#insecurities

You thanked god for Superman and the supposed ‘Justice Gang’ despite the continuous attempts of the girl with the wings to contradict the guy with the less-than-desirable blonde bowl-shaped haircut, for always coming to the rescue of those less capable of protecting themselves.

You’re a simple girl who likes to bake and cook, try different recipes and write about them. People eat your food and compliment you on it for its exquisite taste, but nothing paled in comparison to how taken Clark Kent seemed to have become to you and your dishes ever since you began working at the Daily Planet short of three years ago, just a month before him.

You thought nothing much of it, just a man enjoying his food, and from his build, you were reassured it could only be that he had a fondness that led to his growing size, but Cat and Lois thought otherwise.

“He shoves food up his mouth like it's going to grow legs and try to escape” Lois shook her head as you three watched Clark stuff another blueberry lemon muffin, the third in less than ten minutes, you’d brought to the office. A new recipe you’d been hoping to perfect in time to add it to the next weekly issue of the newspaper, you watched as Clark typed what could only be another interview with the man of steel himself, whom Clark had an affinity for, always searching out and hunting for the front page deal of the week.

“No wonder he’s so broad. His mother must have bulked him up,” said Cat in mild amusement as her eyes set about wandering Clark’s frame, which strains under his jacket and shirt, the fabric stretching impossibly wide against the muscles he must be hiding under those clothes. “John from the gym says he does this thing where he eats various snacks during the day and just downs a steak for dinner. Only the stake, nothing served with it. You don't think that's what he's doing, is he?”

“John eats healthy snacks such as veggies and fruits, not muffins. It’s a protein diet. I don’t think that’s what Clark is doing…” you murmur as you watch Clark chase after the bite of muffin that leads to a chunk falling off the paper liner. You three are taking time out of the busy day to watch him try to pick up every bit of that crumb.

This was more entertaining anyway.

“He's such a messy eater. An endless pit, really” Lois rolls in her chair as to turn back to her desk “And you know what's the craziest thing?” Cat raises her eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “What?” she asked, leaning in slightly, wanting to know this great secret. Lois leans back in her chair, a knowing look on her face as she smiles at you. “He used to never eat this much. He always went to the cafeteria for the usual turkey sandwich they make for the employees, but ever since you started bringing in your creations, he’s never gone there during lunch breaks. Now he stuffs two or three servings of what you bring and saves them for his breaks, one for each meal, almost.” “Is that supposed to mean something?” You ask, confused, or rather trying to act so because whatever implication Lois was making caused panic to brew in you, like barely simmering water. “Oh, come on,” Lois smirked. “You're usually so observant in the kitchen. You can't tell me you haven't noticed how he practically gawks at you every time you bring in something new?” “He's smitten, darling, and we're not sure it's just the food he makes googly eyes at” Cat chimed with a wink, while Lois nods in agreement. “It’s so painfully obvious, it hurts. He cannot even be subtle with how clumsy he is. He stares at you as if you’ve hung the stars in the sky when you give him a dessert or two. Not to mention the number of times he's accidentally spilt coffee on himself, all because he was too busy ogling you to notice he wasn't tilting his cup properly.” “You’re out of your minds” you grumble as you turn back to your desk, where perched upon it lay your computer, the blank page and cursor blinking at you where they’d lain forgotten. “Perhaps we are” said Lois, “or perhaps we just have eyes” insisted Cat.

You shook your head as you set about writing your piece on those damn blueberry lemon muffins before you were taken off duty by Perry for anything else if you did not turn this in on time, just so unaware as a certain someone turned his head, just by the juncure of his neck and shoulder, to sneak glances at you, ears red and burning.

You would lie in saying that Cat and Lois had not gotten to you.

Later that night, back in your small, rather cramped apartment, which you liked just fine, you moved around the place almost on autopilot as you went about completing your chores before you got dinner started, lost to your thoughts.

The idea, the possibility, that Clark might have any other sort of interest in you that was not warranted by your food was honestly nerve-wracking. You liked being by yourself, never being much on the receiving end of a man’s attention, or anyone’s, for that matter. You were not flashy or much noticeable in the world, which you preferred. Going unnoticed was your thing, and you liked for it to remain like that.

You were not that interesting anyway…

The fact that you’d never been romantically involved with anyone at your age spoke for itself.

Perhaps you just were not cut out for relationships. Your independence and enjoyment of loneliness would only get in the way of a relationship, especially if it were with Clark, a ball of sunshine in comparison to your dreary outlook on life.

He was the sun, you were neither the moon nor the stars, but rather the dark sky, overlooked, overcast by the bigger, shinier occupants you shared the space with.

You had too much to do for a relationship anyway.

Ever since you reached your twenties, you’d thrown yourself into your work, rarely finding the time or interest to explore the dating world. You always thought it was just your preference to be single, but maybe part of you also felt that no one would be interested in someone as plain and unremarkable as yourself.

For crying out loud, Cat thought you were older than your years when she first met you, because she remarked that you dressed like someone wanting to look like a ‘granny’. She emphasises later on that it wasn’t meant to be an insult of any sort, just that you looked like a better fit for a corporal office job than a journalist one, but that you were the ‘cute granny’ of the Daily Planet.

The sting of the implication had not dulled the blow, but you knew she meant no harm in her words. It was during the days you were still getting to know each other, and when neither was too comfortable speaking without knowing exactly the limits and bounds of the other. Once you made a lemon sorbet during a particularly hot summer day, sat down with her to eat it, and talked about your comforts and perturbations, she apologised. In turn, you accepted the apology and soon became fast friends, finding common ground in the things you both shared a liking for.

It’s not as if she were wrong, either. Skirts that reached your knees, soft trousers, jumpers and cardigans, blouses, often fuzzy and hand-knit by your mother, no less, thighs and Mary janes, ballerinas, kitten heels if you were feeling brave, were a staple in your daily wardrobe. That is not to say you did not buy relatives fashionable clothes. You had a pair of jeans or two, sports shoes were your favourites when you were in a rush in the morning and had to make a run for it, and during the summer you pulled out from the back of your closet the rather open shirt you did not feel too comofortable in but would rather wear than get a heat stroke.

The thought of anyone uprooting the lifestyle you’d created for yourself always sent you near a panic attack, even a slight change in your daily routine did, because the unexpectable was well…the unexpectable.

The mere thought of the unpredictability of life was enough to make you anxious. You knew you were set in your ways, in routines. Routines were safe; they allowed for a sense of control, a predictability. Relationships, however, were the exact opposite. They were messy, unpredictable, and chaotic. You had witnessed enough romantic comedies to know how they went down. Fights, misunderstandings, communication issues, and the list just went on. The idea of getting yourself tangled up in that kind of headache was simply exhausting.

But despite shoving all thoughts of Clark to the back of your mind as you got yourself in the kitchen, you could not stop thinking of what Lois had said. It was true, and you'd noticed so as well, that Clark had begun to eat more than usual since you brought your casseroles, containers,tupperware, lunchboxes and stuff with you to work. He looked like he'd gained a pound or two, surely getting lost in the mass of muscles and getting no fat out of it, making not much of a difference to his usual appearance. But he had gotten a certain glow to himself, a healthy glow and the thought that you could possibly be the cause of it made you feel…warm, fuzzy inside, the same you had as a child when your mother complimented you on your baking of basic goods, at the beginning of your mastery.

Could it be true? Was Clark really so smitten with you that he would willingly pack on a few extra pounds just to have more of your cooking?

You thought that testing the waters…could not hurt, even as your mind screamed at you not to.

As you packed the leftovers of your vegetarian lasagna into your lunchbox that early morning, you packed another to take with you, adding a salad of cucumbers and tomatoes on the side, as well as some cut-up apple, with some sprinkled salt to keep the slices of the fruit fresh and some homemade cold lemon tea in a thermos that you loaded into your lunch bag to take with you.

When you arrived at work, you were greeted by the usual hustle and bustle of the newsroom, the sound of typing, the murmur of conversations, and the general atmosphere of a place that was always on the go. The lunch bag in your hand felt heavier than it was. The space it took in the employees' only fridge was noted by many.

When lunchtime came around, you turned slowly in your chair, towards Clark’s desk, opposite yours, where he sat, typing away on his computer, engrossed in his world, focused beyond words.

You took a deep breath, mustering up all the courage you could, clearing your throat delicately to get his attention.

“Clark?” you called out gently.

Clark startled to attention, looking up at you as if he had anticipated this moment, a warm smile on his face, his fingers stopping their flurry of typing.

“Yes?” His voice was friendly and inviting, waiting for what was coming, giving you his undivided attention. However, before you could speak, his gaze shifted to the lunch bag in your hand, which you’d taken before returning to your desk, and he lifted an eyebrow in curiosity. “Are you having lunch at your desk today? Not in the cafeteria?” he asked, his head tilting slightly to the side like a puppy.

You twiddled your thumbs, “Yeah” you murmur, “Would you…like to join me? I packed an extra lunchbox from my leftovers last night.” Clark's eyes lit up with genuine surprise and delight. His mouth curled into a wide, genuine smile, and he nodded his head enthusiastically. “I'd love to join you,” he said, “I-I would be honoured!” he said as he crossed the small space between your desks with his chair, coming to sit beside you at yours.

You unpacked the lunchboxes, setting them down between the two of you. The aroma of the vegetarian lasagna and the fresh, crisp salad filled the space, and juicy fruit made Clark's stomach audibly growl. He chuckled awkwardly.

“Sorry,” he said, blushing a bit. “I skipped breakfast this morning.” “You shouldn’t skip what doctors call the most important meal of the day” you smile with a tilt of your head. “You sound like my mother," he said, his cheeks still a rosy hue, embarrassed “She's always nagging at me to take better care of myself.” “She would be right to do so.” He picked up his fork and took a bite of the lasagna, his eyes widening in pleasant surprise. “Oh god,” he said between mouthfuls, one after the other in quick succession.

You furrow your brows in concern.

“Slow down or you'll choke-" too late, he was already coughing. Clark coughed a few times, pounding his chest gently to dislodge the bit that went down the wrong pipe. You sprang to the rescue, your hand coming to do the same at his back.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” he wheezes, slowly coming down from the moment.

You stare at each other in complete astonishment at what just happened before you both burst into a fit of laughter. You and Clark sat there, laughing together at the ridiculousness of the situation, a moment of pure happiness.

“I can't believe you just did that,” you said between laughs, your eyes tearing up. "I warned you, you know!” “Yeah,yeah" he said, rubbing his chest “I guess I got a little too excited.” “A little too much” you tease softly.

As the laughter died down, Clark wiped a tear from his eye, his gaze flicking between you and the now-half-empty lunchbox. “You know, that was some of the best lasagna I've ever had. Not just saying that because I almost choked.” He said, before he had a sort of realisation, “Don’t tell my Ma, I always told her she makes the best lasagna.”

You smiled, biting back another laugh.

“I don’t even know your Ma, Clark” “Right, right,” Clark said, almost pensively, as if he had not thought of it. Well, because, to your lack of knowledge, Clark had fantasies many times about introducing you to his Ma and Pa. In his mind, you and Ma Kent got along really well over your fondness for cooking.

He shook that off, knowing he would be saving it for his dreams tonight.

“Anyway, how come you brought an extra lunchbox today? Not that I'm complaining, obviously.” His eyes twinkled with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Just made too much food and did not want it to go to waste” you murmur.

It seemed that you had found the perfect excuse to run off your extra lunchboxes for the following weeks, and even when it became too old to use, Clark just accepted it as a matter of fact that you were lying out. Every night you sat at your kitchen table, with your notes, notebooks, cooking books and laptop open, for ideas on what to make, wanting to cook and bake something unique just for Clark to enjoy. If the night before you ran out of leftovers, then you would get up at the first rays of the sun, the earliest hours of the morning, just to cook your lunches, well…Clark’s lunches. You also made sure to wrap a cookie or a muffin, brioche or two for the breakfasts he missed too often, especially when he came to the office later than usual.

You waited with bated breath for his reaction to what was unveiled in the lunchbox each day, for his smiles, praise, and the look of total bliss as he ate the food. He was so immersed in being your own private critic, giving you advice, props and ways to twist things around for certain dishes and ingredients, which you often ended up using for the column. It was through that that you got a better look at what he preferred most, what he did not like but ate anyway because he would never let the food you’d put so much care into go uneaten.

Not by him and not on his watch!

You made sure not to make them again anyway, no matter if he ate them or forced himself to and tried to perfect the dishes, he seemed to gulp in big bites.

You once spent an entire evening perfecting Hollandaise sauce for the artichokes you’d made, feeling as though you had not whisked the butter into heaven enough each time. By the time you thought you’d got it right, you’d used two cartons of eggs, four big sticks of butter and the clock ticked two am, your bed calling for you, your kitchen a mess of dirty utensils.

But lunches were not the only thing you put effort into. A few more steps were added to your makeup routine, trying to further enhance your appearance than merely dabbing a few drops of blush on your cheeks, lip balm or lip gloss and mascara, spending a godly amount of money on products you didn’t know the ABCs of. You were too scared to ask Cat if she could lend you a few of her fashion magazines from her collection, in hopes you might find some sort of inspiration from the colourful pages. So instead, you sneaked around like a criminal when out in public, handing two or three magazines to the cashier to ring as if you were smuggling drugs. It was clear you were not fit for a heel higher than a 2.5, or that miniskirts were a little too out of your comfort zone. You’d once cried yourself into a tantrum at one in the morning, when you’d almost ‘ruined’ your hair after a lock got stuck in a roller. You were ready to take the kitchen scissors and cut yourself bald, but then you thought of what Clark would think of that, and you only ended up crying yourself to sleep on the floor of your living room, roll still stuck in your hair.

Every time your appearance changed, in little ways others might not notice, and which you did not expect to, Clark would. “I like what you did with the hair” or “the colour of that shirt really suits you” or even “I think I like the shoes you wore yesterday better”. And because of how unused you were to getting complimented or getting the margin of attention by a boy, it also left you thunderstruck, as if you’d gone through some sort of trauma, and you would go about the office as a dog might when uncomfortable, side-eyeing everyone and everything in your vicinity.

Lunches had become something only you two spent together. It was either he rolled his chair up to your desk or you to his, as you sat side by side eating your blood, sweat and tears as you chatted the time away.

Clark spoke of his love for punk rock, which he took really seriously. You’d even noticed the Mighty Crabjoys poster hanging by the bulletin board beside his bullpen. You spoke of your recipes, mostly because it's what brought you together in the first place. But as the days passed, and the more lunches you had together, he began making advances and wonders on your other interests outside of your work-related hobby.

Clark always seemed to have an endless number of questions about everything and anything. He asked about your hobbies, your childhood and dreams compared to what you’d achieved. His interest in you seemed genuine, which both comforted and alarmed you. It was nice to have someone show interest in you, especially a man as kind and thoughtful as Clark Kent, but it also brought up old insecurities. You were quiet and reserved, and sometimes you worried that you were too boring for someone like him. His curiosity was insatiable and his persistence admirable; his interest in you only growing stronger over the days. His questions and banter had you opening up to him, little by little, like peeling away at the layers of an onion, finding its core. You were reluctant at first, until he cracked you like the soft-boiled egg he was eating when he made the inquiry.

You began with the first topic he seemed most hardent for.

Music.

“I like The Crandberries” you said, voice so low it sounded like a whisper, “and The Sundays.” Clark chuckles, amused at your choice in music. “I never would have guessed you for a fan of Irish indie rock and dream pop. Any contemporary picks?” “The Marias, 10 CC, The Smiths, Cocteau Twins, Billy Joel” you stopped, a beat of realisation “I don’t suppose they’re that much more contemporary than the previous two, except the first.” “Don't worry, it's not like there's a statute of limitation on good music,” he shrugged. “And if you want my opinion? You got some pretty neat stuff going in your ears”

You smiled, your shoulders going lax “Thanks, Clark.” “Anytime,” he said, his voice a soothing sound. “And hey, if you're ever open to expanding your musical horizons, I could give you some recommendations. I've got some pretty obscure picks that you might like.”

Somehow, you'd ended up with a pair of headphones over your ear, too big for your head, attached to his computer, the Ramones' Blitzkrieg Bop playing from them, which you bopped your head to subtly as you ate your serving of stuffed Jalapeños while Clark watched on, eating his own serving of the delicacy you'd made the night before. It was more his style of music, and it wasn't exactly the 'obscure' pick you thought he was talking of, but you found yourself enjoying the song all the same. Perhaps it was because of Clark, or because you were doing so with Clark — you and him, just you and him.

As the song ended, Clark looked over at you, curious to see your reaction. He had a small, playful smile on his face, clearly pleased that you had enjoyed his 'non-obscure' recommendation.

“So, what did you think?” he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of anticipation, waiting for your opinion on the song. “You’re so niche” you said, munching on a bite. “Guilty as charged,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “But I prefer to think of myself as having diverse tastes” “You're an eccentric taste. Nothing further than something that needs to be acquired. You're like….plain rice. You go well with anything, and you're always delicious, and you never get tired of having it as a side with your meals.” He smiles, but furrows his brows as if he took offence to the comparison. “Plain rice? I’ll have you know, I might be a good side dish, but I have some pretty special qualities that make me stand out.” “I promise you, I would have you with every meal I have, even if you would not go well with the rest.” “Careful now," he tutted, voice playful, “You keep talking like that and I might think you're confessing your undying love for me.”

You flushed, a small rosy tint dusting your cheek as you came back to your senses “I would drown you in soup,” “Drown me in soup?” He echoed, inching closer, eyes sparkling with mischief, “That’s a rather…unique way of showing affection, don’t you think?”

You groaned as you showed his face the other way with your hand, pushing at the soft yet hard flesh of his cheek.

It was perhaps because of this newfound, excessive closeness that your lunches extended to other parts of your life in no time. As if he meant to return the favour, for your array of various lunches which by this point you both knew were no longer just your commendable efforts not to let food go to waste, he would show up to work with two coffees in hand instead of one, his own and one he always offered you.

You were reluctant at first.

You'd rather get coffee yourself, knowing that whatever Clark was offering you could only be anything further from the specific way you made your coffee. And yet, you found yourself pleasantly surprised when, upon your first sip, the overly sweet concoction that melted in your tongue was your usual choice at the cafeteria.

“Three spoons of sugar, condensed milk on the sides, a shot of espresso, two cups of milk and whipped cream on top” he repeated the order he'd taken to memory with pride. “H-…how did you-“ you were at a loss for words. Clark shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “I pay attention,” he said, his eyes soft and warm. “I wrote it down the other day when we stopped by the cafeteria.” “You wrote it down?” You asked in total shock, surprise, astonishment….you didn’t know. “Yeah, I did. I wanted to make sure I got it right for you. After all, I know how particular you can be with your coffee.”

There was something about the fact that he'd taken the effort to write down your coffee order and memorise it that made your heart flutter just a little bit. You tried to push the feeling away, telling yourself it was nothing more than just a thoughtful gesture from a friend. But as he continued to surprise you with cups of coffee, each one perfectly made just how you liked it, it was getting harder and harder to deny the warm feeling that bubbled up inside you.

Your heart fluttered wildly as you watched him go about settling at his desk, almost like he had not just almost caused you a heart attack. You’ll die from heart palpitations before the age of thirty, and there’ll be no one to blame but Clark Kent.

What you didn't know was that Clark could hear it all, with his supernatural hearing, a wild grin on his face, from eye to eye.

To the dismay of his great progress, it was also around this time that it truly settled in you how real things between you and Clark were getting. Clark was having the time of his life, and you were about to bash your head into a wall because what in the hell were you doing??

Clark, sweet Clark, blissfully unaware of the internal battle within you, continued to enjoy the subtle intimacy that had developed between you two, completely smitten with you. To him, your lunchboxes felt like a love letter, and your coffee orders were his confessions.

You, on the other hand, came to a soul crashing realisation.

You…liked him. Like….like, like him. Perhaps even…love him.

You were head over heels, Lois and Cat would say so all the time as they teased you about the way you tensed and pulled at your nails when Clark was around, before making the bold move of approaching him.

It was a hard thing to admit, especially when it went against everything you'd set out for yourself. Accepting it was even more difficult. There were no other words that could put into words what you felt for Clark. Liking wasn't a strong enough word because you were ready to admit that what you felt was stronger than merely liking him. You'd already been doing that before all of this. And how could you not?

Clark was fun, witty, sassy when he wanted and overall just a handsome and charming young man who always wanted to do right by you because his momma raised him right. What was there not to love?

He looked at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky, not that you were merely their backdrop, with such love and adoration that you’d mistaken for mere friendly fondness. All those books, movies and series you’d watched had taught you nothing, had they?

As the days went on, things only continued to get crazier.

He continued recommending songs from his tastes you might like, and you’d taken to lending him books from your collection after he’d made an inquiry about one you’d brought to read on your break.

He always returned them on time and in perfect condition. He’d also started leaving annotations of certain things he’d notice while reading the book through those transparent sticky notes he stocked his desk with. You noticed how slowly the words he left behind in your books became more directive, less in harmony with what he was pointing out, more profound in thought, as if he was letting his own thoughts run rampant as he scribbled words meant for your eyes only.

And who could forget about the quotes he never fails to highlight, which speak for themselves.

Clark kept bringing you coffee in the morning, sometimes even your favourite pistachio doughnut on the side, without you even asking for it. You'd started to notice little things about him, like how his shirts fit him just right, the muscles rippling beneath, or how his hair would fall perfectly into place every time he ran his hand through it, a little curly tuff always sticking out from time to time.

And that smile! Oh, that smile was going to be the death of you.

Every gesture, every word, every look seemed to scream something more. But you refused to believe it. You kept telling yourself that you were just reading too much into things. After all, Clark was just a nice guy. He was friendly, kind, and considerate. It was natural for him to do all these things.

There was no way he could have feelings for you.

And those dates? What dates? Your outings were not dates.

Those pasta nights at the all-you-can-eat nights at the restaurant close to the office, which you would go to every Wednesday after work hours, were in no way dates, were they? You were just going out to enjoy each other as…friends…

Somehow, despite your denial of the situation, the idea of doing things like these as mere friends hurts more than your own thoughts. Your Wednesday 'not-dates' had become a weekly tradition without you even realising it. Their first ‘not date’ had happened after you two had turned in from the office late at night. Too exhausted to go home and cook, your fingers throbbing and aching from all the writing, Clark suggested trying out the place that had for the week been advertising this new, weekly event at their restaurant. Every time you sat across from him at that little booth in the back corner of the Italian restaurant, you couldn't help but secretly hope that he was feeling the same way you were. But you told yourself it was ridiculous. You were just friends, nothing more. Right? No one could really love you like that, right? Even if he did, you could not afford to go through something as challenging as a relationship, your life never going back to how it was before it began, even if you fantasise at times that you and Clark, somehow, never had many problems. That you would communicate, be open and honest and upfront about any problem as long as you were together, just because he looked like the kind of man you could do such a thing with.

But who could you fool when every Wednesday you argued incessively in front of the cashier about who was going to pay that night, knowing that Clark would not take no for an answer.

“I’m taking you out, I’m paying. No more arguments,” he'd say, the same phrase every week. You'd playfully swat at him, pretending to be annoyed, but secretly enjoying the banter. After all, it was a tradition now.

Everything you'd been feeling, everything that had developed, happened, occurred, transpired, all culminated in one of those date nights.

You'd had such a good day. Perry, after weeks of having it out with you, seemingly unhappy with the lack of interest in the column it lately had been suffering from, had approved your three new recipes for next week. Fondant potatoes with cream sauce and asparagus on the side, falafel and homemade hummus, the Lebanese way, and sticky chicken bao buns.

Raspberry Bavarian was the dessert of choice for the week.

You’d brought the serving of falafel and hummus you’d made to test the recipe, for lunch, and you and Clark ate it as your palates went to heaven and never came back. Then, seeing the day of the week, as you grabbed your coat, scarf and bag just as the clock on the wall was about to strike eight in the evening, Clark came at your side, already with his things packet and equally dressed for the December weather outside, waiting for you.

You walked under the snowy streets of Metropolis, the holiday season nigh upon the city. The streets were decorated with lights and ornaments that could only scream overconsumption and an outrageous money spent. Lois was sure to inquire about the ethical aspect of this huge sum of money spent by the mayor. But perhaps that’s what you liked about December and the holidays. It was a time that brought people together, the merriment and joy that filled the air, easing some of your disinterest in the world outside your cramped apartment.

The sight of the streets was one for sore eyes, appealing your attention in a way you felt like a child looking up in wonder at the many, blinking lights. You were so enchanted that you did not feel Clark’s eyes resting fondly on you, more fondly than the way you looked at the lights, as if you were the only light his eyes were attracted to.

He watched you with a mixture of amusement and adoration. He loved seeing how the lights in the streets reflected in your eyes, making them sparkle impossibly bright. He also loved how the cold air nipped your nose, turning the tip a delightful shade of pink. But what he loved the most was seeing you so carefree and happy, your guard down.

A Christmas angel, sent on this earth for him.

You both sat in your usual spot at the restaurant. One you'd taken to sitting at so often that every waiter knew it was unofficially reserved for you two. You never admit it was because you liked how worn in and comfortable the seats had gotten because of you two, making the whole spectacle feel just right, like a scene from one of those romcoms you replayed endlessly, wishing to be in the place of the main character for once and not one of those forgotten supporting side character no one knew the name of.

You eat three servings of pasta before you call it quits. Ravioli stuffed with artichokes and pancetta in amatriciana sauce, a fettuccini with creamy grilled zucchini and an extra saucy carbonara.

Of course, you dip your bread in the sauces lying on your plates the way the Italians do, never letting anything go to waste, eating a ‘scarpetta’ or two for each serving of pasta.

Clark is no less enthusiastic about the night than you are, gulping down four plates of his own, which you, despite watching on in complete perplexity the first few times you sat down to eat, had become the norm of these Wednesday nights. His last pasta for the night was the curious-looking creamy green coconut linguine, a sauce made of jalapenos, coconut milk, kale and spinach, which you’d eyed on the menu but had decided to forgo for the night, prioritising your first preferences.

Of course, and he would proudly admit, to having asked for the dish only because you’d taken interest in it, he’d let you steal a forkful or two to taste for yourself.

Every time you tasted something, he'd be keenly watching your reactions, his gaze fixed on your lips, taking in the way your tongue darted out to lick away at any sauce that may have clung to the corners of your lips. It was an innocent gesture, something you did without even thinking, but it made his heart flutter every time. Clark made a mental note to remember to keep ordering the strange-looking linguine whenever you were at the little Italian joint.

He would also watch as you take out your notebook, making various notes, scribbles, and badly drawn drawings of the dishes you ate, noting down certain tastes, after tastes, peculiar textures and ingredients you should try, as well as personal anecdotes of how you could make the dish and twist the recipe to make it your own. You took photos of each plate with your old, pocket, digital camera, and surely the next time you two sat down to eat, they would be printed and glued on the page of your little paper world. You even went as far as asking the waiter if the chef could tell you the way he’d gotten the sauce just right or what kind of flour he’d used for the noodles to be so firm but chewy at the same time.

Your interests were so well received that it was often the dates ended with the chefs sitting by your table as you interviewed them for the column, an excuse really to have them spill their secrets to you. You would get so excited about being given the time of their day, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about food, the way your hands animatedly gesticulated, and the way your lips moved as you eagerly asked questions.

Tonight, it was just the two of you. You liked it that way anyway. And so did Clark. Just the two of you, alone in your own little bubble, enjoying each other's company without any distractions. The world outside didn't matter when you were together like this. It was just the two of you, lost in each other's company, and it was perfect.

Clark paid, as always. Of course, such a thing did not go about happening without you putting up a fight about splitting the bill, which he, jokingly, took great offence at the mere audacity of the suggestion.

His mama ain’t raised no boor in her house.

As always, when you got on the subway to take the coincidence home, Clark was right behind you, following closely, always insisting on seeing you home till the end. It’s not safe out there at night. He always used that excuse, but in truth, you both wished for the night not to end so soon. At first, there’d always been a seat between you two. Clark had not wished to invade your personal space, which he knew you valued a lot, with his overbearing disposition and larger than life frame which he also knew intimidate you a little; but, as time passed, days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, the distance lessened, you found solace in having his big thigh press against yours, your knee bump against his, and your shoulder rubbing with his. You’d look out the window of the wagon, upon the glimmery nightscape of the city, whenever you came up the tunnels, the traincar travelled upon, captivated by the sight before you, so surreal and so real at the same time, as if you could not believe you could witness so with your own eyes, all so you could find a distraction from the way Clark’s eyes rested on your face.

As the train rumbled along, you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at him. He was so relaxed, his arm slung over the backrest of the seat, his hand so close to your own yet, at the same time, so far away. Every time the train lurched forward abruptly, his body would sway closer, bumping into yours, sending a jolt through you. And every time it happened, he would mutter a soft apology, flashing you a sheepish grin.

It was adorable, and you loved it.

And, of course, the night would not end when you both got off at your stop.

No, he would walk you home.

It wasn’t a long walk.

It was part of the reason why you were renting your apartment. So you would not have to rush in the morning to get on the first train and take it slow, which you much preferred, getting to enjoy the morning air on your slow walks. Plus, you get to wear whatever shoes you wish, seeing as you would not make crazy moves in them. Besides, the slippers you kept at the office would come in handy if the necessity arose for a quick switch of shoes.

Always the gentleman, Clark made sure to escort you to the front door of your apartment building, his hand hovering a few inches away from the small of your back, ready to steady you if you slipped on a patch of ice or offer you a hand as you climbed the few steps. But he’d never touch you, never overstepped his bounds, even if his hands ached to, his fingers itching to hold.

But there was just something in the air that night, with the way you two looked at each other. Perhaps all the jolliment for the holidays had turned you suppy, maybe it was the cold seeping your bones that made you tremble with nerves, but as you stood upon the steps of your unit, looking down at Clark, it just felt right when he leaned in to say goodbye, to inch closer and allow his lips to peck yours.

It was an innocent, chaste, barely there brush of the lips. Clark’s lips were soft if not chapped at the sides because of the cold, and yours burned with how much you’d taken your frustration upon them in a single night, but were nonetheless just as supple from the many layers of lip balm you smeared on them…just in case.

Safe to say you’d regretted the action immediately after you two parted.

Your heart raced and your breath caught in your throat, rendering you breathless. You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with surprise and terror, and had what you’d done. It was as if time had stopped for those few seconds.

Clark was equally stunned at what had just happened, his face a mask of disbelief. He hadn't meant to kiss you, and he wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted to do when, despite being a step or two higher than him, you stood on your tippy toes to reach his height; it had just sort of happened. And now, he was terrified that he'd just ruined everything, despite the knowledge you both shared that you were the one who launched for the kiss.

He called out your name as you frantically made a run for your apartment, making to follow after you but bumping his legs into one of the steps, sending him flying forward as the sound of a door blowing shut echoed in his ears, lying there on the cold floor as the snow began its descent on the city once more.

He couldn't believe what had just happened, what he’d done. Well, you’d kissed him! Or…whatever, you’d kissed! …..you’d kissed you, and you'd shut the door in his face.

The sound of it slamming shut still echoed in his ears. “Way to go, Kent” he muttered to himself. “Way to screw things up.”

The following days, you evaded Clark like the plague at work whenever possible, making atrocious attempts at hiding from him when you caught sight of him, asking Lois and Cat to make excuses for your sudden disappearance. You felt so bad for him; he'd done nothing wrong, it was all you, and he was made to pay for it. But you felt even worse for yourself.

You were not deserving of Clark. He was the star boy of the office, the number one story catcher for the front page, and you were…the culinary columnist.

Clark was absolutely miserable. He'd gone from the happiest he'd ever been to absolutely heartbroken. It seemed like you were actively avoiding him at all costs. Whenever he entered a room, you'd suddenly have something to do on the other side of the building. Whenever he walked past your desk, you were conveniently never there. His heart sank each time he caught sight of you, only to watch as you turned tail and ran the other way

The worst part of this charade was that you continued making lunches for him either way. You left them on his desk whenever he wasn’t there, a neatly plated lunchbox waiting for him, but no sight of you. You had him eating them alone.

He missed you terribly, missed the sound of your voice, the sparkle in your eyes when you talked about food, the way your nose scrunched up when you made up your mind.

He missed you.

Which is why he was determined to make things right. He came into the office one morning, the face of resolution on earth, a huge bouquet in his hands, a culmination of your favourites carefully plucked, cut to the same length and bound. Your coffee, just the way you liked, warm and piping, in his other hand.

As he strolled into the office, he kept looking around for you, his eyes scanning the room for any possible sighting. He walked past Cat, who shot him a questioning look, to Lois, who raised an eyebrow at the flowers in his hand.

“Someone's in the doghouse”, Lois smirked, “who's the lucky girl?” He said your name with nonchalance, surprising both girls. Lois and Cat exchanged glances, their eyes widening in surprise. “Wait, you mean…?" Lois trailed off, a smile playing at the corners of her lips as realisation dawned on her. “Oh finally!” Exclaimed Cat, surprising a few passersby, “Go get her, big boy.” “Wish me luck” he shot the two a loopsided grin before going his way.

But when he arrived at your desk, he noticed, to his dismay, that you were not at there. Again.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, “where is she?”

He looked around, hoping to find you in the sea of coworkers and employees of the Daily Planet, among the sea of colours, which in his eyes you never failed to stand out. He found you just as you were about to enter the foil, a stack of papers in your hand, which you were taking with great attention until you noticed him standing there. It was but a moment, both of your eyes meeting and going wide, before you placed the stack of paper on Cat's desk and bolted, him on your trail.

“Please stop” he calls as he follows you up the stairs to the second floor. People scurrying off to make way for you two “Please, let's talk.”

You raced up the stairs, taking them two-by-two, your heart pounding in your chest. You heard Clark calling after you, his voice pleading, but you ignored him. You didn't want to talk, you didn't want to look into those warm puppy eyes.

“The kiss, I swear I meant it!” he exclaimed for all to hear “I….I really do like you like that!”

You could feel the eyes of your co-workers on you, their curiosity piqued by the spectacle the two of you were putting on, but you didn't care.

“I can’t do it, Clark” you exclaimed back “You’re too good for me!” “Don’t say that!” He argues back “You are too nice to me!” “I…I’ll be less nice!!” he said with desperation, not knowing what to come up with to reason with you. “Ugh!!” Your eyes brimmed with unshed tears, looking around for possible means of hiding. You practically run into the door of the women’s bathroom as you enter.

Clark stops, out of breath, sweating, in a disarray, bouquet tossed, and coffee spilt on the sides of the cup. He breaths hard, before making the decision that could change his life. He enters and is immediately ogled by the other women in the restroom, startled and alerted by him. He adjusts himself, trying to make himself more presentable as he smiles awkwardly at them.

“Sorry, ladies” he stuttered “I-I was looking for-“

He’s immediately pointed to the only stall closed.

“Think you can give us some time?”

The women all exchanged glances before nodding. “Take as much as you need,” one of them said with a smirk, “we'll just….stand outside.” He shoots them gracious smiles as they pass him by, some patting him on the shoulder for some needed courage. In a moment, it was only you, him and the silence of the space. He knocks on the door gently, testing the waters.

“Can…can I come in?”

No answer is given to his question.

He sighs, placing his forehead against the wooden door.

“Please” his voice much quieter and pleading “We…I need to talk with you. We need to talk.”

Neither this one is answered. But there is sign of life, though. The quiet sniffle he hears you trying to choke back breaks his heart. He hated it when you cried, and he hated knowing he was the cause of it. Who could have thought that Superman’s biggest obstacle would come down to a wooden stool door?

“Please, let me in. I….I’m sorry if I've caused you pain. I did not mean to when….I was just trying to show you my love for you. Please, I'm begging you, I don’t want to lose you over a little mistake. Let me in and I swear to you, I will do anything,” he begged, desperate “Just….let me explain”

He didn't think that, no matter what words he came up with, rambled on without realising their true meaning would be enough to convince you to either come out or let him in. You were stubborn like that. Once you'd made up your mind, it was hard to sway, which was why he was more than surprised to hear the lock snap open with nothing further, the door going unmoved. He took that as his initiative. There, huddled in the corner, burying yourself on the floor, was you, your eyes red and puffy, tears staining your face, hair a mess. But somehow, Clark only thought you looked even more beautiful, your hair flowing freely, your clothes ruffled from running, and your cheeks stained with tears. He closed the door behind him, taking careful steps to not startle you out of your decision as he came to sit, without taking the little space left, beside you, cramped against each other.

”Hey” he breathes, as if the sound of his voice would kill the moment of quiet. He reached out a hand, wanting so badly to wipe away the streaks from your tears, but stopping halfway, as if remembering the boundaries that had been made. “May I?” he asks, his voice gentle and barely a whisper; his hand hovers by your face, waiting for your answer.

You didn’t say anything in turn, but you also did not move away from the gesture you seem to allow. He takes the invitation, and carefully, he brushes away your tears with the pads of his thumb and index, his touch gentle, afraid that if he is too forceful, you will disappear into thin air like you seem to do these days. He didn’t want that. Even with the tears gone, his hand lingered on your face. He cups your cheek, his thumb stroking the warm, wet skin, tracing the same path that was moistened by your tears.

“I don't like it when you cry” he said, voice hoarse “it takes away from your beauty.” “Spare me,Clark” you echo his tone, voice wavering by the remaining shudders that ran through your body. “I wasn't flattering you, I was merely stating the obvious,” he tries to convince you, because he truly thinks so. You’re the prettiest girl in the office, no matter what anyone else says. You’re his pretty girl. “You are the most beautiful person I've ever met. You take my breath away” his eyes follow your averted ones, avoiding his whole face altogether, the sight too much for your pained heart, as if he were trying to commit your features to memory. He feared this might be the end, he had to make the most of it ”Even when you cry” “It can’t be the truth. I’m not that pretty” you argued, but there’s no fight in your tone, just mere resignation to the truth you were stuck believing.

But that wasn’t a truth Clark shared. He had his own version of it, nothing further from what you believed in, and he could not comprehend in what way you’d come to believe such a thing of yourself. If there was someone to blame, the next time he’ll take to the sky, a mighty superpunch might just land on the perpetrator in question. Even Superman made exceptions to the usage of his superpowers. Besides, correcting wrongs is a crucial part of who he was; the means might justify the end if it meant he got to make you happy. His head cocked slightly to the side, his face too close for your already frantically beating heart to handle.

“You're kidding, right? You're the prettiest girl in the world!” “You don’t even know enough people in the world to make such a statement, Clark”

Oh, if only you knew that he could turn that into a reality.

“And why should I care about the rest of the world when I have you right here?” he countered, a soft smile on his lips. “I only like you, after all.” “Don’t say that” you whisper “You can’t like me, you can’t-“ “Why not?” He cut you off.

The urgency to prove you wrong before you could make a statement, false by all the laws in the universe and those beyond the Milky Way, ruffled his feathers. “Give me a good reason. A good reason, not something that stems from your outrageously untrue view of yourself.”

“Because you're you!” You cry, before realising just how much you'd raised your voice, taking a moment to calm down, compose yourself in the little way you could without looking neurotic enough to be put in an asylum.“You’re Clark Kent… number one runner for the front page, the only interviewer of the great Superman. Everyone likes you, everyone wants to be friends with you, and I…” you gulped down the hard knot that threatened to close your troath of words or air “I'm me. I'm lucky if people even notice i'm not there in the room, and even if I am, I go hours without being talked to. I ran a culinary column that is on the last strands of being shut down, were it not for the newspaper being the best of the city” you shook your head, voice weavering with a new, fresh set of tears “No one probably even reads that crap…"

"You really believe that about yourself?" he asks, his hand falling from your face, his whole body taking in the shock of your words “You really think you're not worth the attention that you truly deserve? What about me? Will you say that my attention to you is unwarranted?”

It hurt him, having to see you think so little of yourself when he thought you were one of the most fantastic parts about earth that made it his forever home, even if he could have the whole galaxy for himself.

“I don't know why you care so much, Clark” you sniffled “You…you could have anyone. You're so charming and likeable….I know a girl or two who would want to go out with you. Hell, I'm even sure Lois has grown something for you.” “You're right, I could have anyone” the words startle you, a stabbin pain blooming in your heart before he continues, not allowing what he was sure had been a running down of all your worst thoughts “and i want to have you. I choose you, it'll always be you, it has always ever been you since the day i met you. I've never had eyes for anyone but you, please believe me.” he confesses “I only….love you.”

There, he said it. Finally, he revealed to you his true feelings for you. His breathing quickened, his eyes never leaving yours, his heart rate quickening, as he waited for your response.

“Please” he pleads softly, his hand coming to rest on top of yours “Say something, anything….say you believe me.” “Why?” You only whisper, eyes wide, startled, alarmed at what was happening, “I don’t…I don’t understand.” His hand tightens around yours, his gaze growing intense, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, one you thought he gave to everyone but truly only reserved for you. “Because….I am hopelessly, desperately in love with you and the thought of not having you… It kills me. You are…so kind and caring. Even if you don't try to show it, because I know you think you're going to get hurt. You care so much you cannot not care, no matter how much you pretend or shy away from wanting to. And it hurts me that you don't realise how valuable you are to each of us. When I first started working here, so many were wary of me, and almost no one approached me. But you, you came up to me, despite how I could see that you were hesitant about doing so. You spoke to me all morning, and then you offered me those beautiful eclairs you’d made for the team and I….I was in love.” He shook his head as if he wished to reiterate his words, “It-It’s not the food that made me madly in love. I don’t want you to think I only like you because of the food you make or because I want to find a way to reciprocate the gesture with an even bigger one. I-I mean, I like the food, but- but it’s not that! It’s the gesture that many would not have thought of even considering, but you did! I knew you were lying the first time you offered me that lunchbox, on not wanting to waste food. I never said anything because I know how you would have gotten had you realised I knew and I-!!”

He didn’t know you had it in you to stop his blabbing and rambling in the way you did, and yet you did. The feel of your lips on his had his eyes go wide, comically so. His hands hang in the air, not knowing where to place them, despite the nerves beneath the skin wishing to plant them on the handles of your hips. No, he could not do such a thing! It was too early, too fast, too risky! What if you got scared and ran off again? He settled for cradling your face, his enormous palms, rough and raw, held you like a precious jewel waiting to break, frail and so precious in the hands capable of such strength as his. The kiss is urgent, messy. Your lips clash in a way that speaks of your inexperience, and yet Clark does not mind. If anything, he relishes the idea of being the one who would teach you how to melt your lips with his in ways you would never with another. You’re pulled apart for your need of air; otherwise, Clark was sure he would have spent hours letting his lips know the shape and taste of yours. He watches as you hold your eyes shut, as if afraid that letting them open would break the dream you probably thought this to be. But there was nothing more in the world that he wished for than for you to realise that this was no dream, that he was sitting there, just as flushed and breathless as you were. He coaxes your eyes open with gentle circles on his thumbs on your cheeks, his touch soft and gentle, and you fight to keep your heart in your cheek at the clear star stuck look on his face.

“You talk too much” you whisper, your lips pursing in a pout of bashfulness, knowing there was no escape from what had just happened. “I just wanted you to know everything” he returns in kind “I need you to know, to understand, to see. I can’t bear going on without you knowing so.” He held your gaze in the cramped space, his eyes burning with a mixture of vulnerability and love. “I only want you, no one else, ever. Please, give me… us…a chance.” “Don’t beg me, Clark” A smile, hesitant but twitching to come out, blossoms on your face like a sunflower coming to face the sun after a long night. “It takes away from your beauty.” You echo the words he’d reserved for you. A soft laugh, yet loud and booming through the echo of the restroom, a warm sound that filled the small space around you. “Touché” he said, his hand finding their place around the low of your waist despite his earlier reluctance, fitting just right in the space, fitting you just right in his arms, as you practically lay over him. At your lack of unease or discomfort, a glimmer of hope flickered in him like a flame. “You have no idea how much you mean to me, do you?” “I'm sorry that it is so hard for me to believe it” you bite at your lips, and despite not meaning so, Clark thinks it's the hottest thing he’s seen you do. “I am just….I don't know how to…” it seems that you just can't find the right words, unlike him, who could give a whole lecture, as you’d seen, about when, how, and why he’d fallen for you.

But for Clark, that is not a problem; he understands either way. He'll always understand you

“It's okay” he soothes you by running a hand through your hair, gentle as to not mess it any further, his voice warm and reassuring “You don't have to explain anything to me. I understand.” “You really are too good for me.” “Maybe I am or maybe I'm just perfect for you, ever considered that?"

You huff in exasperated fondness, your eyes finding the wall as your heart threatened to give away.

“Come now. Don’t look away,” he gently guides your face back on his, through a gentle grip of your chin, where a soft, gentle smile, dimples on display, greeted you. The moment was electrifying as you stared at each other, and as if without the need for words, the longing in your eyes was clear to him. He took the initiative of the moment, kissing those soft lips of yours for a second time in the day.

He would pat himself on the back if he could.

Electricity and warmth surged through you at the first press of your lips together. His mouth was warm and soft, moving against yours in a tender, almost hesitant dance, as if he was testing the waters, much gentler than the ones you’d put him through, which had resulted in the slight strain of his trousers. Despite his strength, he was careful with you; you could feel the restraint he had over himself, the desire that was bubbling within him was just under the surface, but he held back, simply enjoying the kiss in the cramped, small bathroom stall.

This wasn’t entirely how he’d imagined his morning to go. But god, if he wasn’t enjoying it. He hissed and cursed under his breath at the cramp that shot to his legs “These damn bathrooms are too small” he tried to make do, trying to find a more comfortable position, holding you in his arms and taking you with him. You flushed like a tomato at the realisation you were practically straddling him.

“You’re the one that’s too big” you stutter, without realising what you said, only to flush further at the fool you were making of yourself. “Yeah, I guess I am too big for these bathrooms” he agreed, not fully taking on the second meaning of your words, his gaze fond and amused. “But you're just the right size” he said, winking at you

It was decided. You would die in this bathroom, next to a toilet. You could only cover your face with your hand to allow you the dignity of not seeing Clark’s reaction to the inevitable. He gently took your wrists in his hands, pulling them away. “Don’t hide, please” he said, tone light, sincerity in his eyes. “You're adorable when you blush like that”

You whined, the flush on your face only growing in colour, to a scary degree. Before you could shy away once more, he'd kissed you again, trapping you in his arms once more. You parted when in need of air; otherwise, your lips seemed unable to pluck yourselves from each other, not willing to let the moment die. He whispered sweet nothings each time his lips were not on yours, which you were unable to bear and swallowed with your own fair share of kisses. Who could have thought kissing felt this good? Each kiss was sweeter than the last, and the only sounds in the cramped space were your mingled breathing and the quiet meeting of your lips, punctuated by the occasional soft sound or sigh. It was intoxicating, the way his lips seemed moulded to yours and how your body seemed to fit perfectly in his arms. He'd lost track of time, completely entranced and consumed by the sensation, forgetting just where you two were.

“Are yall done? We need to use the bathroom!!” The sudden interruption of one of the many impatient girls waiting outside snapped the two of you out of your reverie, the bubble of intimacy around you bursting at the sudden reminder that you were very much still in the middle of a public bathroom. Clark pulled away from you with a start, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed, so fast he’d banged his head back against the wall of the stall, your hand coming to hide the way your mouth hung open. He looked at you, equally flustered and embarrassed to be caught, while the person continued raging on, ruffling impatiently.

“Um…we-we'll be right out!” he called back.

You stared at each other in a breathless silence before you both burst into a fit of giggles. He chuckled, his heart fluttering at the sight of you laughing, happy beyond relief.

“I guess we got a little carried away” he said quietly, his expression fond. “Just a bit” you breathe, winding down from the moment “I wouldn’t mind making them wait a little longer…” “You wouldn’t? The girl I know would never be so incosiderate as to let people go without using the toilet so she could keep kissing her boyfriend” “You’re turning me into a rebel” you smile, your fingers on his chest drawing imaginary circles “There’s only one to blame, and I hardly think people would believe you if you laid the blame on me. After all, I’m the girl who sits at her desk, eats yoghurt every two hours and tries to solve the crosswords on last week’s edition of the newspaper” “Guess I'm a bad influence, then, huh? Don't let my mama know that.” You chuckled, a laugh loud and bosterous, “Again with this? I don’t know your Ma, Clark.” He joined in the laughter, “We should remedy that then” he grinned “I just know she would like you as much as I do.”

Another demand is made from the door of the restroom, interrupting you two once more, reminding you that you were in a public bathroom. He sighs, reluctantly putting space between you two

“I guess we should probably get out of here, huh?” The unwillingness is evident “I have to give you these first.” Slowly, from where they'd lain forgotten beside him, he reached to hand what remained of the perfectly bounded bouquet of flowers and the now cold cup of coffee. You take them from his hands, gently cradling the bouquet of flowers in your arms while holding the coffee cup in the other. A small, but rather sullen and trembling, smile tugs at your lips. “I'm sorry about the weeks I spent avoiding you" you apologise, almost ashamed at your words “I just…got so scared that night…when we kissed.” “I know” he said softly, a hand coming to tug a stray strand of hair behind your ear “and I understand. I do. I just…hate it when you avoid me. It hurts. I thought I ruined everything.” “It’s my fault. I just…get this way when big changes happen in my life.” “I know you get scared at the thought of change. But I need you to know that i'm not going anywhere. Don't think of it as a change but rather…an upgrade. We're updating the status in our lives.” “You said the same when you began following me on Instagram” “Well, that worked out pretty perfectly, didn't it?” he smirks, amusement dancing in his eyes “Just that instead of online friends we become… real life partners” he stopped “if t-that's what y-you want. I m-mean-“ “I do want to be your girlfriend, Clark” you reassure gently “I really do like you, lots”

He exhaled a shaky breath, the tension that he had been carrying in his shoulders for weeks suddenly disappearing. The thought of you rejecting him had haunted him like a phantom, and now, to hear you say that you wanted to be with him…it made his heart want to leap out of his chest.

“Oh, thank god. I was so worried you would say no! You have no idea how happy that makes me” he said, his eyes locked on yours, the look in them almost tender. Then he chuckled softly, giving in to the urge to tease you just a little. “So…does this mean I can stop trying to woo you?” “You’ve already wooed me” “Good. Because I wasn’t going to give up anytime soon.”

You sigh, shaking your head “You’ll grow bored of me very fast” “I doubt that” he smiled “And even if I do, whose to say I won’t like to be bored with you?”

Undoubtedly, regardless of the success of the week’s newspaper, the story that was most talked about around the office that week was how Clark Kent went inside a bathroom as the most desired bachelor of the entire building, to come out a taken man, boyfriend to the culinary columnist he was entirely, madly, in love with.

. ━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

They don’t hear the way you rehearse sentences before meetings, terrified you’ll sound stupid. They don’t notice how you shrink when Tony gets that look and says, “You’re cute, kid.”

They definitely don’t see the way you cling to Bucky’s arm like he’s gravity itself.

At first, the team treats your relationship like a joke.

“You’re… really together?” Sam asks once, brows lifted.

Bucky’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

“Damn,” Wanda adds, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Did not have that on my bingo card.”

You laugh along, high and easy, like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t sting when people whisper what does she even talk about with him? or she’s fun, but…

But Bucky hears it. Always hears it.

He sees how you second-guess yourself around him sometimes, how you stop talking mid-sentence and change the subject. He knows you try harder than anyone to be good enough—sweet enough, pretty enough, quiet enough.

Still, he thinks love will be enough to drown out the noise.

Then she arrives.

Her name is Elise. She’s brilliant. Polished. Calm under pressure. She knows exactly when to speak and when to stay quiet. She wears neutral colors and confidence like armor, and within a week she’s sparring with Steve and debating strategy with Natasha.

Everyone loves her.

“She’s amazing,” someone says in the common room.

“So sharp,” another adds.

You sit on the couch beside Bucky, legs tucked beneath you, twirling a strand of hair around your finger until your nails catch.

“Oh,” you say brightly. “Yeah. She’s… really cool.”

Bucky feels the shift immediately.

You start dressing differently—longer sleeves, muted colors. You stop cracking jokes in briefings. You don’t volunteer for anything anymore. When Elise speaks, you go quiet, eyes glued to the table like you’re afraid to exist too loudly.

One night, you don’t come to bed.

Bucky finds you in the bathroom, mascara streaked down your cheeks, phone face-down on the counter.

“Doll?” he murmurs.

You flinch like you’ve been caught doing something wrong.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, swiping at your face. “Just—stupid girl stuff.”

He doesn’t push. He never wants to push you.

But the distance keeps growing.

People don’t help.

Elise laughs with the team, slots into conversations effortlessly. Someone jokes that she’s “more Bucky’s speed.” Another says she’s “a better fit.” No one notices when you leave the room.

You notice.

It all comes to a head after a mission debrief.

You’d tried to speak—really tried—but Elise finished your sentence for you. Not cruelly. Just… naturally. Like your thoughts were unnecessary.

Later, Bucky finds you packing a bag.

“What’re you doin’?” he asks softly.

You don’t look at him.

“I think we should take a break.”

The words feel rehearsed. Like you’ve been choking on them for days.

Bucky’s chest tightens. “A break from… what?”

“Us,” you whisper. “From pretending this makes sense.”

He steps closer. “Who said it doesn’t?”

You laugh, but it’s broken. “Everyone, Buck. Look at me. Look at her. I’m embarrassing you.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m not smart like her. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong with you.” Your voice cracks. “I’m just… fun. Temporary.”

That hurts him more than any bullet ever could.

Bucky takes your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him.

“Don’t,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“But it’s true!” you sob. “You deserve someone who fits. Someone who doesn’t make people laugh behind your back.”

“I didn’t fall in love with someone who fits,” he says fiercely. “I fell in love with you.”

You shake your head, tears spilling over. “You’ll see. One day you’ll wake up and realize I’m just… too much and not enough at the same time.”

Bucky presses his forehead to yours.

“Doll,” he whispers. “I’ve been too much and not enough my whole damn life. You’re the only thing that ever made me feel right.”

Your hands clutch at his jacket like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“I’m scared,” you admit. “I’m scared you’ll get tired of defending me.”

His answer is immediate.

“I’ll never stop.”

It takes time. Reassurance. Healing. The team learns—slowly—that brilliance doesn’t only come in quiet packages. Elise apologizes, genuinely. And Bucky? He starts holding your hand in public like it’s a declaration.

You still doubt sometimes.