo of you, susannah, and conrad that stayed on the bedside table. you picked it up, hands shaking, tracing the line of her smile, of the boy right next to her with the same expression. the door creaked downstairs, but you allowed yourself one last moment, one more glimpse at the woman that had helped raise you, hot tears threatening to spill over. the hardwood groaned under the weight of steps, and then he was there, standing in your doorway like a ghost. "conrad?" you took in a breath, nearly dropping the photo, your eyes raking over him.

he'd lost weight, eyes hollow, cheeks sunken in from exhaustion, "hey," he finally said, voice cracking, "i didn't know you'd made it in," "i got on the first flight out," you took a tentative step closer, "conrad, i'm-" "don't," he said quickly, almost panicked, "don't say anything," "okay," you swallowed, eyes burning, "are you okay?" he nodded, squeezing his eyes closed before forcing them open, like it would change reality, "i'm fine," he lied too easily, "how was your school year?" 'really?' you thought to yourself, 'that's what he asks about?' "it was fine," you said softly, watching as he ran a hand through his hair, "yours?" "i took a year off," he said, looking down at the floor. it hit you, he'd only been one short flight away. cousin's was only a 9 hour drive from new york. he'd broken up with you because of distance, only to come home? you shoved the thoughts down, not that it mattered anymore, and cleared your throat.

"i know you said not to say anything," you started, "but i just- i'm so sorry, conrad. i had no idea she was sick," "i know you didn't," he murmured, "i made sure no one knew. she asked me to," "what?" you blinked, shocked, "you knew?" "of course i knew," he said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, "i took off to take care of her. she begged me not to tell anyone, not to tell you or your mom. jere only found out because he opened mail from the doctor's office about treatment," "oh my god," you exhaled shakily, "con, i had no idea. you shouldn't have had to do that all alone," he met your eyes, and your heart stuttered, "it was what she wanted," he said after a beat, "it was the least i could do,"

you took a step forward, reaching for him like he might dart away, but instead, he leaned into you, practically collapsing into your arms. he didn't cry, didn't allow himself, but you knew him enough to know how badly he was hurting. he sagged against you, breathing heavy, hands grasping at your shirt like he needed to anchor himself. "i'm so sorry," you whispered, rubbing his back, coaxing him to relax. the rest of your apology was unspoken; i'm sorry i wasn't there, i'm sorry i didn't fight for you, i'm sorry you had to do this alone. the most important one, though, left your lips quietly, "i'm so sorry she's gone, conrad," he pulled away after a moment, avoiding your gaze, "i have to go," he sounded like he regretted it, "i have to meet my dad and jere to go over her will. i'll see you tonight, probably," "yeah, of course," you nodded, watching him turn to leave, "see you,"

the next few days were a blur. your family flew in, the boys stayed busy with funeral preparations. you felt like you were just watching it go by, a bystander to your own grief, unable to do or say anything to make it better for anyone. the day of the funeral came too quickly, catching you off guard though you'd had days to prepare, a stark reminder of the reason you were all together again. you went through the motions, zipped up your black dress, slipped into flats, brushed your hair, like any of this meant anything. there were coordinators downstairs, putting out vases of hydrangeas, handing out memorial pamphlets. her entire life, reduced to a sheet of paper.

you sat beside your parents in the foyer, dazed as you watched it all play out. "susannah wanted a celebration of life," the preacher said, solemn and gentle, "please stay after service and enjoy visitation here in her treasured home. we'll be adjourning after some words from her eldest son, conrad," you blinked back into focus, lips parted as you watched him move to the front of the room, the preacher stepping aside. you thought, as he stood there, that conrad had never looked older than he did in that moment. but then, a blink later, he'd never looked so young, so afraid.

"loving my mom was a pleasure to everyone that knew her," he started, voice shaky, "she was, and forever will be, my guiding light. not only did she love me and jeremiah, but she loved everyone she came in contact with. she loved my dad, she loved her best friend," his eyes met yours for just a moment, "and her best friend's family was raised as our own. every good thing about me comes from her, and i can only hope to be half as good as she was. i know her love and guidance will continue to follow me throughout my life, as it will for all of you. thank you for coming," he stepped aside, immediately going to comfort jeremiah, and your heart broke impossibly more.

after the service, conrad disappeared upstairs, leaving adam and jeremiah to handle the sympathetic looks and apologetic frowns. you'd expected him to return, brave mask back in place, but thirty minutes passed, and he was nowhere to be found. you tentatively padded up the staircase, the aged wood creaking beneath your feet, your body gravitating towards his closed bedroom door like a magnetic pull. you knocked lightly, pressing your ear to the door, "conrad? are you alright?" your brows furrowed when he didn't reply, and you considered that maybe he wasn't in there after all, but you twisted the doorknob anyway, just to make sure. your eyes fell on him immediately. he was on the edge of his bed, arms around himself, rocking back and forth like it was involuntary.

"con," you exhaled, closing the door behind you, stepping towards him, "hey, are you okay?" he looked up at you, face wet with tears, cheeks splotchy, and you acted from pure instinct and memory, sitting beside him and putting your arm around him, nearly crying yourself. "you're okay," you whispered, rubbing his back like you had the day you arrived, "it's okay, connie. i'm right here," he fell into you, his head on your lap, sobs racking his body. "who am i supposed to talk to?" he choked out, fingers grasping the skirt of your dress, "what am i supposed to do?" "i know," you said weakly, combing your fingers through his hair, "i know you're scared. you don't have to be strong,"

"she told me to watch out for jere," his voice cracked, high for a moment, "to take care of him. how am i supposed to do that? i can't even- fuck, i don't even know how to take care of myself," "you've always been the tough one. she was just saying what she thought was best," you had a momentary, rare, flash of anger towards susannah. how could she put this on conrad? first her sickness, now the pressure of caring for his brother? it was clearly crushing him. "this won't go back to normal. it hasn't been normal in years, i don't even know what i'm supposed to do now," "i know," you murmured, "she loved you so much, conrad. i'm so sorry,"

"i can't believe she's gone," he'd stopped crying, but sounded so tired, so hollow, "there's so many things i should've told her," "she knows," you hoped it sounded as soothing as it felt to you, "she knew everything about all of us, even if we didn't know. she paid attention," "she left letters," he sat up, rubbing his face, clearing his throat, "i should've given it to you as soon as you got here, i'm sorry," "she left one for me?" you blinked, surprised, terrified of the contents, of the way they would make you feel, "can i read it?" "of course, yeah," he took a breath, smoothing out his suit and moving to his desk, pulling a blue envelope from the drawer, your name scrawled across it. "you should be alone when you read it," he said softly, "or i can get your mom," "i'll be okay," you traced the loops of her handwriting, chest aching, "i'm gonna take it to my room, okay? i'll be down soon," "okay," he nodded, eyes lingering on yours, but forced himself to let you go.

𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒,

𝒾 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒾 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒. 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓇𝓃, 𝒾 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝓎 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒, 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒹𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒. 𝒾 𝓀𝓃𝑒𝓌, 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃, 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒 𝒶 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝑒. 𝒾'𝓋𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓌, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒷𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓊𝒹𝑒𝓇. 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒹𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒. 𝒾 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓁𝒹, 𝒹𝒶𝓎𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑒𝑔𝑒, 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓈𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝒹𝓊𝓁𝓉. 𝒾 𝓈𝑜 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓁𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝒾 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽.

𝒾 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓇𝒶𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇. 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓅𝑒𝒶𝒸𝑒, 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇, 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝓉 𝓇𝓊𝓃𝓈. 𝒾 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒, 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝒶 𝒻𝒾𝓈𝒽𝑒𝓇, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒. 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑒𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝒶𝒹𝒶𝓂. 𝒾 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝒶 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝓌𝑒𝒹𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒶 𝓋𝑒𝒾𝓁, 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓉.

𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁. 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉, 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒. 𝒾 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈, 𝓈𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓃𝓃𝒶𝒽

you wept openly as you read it, hands shaking, trying your hardest not to let your tears stain the delicate paper. you thought of all the memories you'd made with her, how close you'd been. you wondered if conrad had ever even told her about the break up, or if he'd spared her the news, or if her infectious optimism had convinced her you'd work everything out. it took you 20 minutes to force it down and collect yourself, taking deep breaths, correcting your makeup in the vanity mirror susannah had picked out for you. "you okay, sweetie?" your mom asked when you finally returned to the crowd, her eyes searching yours. "of course," you lied, forcing a weak smile, "just needed some air,"

by nightfall, all the guests had gone, and your parents were packing the car to fly home. "i'm sorry, honey," your dad sighed, your head against his chest as he told you goodbye, "i've gotta be back for work. you call me if you need anything at all, okay? and let me and your mom know as soon as you land back in new york," "it's okay," you murmured, pulling away from the hug, forcing on a brave face, "i'll call when i get home, i promise. i love you," "i love you too, sweetie," he ruffled your hair lightly, smiling, "see you for christmas," "can't wait," you hummed, watching him carry the last suitcase out.

it was back to you, conrad, and jeremiah. the house felt empty once again, eerily quiet, devoid of the life and whimsy susannah had always provided. your flight left at 7am, but a part of you yearned to stay, like maybe if you didn't leave, it wouldn't be real. you showered, pulling on a cousin's rowing sweatshirt that you were fairly certain used to belong to conrad, stepping into a pair of shorts and wandering the house, aimless and tired. you wound up by the pool, kicking your feet through the water, memories playing like a reel in your mind. "this seat taken?" you looked up, and there was conrad, his dress shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his hair tousled. "help yourself," you attempted a casual smile, gesturing to the spot beside you. he sat, not quite close enough to let his legs dangle like yours, "so you fly out in the morning?" "yeah," you nodded, glancing at the rippling water, "i don't think i'll be back for a while,"

"i'm gonna go back to school," he said after a moment, "i think jere's staying at finch, so there won't be anyone here. my dad said he'd pay people to keep up with the house, though," "good," you hummed, "i might transfer after this year. we'll see how it goes," "i thought you loved new york," he looked at you, brows knit, "your brother said you were happy there," "i am," you said quickly, "i just miss home, i guess. this whole thing has just made me think," "i understand," he hesitated, "did my mom say anything in the letter? about being here?" you yearned to tell him, to show him, but it felt too heavy, too much, "no, nothing like that. it's just been playing on my mind," "i'm sure you'll make the right decision. you always were the smartest out of us," you paused, mind racing, "hey, conrad, did you tell susannah about us? about the break up?"

his face shifted, like he was nervous or uncomfortable, "i tried to, but- i don't know. it was hard, she wasn't doing very well and i didn't want to upset her," "it's okay," you felt an odd sense of relief, "i understand. i just wanted to know," a soothing, thick sort of silence settled over you, quiet except for the waves and the pool water rippling around your ankles. finally, he broke the silence, "it's late. you should get some rest before your flight," "yeah, you're probably right," you stood, taking one last look at the beach, how peaceful it looked in the darkness, before following him inside. the sound of two sets of steps on the stairs reminded you of all the years passed, of four sets as the boys chased you around, or two when you and conrad snuck up together.

he paused by your bedroom door, lingering, his eyes meeting yours, "thank you for coming," he said, voice raspy, "it meant a lot to everyone. to me," "i wouldn't have missed it for anything," you said earnestly, "you're my family, connie. always, no matter what's happened between us," he took a step closer, face conflicted like he was fighting himself, "i'm sorry," it came out thick, almost strangled, "i wish i could've told you," "you did what you had to do," you shook your head, "i don't blame you. you have to stop blaming yourself," another step, another uptick in your heartbeat. "i wish things had been different," he exhaled it like it was a weight off of his shoulders, and you pulled your lip between your teeth, anxious and anticipating, though you weren't sure what.

his eyes flicked to your mouth at the movement, and before you could process it, he was kissing you, tender but deep, hurried like he needed it. you kissed him back, humming against his lips, one hand coming to hold his arm. he leaned you back against the doorframe, your head craning to keep up with him, the kiss deepening, his hand grabbing for your waist. "conrad," you murmured into the kiss, catching your breath. it seemed to snap him back into reality, and he jerked away, chest heaving. "i shouldn't have done that," he said quickly, "i'm so- i'm so sorry," he turned, before you could stop him, slamming his bedroom door. you traced your lips, still burning for him, pausing before closing your own door, closing it on him, on the possibility.

you returned to the city the following day, feeling terribly similar to the first time you'd left. on top of mourning susannah, you had to mourn conrad, something that could've been. you tried your hardest not to think of it for too long the following months, but late at night, when you were alone, you found yourself scrolling through the locked album on your phone, or hesitantly typing his username into the instagram search bar, forced to watch his life in pictures. "are you coming home for the summer?" your mom asked over the phone, a week before the end of the year. "i'm actually thinking about going to the beach house, just for a couple days," you told her, "i'll come home after though, okay?" "that sounds good, sweetie. call me if you need me,"

your flight landed at 8am, the dew still clinging to the grass of the beach house, the tide rolling slowly in and out. you twisted the key in the lock, gently pushing the door open, breathing in the familiar scent, the wheels of your suitcase sliding against the wood floors. you carried your things upstairs, haphazardly unpacking before going to the kitchen, switching on the kettle and leaning against the counter. you were halfway zoned out when the back door opened, and when your eyes snapped up towards the sound, there he was. conrad stood, the top half of his wet suit unzipped, hanging loose around his waist. "oh," he stood, blinking, brows furrowed like he was confused, "i didn't know you were here," "i didn't know you were here," you said, switching off the kettle as it whistled, "sorry- i can go back home. i didn't know anyone was staying here," "no," he shook his head, water droplets dripping off the ends of his hair as he did, "stay. please,"

the two of you fell into step again with a sort of familiar ease. it wasn't dramatic, wasn't all at once, but somehow, you found yourself living alongside him like no time had passed. he studied and surfed during the day, while you laid out at the beach or tidied the house. he tried to stay out of your way, you could tell. part of you ached to tell him he didn't have to avoid you, the other longed to run far away, to go home and pretend it never happened. the sixth night, he knocked on your bedroom door, quiet and hesitant. "yeah?" you called, perched at your vanity, finishing your skincare. "hey, uh, i was gonna make some dinner. do you want something?" "yeah, sure," you smiled faintly at him in the reflection, "i can come help, just give me a second,"

he was standing at the counter when you came downstairs, prepping chicken, humming under his breath. you lingered in the doorway for a moment, just watching him, stricken by the slow, tender familiarity of it all. "want me to make a salad?" you finally asked, clearing your throat, "i picked up some produce last time i went into town," "yeah, that'd be great," he nodded, giving you a sidelong smile, "i'm just gonna grill this up," you nodded, busying yourself with prepping ingredients, trying to avoid watching him as he cooked. even as you settled across from him at the table after everything was done, you had to make a conscious effort not to let your gaze linger. "this is really good," he said, wiping his mouth after a bite, "thank you for helping," "course," you murmured, taking a sip of your tea, "since when do you know how to cook, anyway?"

he cracked a smile, and your chest warmed, "had to learn how to do the basics when mom was sick. i really can only make chicken and some sides," "well it's great, conrad," you smiled in return, "i'm glad we can do this," "this?" you nodded, gesturing between the two of you, "yeah, this. i'm glad we can get along without any drama," it wasn't the whole truth, really, but then again, you hadn't told him the whole truth since the day he walked out your door. "yeah. me too," he nodded, but his smile slipped, "i'm probably going for a swim after this, if you wanted to join me. it's a really nice night out," "yeah, okay," you nodded, "i'll meet you out there in a little bit. i just need to change," you stood to clear your dishes, but he stopped you, his hand on the edge of your plate, "let me take care of this," you hummed a half reply, excusing yourself upstairs, trying to ignore the look in his eyes.

you walked down to the pool half an hour later, a zip up hoodie hanging over your bikini, a seltzer in your hand. conrad was already in the water, the lights hitting him as he moved through it, taking your breath away for a moment. he broke the surface, hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted, "hey," he grinned, waving you over. "you beat me to it," you joked, shrugging off your hoodie, the air chilly on your bare skin. you could feel his eyes on you as you sat on the edge of the pool, bracing yourself before sliding into the water, the cold biting at you. "jesus, it's freezing," you squealed, scrunching your nose, "you said it was nice out, you liar," "don't be such a baby," he teased, wading through the water so he was closer to you, "it's not too cold, though, is it? you're okay?" "i'm fine, just gotta adjust," you shrugged, dipping your head under for a moment. he was staring at you as you came up, eyes dark but sparkling.

"hi," he exhaled, so close that you could reach out and touch him. "hi," you murmured, drinking him in, "feels better now," "yeah?" his voice cracked slightly, "good. that's good," "very," you whispered, eyes flickering to his lips, "and you? you feel good?" "i feel great," he swallowed, tongue darting out to wet his lips, "just perfect," you leaned against the pool wall, water lapping at the surface, "perfect," you repeated, eyes still on his. "you're perfect," he took in a breath, sharp and hoarse. "con-" he didn't give you a chance to finish, leaning forward and kissing you desperately, hands finding your waist beneath the water. you kissed him back, hungry and quick, before your mind could catch up with your body. after a moment, you pushed him away, chest heaving, mind reeling, "no," you said quickly, "no. no, we're not doing this again,"

he looked wounded, for just a beat, "i'm sorry, i shouldn't have done it without asking you," he said quietly, running a hand over his face, "i'm sorry," "you shouldn't have done it at all, conrad. you can't keep doing this to me," your voice was rising, face hot, "i forgave you for leaving, i really did. and i forgave you for kissing me after the funeral, but this- this isn't fair, and you know that. i can't keep letting you take advantage of me, because you know i'll do anything for you. and i can't believe after everything, after the time we spent together, that you'd do this," "i'm so sorry," his voice croaked, "you have to know, i thought you knew," "knew what?" you felt your eyes sting, "how could i know anything? i used to- god, conrad, i used to know everything when it came to you. what happened?"

"i thought you knew that i still loved you!" his voice shook, "i never stopped, i- god, i didn't know what to do, okay? my mom was dying and i couldn't tell you and i was so fucking scared. you have to know i never wanted to hurt you, honey. you have to understand that i love you, that i never stopped, not for a second. i just couldn't stand to drag you down with me," you pushed yourself up out of the pool, shaking as you yanked your hoodie back on over your soaked swimsuit, the nickname that had slipped from his lips replaying in your mind. "no, no, hey, just wait-" he pushed himself out after you, dripping onto the concrete as he followed you, reaching for your wrist, "don't do this, don't walk away from me. not now,"

"what am i supposed to say to that?" you whirled to face him, "i hurt for you, conrad. i spent months crying over you, crying for you, and i would've done anything to hear you saying this. i just can't let you break my heart again," "i know i hurt you, and i know i can't just fix it, but god, if we loved again, i swear i'd love you right," he took a step closer, tentative and slow, "there will never be anyone else for me. i know that now just as clearly as i knew it when we were teenagers. i don't care if it's reckless or dramatic or stupid, i love you, and i'll love you for the rest of my life," "conrad-" he kept talking, as if you'd never interrupted, "and i just need you to understand, i need you to see that i mean it," "conrad," "and if i have to spend every day reminding you-" "conrad!" "what?" he blinked, as if he had never heard you, brows knit.

"i believe you," you murmured, "i love you, i trust you. you're okay," "what?" he let out a breath, "you love me?" "of course i love you," you reached for him this time, pulling him closer by his wrist, "i've loved you as long as i can remember, connie. i know we have a lot to figure out, but i'm here, i'm forgiving you. i miss you. i miss us," "oh, thank god," he laughed breathlessly, stepping into your orbit, nose brushing yours as he leaned in, "say it again," "i love you, conrad beck fisher," you whispered, and you could hear the sharpness of his breath, the racing of his heart, "i'll always love you," he made a low, desperate, raw sort of sound before crashing his lips to yours, intense but soft, grabbing for you anywhere he could reach.

he walked you back into the living room, hand resting on your low back, keeping you pressed against him. his tongue slipped against yours, his hands fumbling, squeezing your hips as he pressed you against a wall, knee slotted between your thighs. he groaned, low in his throat, as you ground against him, bikini bottoms still freezing. "bedroom," he muttered between messy kisses. "yours?" you pulled away, pressing sloppy kisses to his jaw, "or mine?" he didn't reply, just leaned down to grab your thighs, pulling your legs around his waist, picking you up with a huff. he carried you up the stairs, not even breaking a sweat, cheeks only reddened from your lips on his neck. you reached down as he rounded the landing, sliding your hand over the bulge in his swim trunks. "fuck," he groaned, not even bothering to pick a room, just settling you onto the bathroom counter as he stumbled into the room, "need you, honey,"

he slipped the zip up from your shoulders, hands fumbling with the string of your bikini, kissing you languidly as he pulled it, your top falling. he trailed kisses down your jaw and the column of your throat, sucking lightly at the sensitive skin of your neck. "you're so beautiful," he murmured, eyes raking over your heaving bare chest, "missed you so much," he leaned down, palming your chest, slowly sucking your nipple between his lips, laving his tongue against the bud. "oh," you sucked in a surprised breath, back immediately arching into him, hands gripping the edge of the vanity. his fingers looped through your bottoms, pulling them down in one fluid motion, letting them fall to the floor, the air cool against your core. "can i taste you, baby? wanna make you feel good," he slid a hand between your thighs, thumb brushing your clit lightly. "yes, please," you nodded quickly, dazed as he dropped to his knees in front of the sink, spreading your legs further.

he buried his head between your thighs, not wasting any time with teasing touches before lapping at your core, tongue tracing your clit, eliciting a sharp gasp from your swollen lips. he hummed against you, the sound vibrating, setting your nerve endings on edge. you threaded your hand in his hair as he darted his tongue inside of you, nose nudging your clit lightly. "oh, conrad," you mewled, tugging at the strands of hair gently, back arched, "so good," he sucked your clit just hard enough to have you gasping and writhing on the counters edge, your thighs clenching, "close," you managed, pulling tighter on his hair, "jesus. that's so good," he was only encouraged by your praise, the hand resting on your thigh squeezing slightly, anchoring you. you gasped his name as you came, legs trembling, dizzy with pleasure.

he swiped his thumb along his lip as he stood, grinning down at you, "come shower with me, honey," you nodded, still hazy, following him as he turned on the water, stepping out of his trunks. he stepped under the shower stream, taking your hand, helping you over the ledge. "you're so pretty," he murmured, the water misting around you, his thumb tracing your jawline. you fawned under his gaze, leaning into his touch, humming contently. he kissed you, slow and gentle, tediously teasing, pressing you against the cool shower wall. he stepped between your legs, humming as you opened up for him, the kiss deepening.

you reached between the two of you, taking him in your palm, running your thumb along the tip. “fuck,” he hissed, hips already jerking, “you don’t have to do that-“ “hush,” you teased, ghosting your lips over his pulse point, “want you to fuck me, con. missed you so much,” “yeah?” he rasped, “want you so bad, honey, you have no idea,” “have me, then,” you whispered, stroking him slowly. he shuddered, gently pulling one of your legs up, fingers running along your calf as he did. you guided him to your core, taking a shaky breath as you slid him against you, soaked and hot. “oh, baby,” he exhaled, bucking into your hand before gently guiding it away, “lemme take care of you, don’t worry,” he tapped his tip against your clit, watching as you clenched up, lips parted. “i love you,” he murmured, one hand still holding your leg as he pushed inside of you slowly, groaning as you stretched around him. “oh,” your eyes fell closed, your head resting on the wall behind you, “i love you,” you relished in the familiar but missed stretch, drinking him in, your hands on his shoulders.

“oh, fuck,” he leaned forward, his forehead on your shoulder, bottoming out inside you, “that’s- god, you’re perfect,” he stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, letting himself just feel you, before thrusting back in and out, deep and slow. you pulled at his wet hair, scrambling to kiss him, swallowing each others moans as his mouth met yours messily. it was all tongue and teeth, passionate but urgent, his thrusts quickening. he snaked his hand around to find your clit, thumb circling it as he fucked into you, eliciting more muffled moans. “conrad,” you gasped, pulling away to catch your breath, voice hoarse. “i got you, honey,” he panted, “not gonna last, missed you too much,” “s okay,” you dug your nails into his shoulder slightly as he repositioned you, hitting even deeper, “oh, god. right there, conrad, oh-“ you babbled, eyes rolled back, back arched. “yeah, come on sweetheart,” he let out a choked groan, “let me feel you,” his thumb swiped over your clit again, and you came with a gasp, his name falling from your lips. “good girl,” he buried his face in your neck as he came, hips stuttering, “oh, god, i love you,” “mm, love you,” you hummed, running your fingers through his hair as he caught his breath, chest heaving.

he helped you stand properly again, gently rubbing your thigh, “didn’t hurt you, did i?” “course not,” you shook your head, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, “that was perfect,” he smiled, hazy and content, “here, i’ll wash your hair like old times,” you remembered the way he used to scrub at your scalp, tenderly and caring, when you’d sneak showers together at the summer house. he kept his promise, washing it carefully and tediously, conditioning the ends like he’d done it a million times. after, he laughed as you stood on your tiptoes, attempting to wash his in return. he squatted down slightly, letting you reach, laughing under his breath. when you got out, he wrapped you in a towel, kissing you quickly as he dried himself off.

“i wish we could stay in the beach house forever,” you said as the two of you laid in his bed, your head on his chest. “me too,” he murmured, running his fingers along your spine. “i’m coming back here after i graduate, i think. i wanna stay in moms house, keep up with it. i’m gonna practice at the clinic in town,” you sat up, brows knit, looking down at him, “you’ve already planned it all out?” “it’s a loose plan,” he said, shrugging, “it’s the goal, though. why?” “just surprised,” you leaned back into him, relaxing, picturing your future, “i have 2 years left. i’ve been thinking about transferring, but i don’t know,” “i have one semester left, then i’ll be done,” you’d forgotten how much time had passed since he left, and the reminder startled you, “i’ve heard new york is nice in the fall,” “oh, it’s beautiful,” you nodded. “maybe i’ll come visit my girl after i graduate? we can fly back together?”

The two of you sat near the back of the crowded bar. He was leaning his elbow on the small table as you leaned your arm on the same table only a few inches away from his.

It'd been fate. Him bumping into you.

Yeah, he'd pretty much ruined your favorite shirt. Stained by the sticky glass of beer he'd been carrying and your own drink half poured on yourself. Instead of freaking out, you'd just stood there in shock. More overwhelmed by the cold liquid seeping through your shirt.

Now that you sat in front of him, the stain was like a perfectly created work of art marking your acquaintance, which quickly turned in the two of you laughing and acting like you were long time friends.

"I don't usually do this," he admitted leaning closer. Close enough for you to hear him clearly over the roaring music. The comment caught you off guard like what the two of you were doing was something out of the ordinary.

But, for him, it was out of the ordinary.

It wasn't every day that Tom Holland went to a bar and met a girl he instantly connected with. It was totally of him to spill his drink on said girl, but apart from being embarrassed, he wouldn't have taken the time to really get to know you. Because in many cases, he probably wouldn't ever see you again.

"I almost forgot you were the Tom Holland," you emphasized the last words as a small smile plastered across your face. You heard him half chuckle, half scoff. He didn't feel like the Tom Holland.

"Do you want to get out of here?" you said, the smile on your face spreading wider. Tom's eyes shone as a small set of wrinkles formed around the corners of his eyes.

"Okay," he breathed pulling out his phone quickly. He was texting someone. "Just have to let my mates know I'm leaving," he slid the phone back into the pocket of his jeans. You hopped off the stool leaving your empty glass on the table.

You led the way out, Tom close behind. You could feel him tracing your tracks. The bodies on the dance floor knocked into you and Tom quickly held your arm preventing them from knocking you all the way down. The gesture was instinctive. Natural.

When you finally felt the cold air hit your face, you breathed a sigh of relief.

"Where do you want to go?" you almost whispered looking at the fairly empty streets.

"Where can we go this late?" he asked chuckling while placing his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

You had to remind yourself you were two strangers, one who could be recognized anywhere he went. You started walking backwards waving at him to follow you.

"What is this?" he asked as you came to a stop.

"I know you're famous, but you've never seen a gas station store?" you asked furrowing your brows. You giggled shaking your head, hoping he'd understand you were joking.

"I meant what are we doing here?" he followed as you opened the door walking into the empty store bright with fluorescent lighting. Walking to the fridge with the ice-cream, you pulled out two ice-cream bars.

Tom followed you like a lost puppy until you were outside unwrapping the ice-cream handing one to him. He stared at it like he'd never seen an ice-cream bar before. "You can eat it," you said taking a bit out of yours.

"That's probably not good for your teeth," he said licking his.

Shrugging, you smiled cheekily before leading him down the street. "Where to now?" he asked. You watched him struggle as he licked the ice-cream bar which was quickly melting in his hand.

"I just like to walk," you said slowing your pace so you were walking side to side. His shoulder brushed against yours as you bit into your ice-cream bar. You eyes were set on watching the group of people walking a few feet in front of you, you didn't notice Tom was looking at you.

He watched the way you savored your ice-cream. He wondered what was going on in your head. Wondering how you could walk with certainty and with no plan. Something he always had figured out for him. Plans.

Then he stopped abruptly, cursing under his breath. Turning to him you saw some of his ice-cream decorating his own shirt.

"If you bit into it, you wouldn't have that problem." A soft laugh escaped your body as you watched him wipe the shirt with his fingers.

The two of you stood with your stained shirts and the traces of a spontaneous night. A night that neither of you wanted to be over.

"Thank you," Tom's voice was soft as he looked up from his shirt. The ice-cream had melted quickly and his fingers were a sticky mess. Furrowing your brows with a sheepish smile, you shrugged. Was he being sarcastic? You couldn't tell.

"I'm sorry," you almost whispered feeling like you'd somehow gotten in trouble.

"No, I mean thank you for this. This is the most fun I've had in a long time," he exclaimed as the two of you walked to a trash can nearby. to discard the popsicle sticks.

"Despite ruining your shirt? Which might be most expensive than anything I own," you joked watching the stain that'd only gotten worse after he tried to clean it off with his fingers. Tom chuckled and that sound made your heart warm. It was genuine.

"I ruined yours first," he shrugged as you smiled looking down at the stain on your own shirt.

When you looked up his eyes were fixed on yours. Even in the dim light of the night, you could see his eyes shinning as a small smile spread across his lips. The warm feeling in your heart spreading up to your cheeks.

"Where to now?" he asked as he stretched out his arm. His fingers were spread inviting yours to lock in the crevices. Confidently, you intertwined your fingers with his, strutting into the night not really knowing where the night was taking you, but not really caring.

metropolis, current ⤸

you hadn’t meant for metropolis to become permanent. it was supposed to be a stopover, a test, a year or two to see if you could make a life on your own. but the city had a way of pulling you in. the noise, the crowds, the sleepless rhythm of it all. you hated it, sometimes, but you built something here. the charity became your center. you worked yourself raw with grant proposals, donor meetings, community programs that were always one step away from collapse. it wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t easy, but it mattered. and most days, that was enough. not all of them, though. there were nights when exhaustion gave way to silence, when the work ended and you were alone in your apartment, and that’s when the ache returned. the one you never really named, but always knew. the shape of someone who had left and never come back. clark kent.

his name had followed you here, stamped at the bottom of articles in the daily planet, dropped in conversations, caught in the corners of newsstands. broadcasts of superman saving the city, a flurry of red and blue, the intimate knowledge of the man inside the suit. you never searched for him, but his words found you anyway. sometimes you lingered on them, proud and aching at once. sometimes you turned the page too quickly, afraid of what it would do to you if you stayed. you’d convinced yourself you’d adjusted, that you’d built a life separate from him, steady enough to stand on its own. until one gray afternoon when the clouds threatened rain and you slipped into a crowded cafe near the office. you were tired, lost in thoughts about budget cuts, staring at your reflection in the dark glass of the window when movement caught your eye. there he was. standing in line like any other man in the city, hands in his coat pockets, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside. taller than you remembered, maybe, but still clark in every line of him. patient, soft edged, carrying himself like someone who didn’t know he took up so much space. your breath left you.

it was absurd, impossible even. metropolis was too big, too crowded, too sprawling. and yet, the instant you saw him, you knew. you couldn’t look away. memories struck sharp, merciless. sitting on the tailgate of his truck, the smell of hay and summer air, clark’s voice quiet as he told you he couldn’t stay. the barn lit by fireflies, his hands shoved into his pockets as though he was afraid if he touched you, he wouldn’t be able to go. the sting of holding a newspaper years later, his name printed bold at the top, pride and heartbreak burning together in your chest. and now, against all odds, here. your fingers tightened around your paper cup. you should leave, you knew. before he turned, before his gaze swept the room, before he saw you and unspooled everything you had worked so hard to tie back together.

but your body wouldn’t move. you just sat there, pulse hammering, watching him order his coffee. for a split second, he shifted, his head lifting, eyes skimming across the room. you dropped your gaze, heart thudding, terrified of what it would mean if his eyes met yours, terrified of what it would mean if they didn’t. the moment passed. the cashier handed him his drink, and he moved toward the door. you let yourself breathe again only when he was gone. your coffee had gone cold, and so had your skin. you sat there another ten minutes, staring at the window fogged with rain, feeling like the ground beneath you had shifted. you told yourself it was chance, a coincidence, nothing more. metropolis was a big city, you might never see him again. but deep down, you knew this wasn’t over. the memory pulsed in your mind, a moment so similar to this, the very first time you'd really gotten to know clark.

smallville, seven years ago, age 16 ⤸

"we've had a slight change in schedule," your science teacher announced, standing at the head of the class, "things have shifted, so mrs. steven's class will be joining ours. i'll be announcing the new lab partners as they file in," you waited, tapping your fingers against the lab table, humming under your breath. the teacher called your last name, then, "you'll be paired up with clark kent," you glanced up just as he entered, and the air seemed to escape your lungs. you'd see him, of course, everyone knew him to an extent. you'd never been so close to him, though, and your skin seemed to warm as he came closer, sliding into the seat beside you. "hi," he smiled, boyish and toothy, "i'm clark," you told him your name, smiling shyly, "i know who you are, though. i'm friends with chloe," "oh, duh!" he laughed, "i can be so spacey sometimes,"

from there, your daily routine changed. classes would pass almost in a blur until science, when you'd settle in beside clark, entranced by his presence. he'd tell you about the farm, about all the chores he had that morning, about the paper. he came into class on valentine's day, fumbling through his backpack as he sat, cheeks dusted red when your eyes met his. "i, uh, i'm not great at this kinda stuff," he pulled out a saran wrapped cookie, then a bunch of wildflowers tied together with twine, followed by a card with your name scrawled onto it, "would you be my valentine? i mean, like, could i take you out?" "of course, clark," you practically melted, smile widening as you dug into your own bag, passing him the mixed cd you'd burned on your parents computer, "i made you this, i just thought you'd like it," "i love it already," he took it, tracing his name in sharpie, "it's perfect,"

metropolis, current ⤸

a week passed, though it felt longer. you tried to fold the cafe sighting into the drawer of things you didn’t touch. coincidence, you told yourself, nothing more. the odds of crossing paths again were too slim to consider. you carried him with you anyway. not even him, really, but the shape of him, the way the air had thinned in your lungs when you saw him standing there, the memories spilling faster than you could keep them back, the way you’d looked away before his gaze could land on you. you threw yourself into work harder than usual. the charity’s annual fundraiser was looming, and it consumed everything. meetings stacked on meetings, endless calls, arguments with vendors over last minute changes. you barely slept, barely ate, lived in a blur of details that had to be perfect. it was safer that way, to drown yourself in purpose, to pretend the cafe had never happened.

the night of the event came sooner than you expected. it took place in a rented ballroom, strings of lights curling along the ceiling, tables set with linens that looked far too expensive for what you could really afford. the kind of night where you had to put on something elegant and smile like you weren’t running on nerves. you moved through the crowd with a practiced smile, greeting donors, introducing board members, thanking volunteers. it was exhausting but familiar, a rhythm you knew well. you were in the middle of a conversation with one of the city council aides when you caught sight of a camera crew near the back. reporters, you realized. of course, you’d sent out press releases, after all. you just hadn’t thought they’d actually show. then, your heart stuttered. because standing among them, notebook in hand, was clark. he looked different than he had at the cafe. sharper, more polished, the lines of his suit clean, his expression focused as he listened to someone speak. the sight of him still cracked through you like lightning. you turned quickly, words tumbling out to the aide beside you, anything to look busy, but you could feel him there. your chest tightened, your mind racing.

he was here, in your space, in the life you had built without him, and there was no corner table to hide behind this time. you tried to stay in motion, weaving through the crowd, tending to guests. but eventually, inevitably, you found yourself standing still, glass in hand, watching him from across the room. and you were struck again by the duality of it, the boy you once knew, standing here as the man who had left you behind. your throat ached. you told yourself not to let it show, but memories pressed in anyway. the way he used to carry books under his arm, scribbling in the margins, the late nights in the barn when he talked about writing things that mattered, his voice low and steady like he was confessing a secret, the way you’d believed every word. you swallowed hard, blinking back to the present. because now, he was here, not in your imagination, not on the byline of a newspaper, but here.

inevitably, his gaze found you. you felt it before you saw it. that pull, that weight, like a shift in the air. you glanced up, and there he was, across the room, notebook closed now, his eyes fixed on you. your chest tightened, and for a moment, neither of you moved. eventually he did, weaving through the crowd with an ease that made your throat go dry, as if the years hadn’t happened at all. you braced yourself. "hey," he said when he reached you, voice softer than the din of the ballroom, but it carried straight through you. your pulse was in your ears, "hi," his smile flickered, a little uncertain, like he wasn’t sure how much welcome he’d find. "i, uh, i didn’t realize this was your organization. when i got the assignment, i just-" he stopped, cleared his throat, "you've done good work," you forced your voice steady, "thank you. we certainly try,"

he nodded, eyes scanning the room, the decorations, the crowd, the tables piled with pamphlets and donation slips. "it’s impressive, really. you’ve built something here," you wanted to laugh. not unkindly, but the way he said it, like he couldn’t quite believe it, like he was only now realizing that the years hadn’t just been empty space for you. instead, you took a sip from your glass, "i guess we both found our places," his gaze snapped back to you at that, something unreadable in his expression. "yeah," he said slowly, "i guess we did," silence pressed in, filled with things you weren’t saying. the years you’d lost, the letters he hadn’t written, the nights you’d spent wondering if you’d been easy to forget.

finally, he asked, "do you have a minute? maybe we could-" "i can’t tonight," you cut in, too quickly, gesturing to the crowd, "this is my evening. i need to be everywhere at once," he nodded, but you saw the way his jaw tightened, the faint crease between his brows. "another time, then?" you didn’t answer right away. because part of you wanted to say no, to protect the fragile balance you’d built. but another part, the part that still ached whenever you saw his name in print, couldn’t. "maybe," you said after a moment, your voice low. his smile was small, almost tentative, but it was real. but then someone was calling your name from across the room, pulling you back into the swirl of the fundraiser, leaving him standing there with that unreadable look in his eyes.

you thought maybe the fundraiser would be it. a single night, one collision in a city too big to keep repeating itself. but two days later, he was in your office. you were buried in paperwork, a half finished grant proposal open on your desk, when your assistant knocked and poked her head in. "there’s someone here to see you," she said, and before you could ask who, he stepped in behind her. he filled the doorway in a way that made your breath stutter. glasses, pressed shirt, notebook tucked under his arm. but it wasn’t the look of him that made your pulse race, it was the steadiness in his eyes, the way he was clearly here for you. "hey," he said, "do you have a minute?" you froze, pen still in hand, "i'm a bit busy," his gaze didn’t waver, "that's okay. i'll wait,"

your assistant glanced between you, wide eyed, then ducked out and shut the door, leaving the two of you in silence. clark stepped further inside, setting the notebook down on the edge of your desk. "you can't keep ignoring me," your throat tightened, "i'm not-" "you are," his voice was gentle but firm, cutting through your defense. "at the fundraiser, you looked right at me and then you looked away. i don’t blame you, but-" he broke off, raking a hand through his hair, "i don't want it to be like this. not with you," you pushed back from your desk, standing because sitting made you feel cornered, "what do you want me to say, clark? that it didn’t hurt? that i was fine when you left? i’m not going to give you that," he flinched, just slightly, "i don't want you to lie to me," your chest burned, "then what? what are you asking for?" his eyes searched yours, raw and unguarded in a way that made your stomach twist. "coffee. a conversation. something real. you don’t have to forgive me. you don’t even have to like me. but don’t pretend we’re strangers," the words hung heavy between you, pulling at everything you’d tried to bury. and against your better judgment, you heard yourself say, "one coffee," his shoulders eased, just barely, "one coffee,"

the place he chose was quiet, tucked off a side street you’d never noticed before. no crowds, no noise, just the low hum of conversation and the smell of burnt espresso. you sat across from him, hands wrapped around your cup though you hadn’t taken more than a sip. your pulse was loud in your ears, louder than the clatter of dishes or the rain tapping against the window. he looked the same and different all at once. familiar in the slope of his shoulders, the way he kept his voice low like he was afraid of taking up too much space. unfamiliar in the edges, the polish of the city, the weight in his eyes. you broke first, "why now, clark?" his brows furrowed, "what do you mean?" "i mean-" you let out a breath, sharp, almost a laugh, "years, years, i don’t hear from you. nothing. and now suddenly you’re at my fundraiser and my office and dragging me here for coffee? what changed?" his jaw worked. for a long moment he didn’t answer, just stared down into his drink like the words were buried there.

finally, he said, "seeing you again. that’s what changed," he met your gaze at last, "and i’m sorry. i should’ve called, written, something. but i thought-" his voice faltered, "i thought leaving clean would be easier. for you. for both of us," "easier?" the word tore out of you, "do you have any idea what it was like? watching you walk away, and then having to pretend i was fine every time your name showed up on the front page?" he closed his eyes, like the words physically hit him, "i didn’t want to hurt you," "but you did," your voice shook, "and then you disappeared, and i had to build a life without you in it. do you know how hard that was?"

his hands curled on the table, knuckles pale. "i thought you’d be better off. i was scared of what this city would demand of me, scared of not being enough, scared of-" his eyes searched the cafe, like he was about to utter a secret, "i was scared of what being 'superman' would demand of me. and i told myself if i cut ties, you’d be safe from all of it," the confession sat heavy between you. you stared at him, at the man who had once been a boy sitting beside you on the tailgate of a truck, telling you his dreams like they were stories. "you should’ve let me decide what i could handle," you said quietly. his gaze softened, pain threaded through it, "you’re right. i should have. but you have no idea what it was like for me, okay? i could go anywhere, save anyone, but i- i couldn't go home,"

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the rain kept falling, steady against the glass. finally, you said, "i don’t know if i can just let it go. it’s not that simple," he leaned forward, voice rough but steady. "i’m not asking you to. i just don’t want to be a stranger to you anymore. even if all we have is coffee once in a while. i can live with that. but not this silence," your chest ached. because despite everything, despite the hurt and the years and the distance, part of you had missed him every single day. you looked at him, really looked, and saw not just the man who left, but the boy who’d once believed in you as much as you believed in him. slowly, you nodded, "one coffee at a time," and for the first time in years, his smile reached his eyes.

smallville, six years ago, age 17 ⤸

you and clark had a tradition. every saturday, he'd pick you up, and the two of you would spend the day at the talon, sipping through endless mugs of coffee and hot cocoa. you'd bring books and flash cards, though you'd often forget to study, instead falling into easy conversation and sneaky kisses. you'd looked at him, the light soft around his face, a strange ache in your chest, like you missed him before he was even gone. "i hope we're still here in ten years," you said, voice uncharacteristically soft, "i hope i look over and you're still sitting across from me," "me too," he said, squeezing your hand gently, "i think we'll stay like this always,"

metropolis, current ⤸

it was supposed to be a routine call. your charity partnered with local shelters, and when there was an emergency, families displaced, people suddenly in need, you were often one of the first on the scene to help coordinate resources. tonight, it was a fire. an apartment complex had gone up in the lower east side, and you’d been on the phone half the ride over, arranging food and temporary housing. the smoke hit you before you even rounded the corner. flames licked the brickwork, glass shattered from upper windows. sirens wailed, red and blue lights staining the street. you’d barely stepped out of the car when the air shifted, fast, hard, the unmistakable rush of him. superman. you knew before you looked, the same way you always did. there he was, hovering against the backdrop of firelight, a child clutched tight against his chest. he landed in a clean arc, setting the boy down into a paramedic’s arms, his cape whipping around in the heat. it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this. but it was the first time you’d been here, close enough that the ash clung to your clothes, close enough that the ground still shook from the collapse he’d prevented.

and god, it was jarring. of course you knew. you’d known for years, before he’d ever left smallville. but seeing him here, in front of you, as both the man who once kissed you breathless in a cornfield and the man who carried strangers out of burning buildings, it made your heart clench in a way you hadn’t braced for. he straightened, scanning the chaos, and then his eyes caught yours. just a flicker, but enough. you saw the recognition spark, the pause, the almost imperceptible step in your direction before someone screamed from above and he launched skyward again, vanishing into smoke. you stood frozen among the crowd, clipboard slipping in your hands. you weren’t supposed to be here, not in his orbit, not colliding like this when you’d worked so hard to build a life separate from him. but you kept letting yourself fall anyway.

you stayed at the fire long after the flames were mostly under control. coordinating, directing, distracting yourself with the work. you clung to logistics like a life raft, clipboards, phone calls, lists of names, anything that kept you from replaying the moment his eyes had met yours. when the last families were settled into transport and the street was nothing but ash and siren lights, you finally returned to your office. you thought you’d have the quiet. instead, when you unlocked the door and stepped inside, he was already there. not the cape, not the symbol. just him, shoulders hunched, hair still ashy. his tie was crooked, his collar unbuttoned, and underneath the open gap you caught the faintest glint of blue and red. your breath caught.

"you shouldn’t be here," you said, sharper than you meant to. his eyes lifted, searching yours. steady, even as exhaustion etched deep lines into his face, "you were at the fire," "i was working," you shot back, "that’s what i do, clark. i don’t fly in and out. i stay," the words landed heavier than you’d expected. you turned away, setting your bag down on the desk, forcing your hands to stay busy. behind you, you heard the faint exhale of breath. "you weren’t supposed to see me tonight," you let out a short, humorless laugh, "yeah, well. we're both playing hero, i guess," the silence that followed was unbearable. finally, you turned. his jacket was half off, one hand gripping the fabric like he wasn’t sure whether to shed the disguise completely or cling to it. his other hand hung at his side, clenched tight, as if he could physically hold himself back.

"you can’t keep showing up like this," you whispered, "it’s not fair," his jaw tightened, but his eyes softened. "you’re right. it’s not fair. but i can’t-" he cut himself off, swallowed, tried again, "i can’t ignore you anymore. now that i know how it feels to have you in my life again, in this version of my life, i can't go without it," you felt the tremor in your own chest then, the sting of tears you refused to let fall. "then don’t," you said, quieter, "but don’t make promises you’re just going to break again," he stepped forward, and for the first time in years, he looked utterly human. no cape, no shield. just clark, smoke still clinging to him, heart in his throat, standing in your office like he’d finally run out of ways to keep the distance. he took one slow, cautious step closer, and his lips met yours for the first time in four years.

smallville, five years ago, age 18 ⤸

“i just don’t understand how you did that, clark!” you ran a hand through your hair, pacing the loft. hours prior, the two of you had been walking through town, laughing at some silly joke clark had made. you heard tires squeal as you rounded the corner, and before you could even jump out of the way, there was a screeching, metallic crunch. you blinked, brows knit, heart racing, and there was clark. the car was smoking slightly from the engine, and his hand was lodged into the grill, the metal bent and deformed around his skin. he'd pulled you away, quick and nervous, antsy all the way to the barn. "i know you don't," he swallowed, throat bobbing, his voice wavering, "i wish i could make you understand," "then tell me," you pleaded, leaning against the railing, "no more lies. no more hiding," "baby, you have no idea how much i want to do that," his voice cracked with a high pitched desperation. you met his eyes, tried to ignore the turmoil there, "clark, i'm sorry. you have to be honest with me now, or- or i think we need some time apart,"

"no," he took in a breath, eyes closing, "i'll tell you everything, okay? i just need you to promise me you won't look at me differently. that you won't be scared," "i'd never be scared of you," so there, in the loft, with watery eyes and shaky hands, clark kent told you the truth. the whole truth, not just the watered down, 'oh, i'm just a little strong' speech. he told you about the ship, about his abilities, about the meteor shower, about the strength and speed and heat vision, the flying. "it was so hard not to tell you," he said, voice thick, "you have no idea how hard it was to lie to you. i'm so sorry, i just- my parents didn't want me to tell anyone. they thought it was dangerous, or that it would be too heavy for you to carry. i didn't want to do that to you," you sat, speechless, for a moment, blinking back surprise. then, finally, "you've been saving people this entire time?" "what?" his eyes met yours, brows furrowed, "i mean, yeah, i have," "you're a hero, clark," you whispered, crossing the room, resting your hands on his shoulders ,"you're incredible,"

"you're not afraid? you don't think i'm, i don't know, an alien?" "an alien?" you scoffed, "no. i think you're amazing. you're a superhero," "i'm not a hero," he shook his head, but smiled anyway, "i'm just a man," "mm. a super man, then," "yeah? i like the sound of that. superman," you laughed, throwing your arms around his neck, "i love you, clark. nothing would ever change that. actually, this makes me love you even more, knowing you were saving people and suffering in silence," "i love you," he hummed, leaning in enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, "i couldn't do it without you," he leaned in the rest of the way, pressing his lips to yours, warm and familiar. he wrapped his arms around your waist, picking you up just to bring you closer, kissing you deeply. you giggled against his lips as he spun you around, so fast you almost got dizzy, the warm air of the loft ruffling your shirt. "my hero," you grinned, holding tight to him.

metropolis, current ⤸

he kissed you like he was trying to make up for lost time, walking you backwards until your thighs hit the desk, the wood cool against your skin when your skirt rode up. "missed you," he mumbled between kisses, clumsily pushing up your skirt as he shrugged off his dress shirt, leaving him straining against the red and blue suit top. you exhaled a laugh as he leaned you back, a cup of pens poking against your spine. "sorry," he murmured sheepishly, shifting to arrange the desk. you take the time to press your lips to his neck, grazing your teeth against his pulse. "screw it," he ran his arm along the desk, pushing everything off to the floor, "i'll fix it later," he laid you back, fumbling with the buttons of your blouse for a moment before huffing and tearing it open, the buttons shooting off as the fabric popped open.

he placed open mouthed kisses along the planes of your chest, his lips ghosting over the lace of your bra, his hands slipping beneath your skirt to smooth over your thighs. slowly, he trailed lower, unzipping your skirt and pulling it down with him, running his hands down your calves, kissing the inside of your thigh as he slipped off your heels. "you're so beautiful," he hummed, pulling the suit over his head, his abs flexing as he stretched, the scars of the kryptonian mark still staining his skin. you pushed yourself up, unbuckling his pants, leaving smudged lipstick marks on his toned stomach as you pushed them down. "oh, baby," he exhaled shakily, watching in a daze as you palmed the bulge in his boxers. you slipped a hand beneath the fabric, taking him in your hand, relishing in the breath he sucked in.

"don't tease," he murmured, catching your jaw in his hand to tilt you up, leaning down to kiss you in a mess of teeth and tongues, the last remnants of your lipstick smearing around his mouth. he stepped out of his boxers as he pushed you back down onto the desk, unclasping your bra with one hand and hooking the other through your underwear, sliding them down. there was a flurry of movement, his hands on your thighs, and then he pushed inside you, his lips still on yours. you gasped into the kiss, back arched, nails anchoring into his shoulders. "oh my god," he groaned, stretching you, the stinging ache familiar and indescribable. “oh, clark,” you mewled, wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he thrusted into you. “missed you so much,” he panted, forehead resting on yours, “god, never felt anything like you, baby. needed it, needed you,” “missed you,” you pulled him down closer, burying your face in his neck, your chest pressed firm against his.

you were lost in pleasure, dizzy, consumed by it. you didn’t even notice as the wood of the desk splintered, but you were pulled from the moment as it gave way beneath you, the strength of clark’s thrusts and his grip on the wood nearly breaking it in half. “oh my god!” you gasped, clinging to him to stop from hitting the ground. “i got you, baby,” he soothed, his arms holding you above the floor, your legs still wrapped around him. he shifted, clearing the pieces of the desk, nestling you onto the carpeted floor gently before fucking back into you like nothing had ever interrupted. “feels so fucking good,” he cursed, voice raspy, “oh god, baby,” “m close,” you managed between moans, clenching around him, “god, fuckin me so good,” “yeah? come on, honey. i’ve got you,” your eyes rolled back as you came, thighs spasming, back arching. “so tight,” he panted, thrusting deeper, chasing his own high, “oh- oh, fuck,” he came with a strangled gasp, deep inside you, his hips bucking and cock twitching. he relaxed against you, catching his breath, pressing tired kisses to your chest and neck.

the first time you saw him in the suit, it wasn’t meant for you. it was late, metropolis already half asleep, the newsroom running only on the hum of printers and the low chatter of night shift staff. you’d doubled back to pick up the notebook you’d left on your desk, cutting through the stairwell, only to see him there on the fire escape, your boyfriend, button down hanging open, glasses gone, the streak of red and blue stark against his chest. you froze, and when he looked up, clark wasn’t clark anymore. not the man who made you coffee at three in the morning, not the one who carried your groceries when you’d hurt your ankle, not the one who kissed you softly when you woke up with tangled hair and puffy eyes. he was something else entirely. he was superman.

the truth of what you'd seen never made it past your lips, but it hung heavy in your chest. you didn’t tell him that night, or the next, or the one after. you went home with him like nothing had changed, let him fold you into the quiet safety of his arms. you let him kiss you, you let him smile at you, but it all carried a different weight now. how could you touch him without wondering what else he was hiding? how could you let him inside you without asking if he was still holding something back, keeping a part of himself tucked away because he thought you couldn’t handle it? on the fourth night, when he slipped through the window instead of using the door, cape brushing the curtains, under the impression that you were still at work, you broke.

"were you ever going to tell me?" your voice was soft, fragile in the dark. clark stopped, boots landing quiet on the floor. he didn’t bother with excuses, didn’t bother pretending anymore. he just looked at you like he already knew the damage was done. "i wanted to," he said, "i should have. i just didn’t want you to look at me differently," and maybe that was the worst part, because you were."too late," you whispered, turning from him, but his hands were there, warm around your wrists, careful even when you tried to pull away. "don’t," he breathed, desperate, "don’t walk away from me. not over this, please,"

"you were lying to me, clark. every day, every second we’ve been together. do you have any idea how that feels?" his jaw tensed, like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. instead he took a step closer, then stopped himself, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. "i wasn’t lying about us," he said finally, voice almost breaking, "everything i feel for you, everything we’ve had, that’s real. it’s the truest thing in my life. i swear it," "but you hid this from me," he dragged a hand over his face, sighed, looked older than you’d ever seen him.

"because once you knew, i couldn’t take it back. i’ve spent my whole life hiding, keeping the two halves separate, and it’s the only way i’ve kept the people i love safe. i thought if you knew, i’d put you in danger. i thought i could spare you," your laugh came out sharp, hollow, "you don’t get to make that choice for me. you don’t get to decide what i can or can’t handle," "i know," he said immediately, "you’re right. and i was wrong. i’ve been wrong for a long time," silence stretched. the city outside your window buzzed faintly, sirens distant.

"do you even trust me?" you asked, quieter this time. his head snapped up, "of course i do. more than anyone. that’s why-" he stopped himself, shook his head, "that’s why i wanted to tell you a hundred times. i just couldn’t, i couldn’t risk seeing you look at me the way you are right now," your throat ached, your chest pulling tight, "like i don’t know you?" his mouth pressed into a thin line, "like i’m a stranger. like i’m not the man you love,"

you turned from him, walked a few steps into the kitchen just to put distance between you. he didn’t follow. you leaned on the counter, the silence thick, your pulse pounding. "you scare me," you said finally, not looking at him, "not because of what you can do, but because i don’t know if i ever really knew who you were," he let out a breath you didn’t know he’d been holding, "then let me show you. not superman. not the cape. just me. i want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you," his voice cracked, honest, too open.

you turned back to him then, saw the way he stood there, cape slipping over his shoulders, hair still mussed from the wind, but eyes wide, begging. you hated that you believed him, hated that even with the weight of everything between you, your body still ached toward his. you crossed the room, pushed him back until his knees hit the couch. he let you guide him, let you climb into his lap, your hands pulling at his suit, frustrated as it clung to him like a second skin.

he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive, desperate, messy, breaking at the edges. "do you hold back with me?" you asked against his throat, teeth grazing skin, voice shaking. his hands gripped your hips, never," he rasped,"i’ve never held back with you. not once," you relaxed slightly in the familiarity of it all. this was clark, your clark, the love of your live, the man you'd been living with for months, soft and warm and yours, beneath you like he had been so many times.

"can't get this stupid thing off," you mumbled, and you nearly melted when he let out a relieved, breathy laugh. "so you're not angry at me anymore?" he asked, lifting you from his lap, placing you gently on the couch cushions. "i'm working on it," you said softly, "i'm not angry, i'm just hurt. scared, too, i guess," "you don't have to be scared of me," he murmured, removing his suit with practiced ease, making you question why you'd even struggled, "i'd never do a single thing to hurt you,"

he settled back onto the couch, pulling you onto his lap again, his hands warm against your waist. "let me make it up to you," he murmured, trailing his fingers down your thighs, "can i do that, baby?" "please," you melted into his hands, keening as he slipped his fingers beneath your underwear, sliding against your clit. "oh," your eyes fluttered your close, your head falling to his chest as he circled your bundle of nerves, your thighs tremoring. "i'll always take care of you," he murmured, slowly pushing two fingers inside you, his thumb resting on your clit, bumping it as he rocked his fingers in and out at a languid pace, "always, baby. in every sense of the word," "clark," you gasped as he curled his fingers just right, squeezing around his digits, "oh, that feels so good,"

"yeah? is my girl gonna come for me?" he hummed, his free hand nudging your chin, "can i have a kiss?" you nodded, nerves pulled tight, pressing your lips to his as he quickened his fingers. you let out a sharp moan, muffled by his mouth as you came undone, rocking against his hand, thighs tight around either side of his lap. "there you go," he praised, pulling back, lips slick, "that good, angel? you feel better?" "s'good," you caught your breath, cheeks ruddy, as he withdrew from your core, bringing his fingers to his lips, licking the mess you made away. you reached between you, hand brushing his cock, but he shook his head, taking your hand gently. "it was all about you, baby. we have plenty of time for that later," you started to protest, but he stood, hands rested on the backs of your thighs as he carried you to the bedroom, gently depositing you onto the bed.

the first time the cameras caught art looking at you, you both played dumb. he was sitting in the players’ box at your quarterfinal, pretending he was there scouting or supporting a friend, when really, his eyes had never left you. the clip went viral, art donaldson, leaning forward, lips parting when you hit a backhand winner down the line, his grin impossibly wide. commentators teased, social media ran with it, and by the next day, you couldn’t scroll through anything without seeing your names linked together. in interviews, he brushed it off. "she’s incredible, isn’t she?" he’d said with that lazy smile of his, as if the words weren’t going to make your heart skip when you watched the clip later.

you, of course, had been asked too. you played your part, cheeks warm under the press lights. "art’s one of the best we have," you said, the corner of your mouth twitching at the private joke. best, yes, though not in the way they thought. because no one knew the truth. no one knew about the hotel hallways you crept through after matches, hoodie pulled up, keycard clutched in hand. no one knew how his arm always found its way around your waist the second the door shut, how he buried his face in your neck like he’d been holding his breath all day just to make it here.

"long day?" you’d murmur, letting him press you back against the wall, his weight settling against yours. "long life," he’d answer, grinning into your skin before kissing you, slow, unhurried, like there wasn’t a world outside that door at all. the media speculated, romanticized, painted you both in golden light. two up and coming tennis stars, always congratulating each other, always smiling a little too bright in press conferences. and you let them, because it was easier that way, safer. still, sometimes you wanted to tell them the trut, not the scandalous truth they’d be hungry for, not the gossip column kind. the real truth.

the truth was in the way art’s hand found yours under the table at a sponsors’ dinner, thumb tracing your knuckles. in the way he always knew when to text after a tough match, words stupid and soft. i still like you better than winning. you teased him for being corny, and he just smiled at his phone, unbothered. "you know you love it," he said once, sprawled across your bed, hair damp from the shower, chest bare. he looked so content, scrolling idly while you brushed your hair. "you’re insufferable," you muttered, though your lips curved. he rolled onto his side to watch you, all sleepy fondness, "mhm. i love you too,"

the words always came easy to him. he didn’t ration them, didn’t guard himself the way you sometimes did. art loved like he played, without hesitation, all in, every single time. it scared you, how much of himself he gave. but it also made you ache, because you knew no one else in the world got to see him like this. on court, he was fierce, focused, charismatic. off court, when the cameras were gone, he was sappy and soft, kissing the inside of your wrist just because, saying things like i don’t need trophies, i just need this. and god help you, you always believed him.

there was a scare once in monte carlo. you’d just slipped out of his hotel, hair still damp, lips still swollen from the way he’d kissed you against the door moments earlier. you thought you were in the clear, hood pulled up, sunglasses on, until the flash went off. paparazzi, not many, just two, but enough to send your pulse racing. "were you in art donaldson’s room?" one shouted, lens pointed up at the balcony of the room you’d just left, "were you visiting him?" your throat went dry. you mumbled something about being late for practice, ducked your head, and hurried past. your phone buzzed a second later. come back inside, please.

you didn’t, you couldn’t risk it. instead, you disappeared into the car waiting for you, heart hammering. by the time you got to your own hotel, the gossip blogs already had headlines queued: mystery woman leaving donaldson’s suite. speculation grows. you called him that night, panic rising, "what if they know?" art’s voice was steady, calmer than yours, "they don’t. they’ll think it’s nothing. and even if they did," he paused, and you could hear the smile in his tone, "even if they did, i’d still want you here tomorrow night," you should’ve been frustrated at his ease, but god, you loved him for it.

"they’ll figure it out one day," you whispered weeks later, his mouth hot at your throat, his body pressing you into the mattress. your fingers twisted in the sheets, trying to ground yourself while he kissed his way down your collarbone. art hummed, lips still on your skin, "let them," "art-" he lifted his head, hair mussed, lips swollen, his eyes were shining in that way that made your chest ache. "they’ll only see what i want them to. right now, though, all i want is you," the words unraveled you more than his touch ever could.

his hands slid under your shirt, slow, reverent, tracing every inch of you like he was memorizing a map. his kisses deepened, desperate but still sweet, still soft, still him. when he finally stripped you bare, he didn’t rush. he never did. he took his time, eyes roaming your body like it was sacred. his hands trembled when they touched your waist, your thighs, his mouth trailing worship down your skin. "so fucking beautiful," he whispered against your stomach, voice breaking like he meant it too much. he looked up at you, chin on your hipbone, eyes soft and earnest, "i'm serious. you're it for me, baby,"

and then he proved it with his mouth, with his fingers, with every gasp he pulled from you until you were shaking, his name breaking in your throat. when he finally pushed into you, when his forehead pressed to yours and his breath stuttered out in your ear, it wasn’t just sex. it never was. "look at me," he whispered, voice low and trembling. you did, and it nearly undid you, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto. his thrusts were slow, deliberate, like he wanted to drag every second out. his hands cradled your face, his lips catching yours between moans. "god, i love you," he groaned, voice breaking, hips bucking, "love you, love you-"

you remember art donaldson in flashes. not as a man, not as the polished figure on the mark rebellato website, but as a boy, stitched together from crooked teeth and bruised knees. the way he used to whistle through the gap in his front teeth before he lost it. the smell of sunscreen and lake water that clung to him every summer. the sound of his laughter, bright and reckless, like it didn’t know how to be quiet. he was your best friend before he was anyone else, before the rackets and the trophies, before the academy, before the name donaldson meant anything beyond the house three doors down. and then he left. you were ten the last time you saw him. he was twelve, awkward and grinning on the curb while his father loaded the car. he’d promised to write, and he had, for a little while, but the letters slowed, then stopped. eventually the memory of him felt like something half dreamed, edges fraying until you couldn’t be sure you’d recognize him if you saw him again.

stanford university, present ↵

which is why, when you do, you don’t. the first time is on the quad. you’re weaving through clusters of students when you hear laughter, loud, careless. you glance over, eyes landing on a tall boy, broad shouldered, walking with a group of athletes. something about his grin sticks in your chest, but then someone bumps into you, and he disappears into the crowd. the second time is in the library stairwell. you’re heading up as he’s heading down. he nods politely, the way strangers do, and you nod back. for some reason your pulse stutters.

the third time is in the dining hall, your trays nearly colliding as you both round the same corner. you mutter "sorry," and he gives you a quick smile before moving past. it tilts crooked, like it’s bigger on one side than the other. it bothers you for the rest of the night. by then, you’ve started looking for him without meaning to. and the fourth time, you finally collide. you’re rushing out of a lecture hall as the lights are shutting off, arms full of books. he’s coming in at the same time, head down, and the two of you crash hard enough that your things scatter across the floor. "shit- sorry," he mutters, crouching down to help. his hand brushes yours as he grabs your notebook. you look up at him, breath catching. the freckle under his right eye catches the light. "wait," he says slowly, eyes narrowing, "do i know you?" your mouth goes dry, "art?" he blinks, stunned. then that grin splits wide, sharp and toothy, so familiar it hurts. "holy shit," he breathes, "it's you,"

after the lecture hall collision, it’s like gravity pulls you together. he finds you again the next day, slipping into step beside you like no time has passed. "i can’t believe it," he says, almost to himself, "all those times i saw you and didn’t realize," "me neither," you smile faintly, "i thought i was going crazy. you just looked so familiar," he huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "guess we both changed a little," a little. he’s taller, sharper, hair golden. you’re not the child he left behind either. but somewhere under all that, there’s still the freckle under his eye, the tilt of his grin, the boy who used to dare you into everything.

wilmington, twelve years ago ↵

you’re seven, and art is daring you to jump off the dock at the lake. the sun is sinking, your mothers are shouting about dinner, but art is already shirtless, standing at the edge with his arms spread like wings. "come on," he calls, voice cracking with excitement, "don’t be scared," you tell him you’re not scared, even though you're shaking. "then jump with me," he says, sticking his hand out. you do. because he asked, because it was art. the water is cold, your lungs seize, but when you come up sputtering he’s right there, laughing, hand finding yours under the surface. "you were so brave," he grins, "probably even braver than i am," "am not," you swatted him with water, giggling, "you're just sayin that," your mom's voice rang through the breeze again, and the two of you burst into a fit of laughs, giddy the whole way home.

stanford university, present ↵

days later, he’s sprawled in a chair, long legs kicking out, humming under his breath as he skims notes for econ. the sound tugs at something deep in your ribs. "you still do that," you say softly. "do what?" "hum when you’re reading," he freezes, then laughs, looking down, "didn’t know i still did. didn't know you'd remember," "you always did," you don't mention that you remember everything. the silence that follows is warm, heavy, thick with everything you’re not saying.

"i should’ve kept writing," he says one night, the two of you walking back from the dining hall, shoulders brushing. his voice is low, hesitant. you glance up at him, curious. "i wanted to," he adds quickly, "but the academy, the matches, the coaches- it was like my whole life got swallowed. and then it got harder, the longer i didn’t," you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, "i thought you forgot me," he stops walking. turns to face you. "i never forgot you," he says, and his voice is so steady it makes your throat ache.

wilmington, ten years ago ↵

the last time you saw him, you stood on the curb in your flip flops, watching his father slam the trunk shut. art leaned against the car, trying to look older than he was, eyes darting like he didn’t want to cry. "i’ll write," he’d said, like it could fix everything, like you were adults, "i promise," you nodded, biting your lip until it hurt. he hesitated, then pulled you into a hug so fast you barely registered it before he was gone, climbing into the backseat, the car pulling away. you’d stood there until it turned the corner.

stanford university, present ↵

you’re in his dorm room when it almost happens. he’s sprawled next to you on the bed, laptop balanced on his knees, some movie playing that neither of you is watching. your thighs are pressed together, your shoulders leaning. he turns his head suddenly, catching your gaze. the air shifts, thick with tension. "can i-" he starts, then stops, shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, "not yet," your heart stutters, "not yet?" he smiles faintly, soft and crooked, like he’s afraid to scare you off, "no. but soon,"

the night it finally happens is almost nothing. no party, no excuse, just the two of you in his dorm again, pretending to study, the movie on his laptop flickering on, ignored. he’s stretched out beside you, his arm brushing yours, his thigh warm against your leg. you don’t remember when it stopped feeling accidental. he laughs at something you say, really laughs, head thrown back, and you’re watching his mouth when the air tilts. he sees it. his smile fades, his chest rising slow. "come here," he murmurs.

you lean in before you can think. the kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. but then you tilt closer, fingers sliding into his shirt, and he exhales a sound you feel in your bones. the next kiss is hungry, years of silence and ache poured into the press of his mouth. "fuck," he whispers against your lips, forehead resting on yours, "been waiting-" he kisses you again, desperate, "so long,"

wilmington, eleven years ago ↵

you’re nine, hiding under the porch roof with him while rain lashes down, thunder shaking the ground. "scared?" he teases, even though you can see him flinch with every rumble. "no," you lie, smiling proudly. he grins, grabbing your hand, sticky with popsicle juice, "me neither," you sit like that until the storm passes, his palm sweaty against yours. you'd always forgotten to be scared when he was there.

stanford university, present ↵

his hands are on your waist now, tugging you closer until you’re straddling him on the bed. the movie is still playing somewhere behind you, but the world has narrowed to heat, breath, skin. his lips trail down your jaw, your throat. "you're my best friend," he murmurs, like a vow. your body arches into his without meaning to, and his groan vibrates against your chest. clothes come off in pieces, messy and impatient, both of you laughing into each other’s mouths when an elbow catches or a shirt sticks. then his hands are on your bare skin and you’re not laughing anymore.

he touches you like he’s memorizing, palms smoothing over your ribs, thumbs tracing your hips. "fuck, you’re beautiful," he says, and it’s so raw, so certain, you have to bite your lip. you tug his shirt off, run your hands over his shoulders, down his back, and he shudders under your touch. when he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow, careful, like he’s terrified to hurt you. his forehead presses to yours, his breath shaky. "tell me if-" "i’m fine," you gasp, clutching at him, "art, i'm- please,"

he groans, kissing you hard, moving in slow, steady thrusts that build until you’re both trembling. it’s clumsy at first, laughter breaking between moans, but then it evens out, need sharpening every kiss, every touch. he holds your face in his hands when you come, murmuring your name like a prayer. his own release follows, rough and breathless, his body collapsing into yours. you wake in the middle of the night, tangled together, his chest warm at your back, his arm heavy around your waist. for a moment, you think of all the years without him, the birthdays he missed, the letters that never came. then he stirs, lips brushing your shoulder. "still with me?" he mumbles, half asleep. your throat tightens. you turn in his arms, press your mouth to his, whisper, "always,"

the first morning after, you expect it to feel fragile. like glass, like something that could splinter if you touched it too hard. instead, it feels simple, natural. you wake in art’s dorm room to the sound of his roommate fumbling around with headphones, shooting you both a knowing grin before leaving. you’re mortified, but art just laughs, tugging you back down into the sheets. "he’ll live," he says, voice still heavy with sleep, "don't care,"

the days stretch on, easier than you thought they’d be. coffee runs before class, long evenings in the library where his hand finds yours under the table, dinners that linger long after the plates are cleared, just because you don’t want to leave. but every sweetness is sharpened by the years you lost. sometimes it hits you in the quiet moments. when his head is tipped back in laughter and you catch yourself thinking, where was i when you learned to laugh like that? when he rolls his shoulder after practice and you wonder, how many times did it ache before i could be there to rub it? and he feels it too. you can see it in the way he watches you, like he’s making up for every moment you weren’t there.

wilmington, eleven years ago ↵

the two of you are sitting at the dock, feet dangling off into the water, legs barely long enough to reach. "what do you wanna be when you grow up?" you ask, head leaning on his shoulder sleepily. "happy," he says simply, shrugging. "that's boring," you tease, leg bumping his. "it's not," he bumps your cheek with his shoulder, "you'll see," "whatever you say," you yawn, rubbing your eyes, "i'm gonna take a nap out here," "you're so lazy," he pokes you in the side, grinning, "i'll wake you up for supper," "mkay," you're too tired to even swat away his tickling, instead curling up on the damp wood of the dock, yawning and stretching. "to the moon," he murmurs, shrugging off the jacket his mom forced him to wear, covering you with it. "to saturn," you hum, half asleep.

stanford university, present ↵

one night in october, you’re in the stands at his match, his first collegiate one. you hadn’t planned to go, not wanting to blur the lines of what’s his and what’s yours, but he’d asked. "just come," he’d said, hand on the back of your neck, eyes soft, "want you there," so you’re there, naturally. he wins, of course. he always does. but when the crowd surges to clap and cheer, his eyes search until they find yours. and he grins, that same crooked grin that once lit up your summers, the one you thought you’d never see again.

he doesn’t care about the cameras, the other players, the fans. he jogs straight over, sweat still damp on his brow, and cups your face in both hands to kiss you, right there in front of everyone. "mine," he murmurs against your mouth, breathless. and you realize you’ve been waiting just as long as he has.