#journalist!reader

𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝟏, 𝐟𝟏, 𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐢, 𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢 & 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝐲/𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯

・・・・・

𝐟𝟏 𝘔𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶

𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦

→ 𝐲/𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘦 😋

𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐢 👀

𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝟏 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶

→ 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝟐 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 😭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴

𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝟏 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶

──────────────────────

──────────────────────

𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝟏, 𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐢, 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐠𝐟𝟏, 𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 & 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝐲/𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘵

・・・・・

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬_𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘹

→ 𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐣𝐚𝐫 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭

→ 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐳𝟓𝟓 🤣

𝐥𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 🔥

→ 𝐲/𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝘪 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 🤭

→ 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝟑 𝘞𝘈𝘐𝘛 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘋𝘖𝘌𝘚 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘚 𝘔𝘌𝘈𝘕????

𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 𝘪 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯

𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝟒 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘸𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺/𝘯 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴???? 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘹????

→ 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝟓 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵.

𝐤𝐢𝐦𝐢.𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯?

──────────────────────

𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝟏, 𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐣𝐚𝐫, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬_𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜, 𝐤𝐢𝐦𝐢.𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢 & 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝐲/𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘰𝘣 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳! 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘶𝘶 🎉

・・・・・

𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝟏 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵!

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬_𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘦!

𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧.𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘔𝘢𝘹!

𝐤𝐢𝐦𝐢.𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢 𝘪 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘳𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰 🤣

→ 𝐲/𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

→ 𝐤𝐢𝐦𝐢.𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘴? 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦

The block of your heels clacked against the floor, as you weaved in and out of people. Clark wasn’t having an easy time keeping up with you. 

“I get the feeling you don’t like me very much,” he said as he finally caught up with you. 

“Really?” You asked, starting up the printer to make some copies of the file in your hand. “What gave it away?”

Clark shifted on his feet as he stood beside you, moving to the side to avoid being hit with the mail trolley. 

“Have I done something to upset you?” He asked, his voice tense with worry. “Because if I have, please tell me.” 

You didn’t answer, and instead concentrated on making sure the printer didn’t eat your paper again. 

You heard Clark bark a quiet laugh. “You seem to be able to speak your mind to everyone else. So why not me?”

Turning your neck quickly, you looked at him. Your gaze was less than warming.

“I work better alone. I told you that from day one. So why make Perry agree to make me your partner?”

Clark shrugged, looking for his answer. “I dunno. I have a few good leads for your case. I thought we could work together. I thought it would be easier.”

“I have my own leads,” you told him. “I can write my own article. I don’t need help from someone who’s just gonna try and steal it down the road. Free press is a competition, right?”

Clark nodded, slowly. “I did say that but– that’s out of context.”

Less than a week ago, Clark had been standing with Lois by the coffee maker, having a discussion over the morals of story ownership. Whilst someone might discover a story, it is theirs. But that doesn’t stop others from finding it out, too. 

There’s a difference between using somebody else's sources and quotes, and finding your own which just happen to be similar. 

Finally, the printer had stopped jittering. 

“You know,” you sighed. “I see right through you.”

“I wasn’t aware you had x-ray vision?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you bundled together the copies. “You put on this act.”

“What act?” Clark asked, starting to get offended. 

“This…” You waved a hand over him. “This bumbling, clumsy – but somehow always manages to save the day – ultimate farmboy next door act. And I see right through it.”

Clark bit the inside of his cheek as gaze darkened just a little and he looked at you. “You think you know me, huh?”

You nodded, firmly. 

“Fine.” Clark placed his hands on his hips as he looked at you, clearly annoyed. “Have it your way. Use your sources, write your story. And I’ll write mine.”

You raised a brow, though completely unsurprised. “So you are gonna steal my story?”

“Perry put us on this together-”

“Because you asked.”

“But since you wanna be so stubborn about it-”

“Stubborn?!”

“We’ll write it separately and have Jimmy splice it together. 100% effort, 50-50 shared article.”

You glared at him for a while, even more so when he held out his hand. 

“Deal?”

You knew you didn’t have much of a choice. Perry trusted you, but Clark had been at the Daily Planet a lot longer than you. If he wanted a partner on something, you had a feeling it would be a battle to try and shift Perry from the idea. 

Putting the copies under your arm, you shook his hand. “Fine.”

Having an understood shared article was better than having the rug pulled from under you. 

Not long after striking the deal, you headed out in search of your sources. One called you in the early hours of the morning, telling you to meet them outside the quarry. 

Meanwhile, Clark was still in the office, making a few calls to confirm his leads. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Lois said, her voice light as she passed his desk. 

He’d been on hold for over thirty minutes, but hadn’t stopped glaring at your empty desk. 

“What’s your opinion of Y/n?”

Lois shrugged. “She’s a hard worker. Quiet. Saw her reaction when Perry said she’d be your partner for this. Is that why you look so…pensive?”

“I’m not pensive.”

“Annoyed, then.”

“I’m not annoyed.”

Lois shrugged. “Could have fooled me. What’s going on?”

Clark sighed. “She thinks I’m gonna steal her story.”

“Are you?”

“No! We’re partners. Well, we’re meant to be. And, instead, we’ve made a deal to write our own articles. I’m gonna have Jimmy splice them together.”

“Why not just work on it together?”

Clark sighed, again. “She didn’t seem thrilled about working together. Why make her write with me, too?”

Lois hummed. “She hasn’t been here long, but usually by now the newbie’s have made some kind of friendship group. I wonder why?”

At that moment, Cat leaned in. “I know why.”

“You do?” Clark asked. 

Cat nodded. “Rumours have it her last job didn’t end so well.”

“Because of Y/n?”

Cat shrugged. “I don’t know the full details, but a couple sources I have over at the Eagle tell me her last partner completely pulled the rug from under her.”

“He stole her story?” Lois asked, testing the waters for her answer. 

“Remember that front page story Perry lost his mind over, just before Christmas?”

Lois and Clark nodded. 

“That was her?” Lois asked. 

“Rumours have it.” Cat nodded. “But, then again, they’re just rumors. If we want the truth, we should probably ask her.”

“Why haven’t you asked her?”

“Because she needs a little time,” Cat said. “Her last job…I suspect it was like leaving her family.”

Clark’s gaze fell onto your desk. Between the messy post-it notes, overflowing pile of random papers, two smaller case files, and your desk-top computer, he spotted a picture frame. 

It was you, two girls and another woman in front of a building. He hadn’t paid much attention to it before. He just figured the woman was your sister. But, taking a closer look, the woman didn’t look related to you. 

Her face shape was different to yours, the eye colour, smile…all of it different. But the two girls look related to her. She was their mom, most likely. 

Looking even closer, Clark recognised the building you were all standing in front of. The Metropolis Eagle. 

Clark’s curiosity was piqued. Why have a picture of people, standing in front of your old building, on your desk at your new job? And, if the rumours Cat told him were true…how badly had it gone down?

Over the next couple of days, Clark kept his eye on you. As he suspected, he ran into you more often than you liked. But, with overlapping sources and meetings, it was inevitable. 

“Wanna get some lunch?” Clark asked you as you both left the lab where you had been pushed together for a meeting with the owner. 

“You think we should spend more time together?” You asked, your voice a little lighter, as you rummaged through your bag for…something. 

Clark shrugged. “We do work together. Maybe…rather than fighting over this, we work together. It would also save Jimmy a job.”

“How about this?” You asked, looking up at him. “You go and do what you wanna do. And I’ll-” You looked at your phone. “Go to the hospital.”

“What?”

The lighter expression you had been holding on your face disappeared in an instant. 

“I need to go to the hospital.”

Looking around you, the panic was rising up your throat as you tried to figure out where you were. 

“I-I- what street– where did I-”

Clark took you by your shoulders. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I need– what street are we on?”

Clark told you. “The hospital is three blocks away. I’ll drive you.”

“No-”

“Y/n, you’re not in the right frame of mind to drive, right now. Who’s at the hospital?”

“My goddaughter. She’s- I don’t know. I just-”

Clark nodded. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

Ten minutes later, you were running down the hallway of the children’s ward of the hospital. 

“Y/n!”

Turning on your heel, you looked down one of the halls where Molly, the mother of your goddaughter was standing. 

“Molly!”

“Hey,” she smiled, accepting your hug. 

“How’s Iris? Is she-”

“She’s okay. She fell off her bike,” Molly explained. “No broken bones, no concussion. She’s got a couple grazes and a sprained wrist. Nothing, a couple painkillers and some ice cream won’t fix.”

You laid a hand over your chest. “Oh, thank god.”

Then Molly shifted on her feet. “I should warn you-”

“Y/n!”

You felt your skin crawl with betrayal as you heard your name leave the mouth of Molly’s newly ex-husband and your ex-partner. 

“And Clark Kent!” Richard seemed surprised. “My, my. Isn’t this a surprise?”

Clark’s gaze flicked across everyone’s faces. Molly was the woman in the photo – the two girls, her daughters. Your goddaughters. Richard was…the journalist who covered the Eagle’s front page story before Christmas. 

“I heard you got a job over at the Planet,” Richard smiled. “Hope they’re keeping you busy.”

“Fuck you.”

“No need for hostility,” Richard held up his hands. “A story’s a story. Am I right, Kent?”

Rolling your eyes, you shoved past Richard and entered the hospital room. The door closed just as you heard Molly tell him to shut his mouth. 

After you had left the Eagle, it had taken less than three months for Molly to turn up outside your apartment door with Jane and Iris. She was divorcing Richard and didn’t have anywhere else to go. 

You had accepted them with open arms. Richard had been your partner, until he betrayed you. You’d worked with him long enough to know he could be one of the nicest people. Until the Hyde to his Jekyll came out. 

Inside the hospital room, Jane hugged you tight before letting you go to sit on the edge of her younger sister’s bed. 

“What happened, kiddo?”

“I fell off my bike. The doctor said I’ve sprained my wrist.”

You nodded. “How are you feeling?”

“Well, it hurt at first. Like, really bad. But now it’s okay. Mommy said I can have ice cream.”

You chuckled. “So I’ve heard.”

“Who’s that?” Iris asked, looking over your shoulder to the tall, broad and handsome man standing outside her room. 

Clark was talking to Richard. Rather, he was nodding along as Richard rambled to him about something. Molly just looked fed-up. 

“Oh, that’s-”

Jane smiled. “He’s handsome. Is he your new partner?”

“Uhh.”

Jane and Iris shared a knowing look. 

“Sorta.”

“Sorta?” Jane asked. 

“We’re…working on an article together but…it’s complicated.”

Suddenly, the door opened. “Say bye-bye to your dad, girls. He’s leaving now.”

“Bye!” They both called from the bed. 

Richard, who was waiting for his girls to run and hug him, dropped his arms awkwardly. “Uh, bye then, girls. See you next week, yeah?”

“Bye!” They called again. 

As Richard moved away and left, Molly invited Clark inside. 

“Girls, say hello to Mr Kent.”

“Hello,” Iris smiled. 

“Hi,” Jane smiled, before looking at you with a knowing look.

“Hi,” he smiled back. “I heard you’ve fallen off your bike?”

Iris nodded, very quickly jumping into her story about what happened. While she was trying to ride as fast as she could, she saw a cat and didn’t want to hit it, so pressed her brakes but swerved and then fell. 

“Are you Y/n’s new partner?”

Clark looked at you as he stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, and rocked on his feet. “Well…it’s-”

“Complicated?” Iris asked, raising her brow. “That’s what grown-ups usually say when they’re being childish.”

Clark let out a nervous chuckle, but looked at you nonetheless. Meanwhile, Molly stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on her daughter’s back. 

“Iris.” She warned. “Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s…it’s fine.”

You and Clark stayed for twenty minutes before being shooed back to work by Molly and Jane (who whispered once more about how handsome Clark was). 

“Still hungry for food?”

You turned quickly. Quicker than Clark had been expecting. 

“Iris had a point back there,” you said. “About being complicated, being childish. But-”

Clark cut you off. “Sometimes complicated can also just mean complicated.”

You swallowed a little. And then nodded. “Yeah.”

“Y/n, listen…” Clark shifted on his feet, awkwardly, until his gaze found your own. “I don’t know what happened at your last job.”

“You don’t?”

“Well…sorta. I mean- I don’t know the full story.” Clark said. “I don’t know what your last partner did to you, or how badly it screwed things up but, I just want you to know, I’m not him. I know that doesn’t really instill a lot of trust either.”

You nodded. You had lost count of the amount of times a ‘nice’ guy had told you he was ‘one of the nice’ ones, and then that turned out to be the opposite. 

“I’m just- what I’m trying to say is-” Clark sighed, frustrated at himself for not knowing what to say. “I respect your reasons for not trusting me. But…can you try and judge me on my actions? At least every once in a while?”

For a moment, you paused. He had a point. A point you already knew. From most of his actions, on the face of them, he was a genuinely good guy. Bought coffee in the mornings, helped people edit, helped people in general. 

You’d just seen him with your goddaughters. He had them smiling, laughing – feeling the complete opposite as they did when they’d been around their father, recently. 

But you still had your reservations. 

Richard had bought coffee. Richard had been nice. Richard had been helpful. 

And, although Clark wasn’t Richard…you’d only known Clark for six months. 

Your trust had been shattered at the Eagle. You didn’t want another story being taken from you, and having you stripped of your credibility. 

Swallowing, hard, you nodded. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

Over the next week, you tried your hardest to judge Clark based on his actions and his words. But it was proving difficult to lower your guard when around him during writing sessions, interviews and information. 

You were walking back from work after finishing late. Your route was only a couple of blocks and, since it was a Friday night, the streets of Metropolis were almost as packed as they were when people took an early lunch break in the summer. 

Halfway home, your heel broke. 

“In need of assistance, ma’am?”

Jumping a little, you turned around and took a breath of relief. “Superman.”

“Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, my shoe broke. I’ll be fine.”

Superman looked around the block. It was late, and dark, and although there were people, they were tipsy and/or drunk. 

“Maybe I can help fix-” Before he could finish his sentence, you took off your other shoe and broke the heel. 

“I’m not looking to walk barefoot through the city and,” you shrugged. “I’ve been meaning to replace these anyway.”

“You know, I could have carried you home.”

You chuckled and shook your head. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Well…may I walk you home? It is late and you’re on your own.”

Looking around, you soon turned back towards him. “I guess…I guess it couldn’t hurt. But, if sirens pass us, I expect you to follow them and not me, we clear?”

Superman chuckled. “Very clear, ma’am.”

“Call me Y/n. I feel like my mother when you call me ma’am.”

“Sorry, ma’a- I mean, Y/n.”

You smiled. “Better. Thank you. So, what are you doing on this side of Metropolis?”

“A pub brawl. You?”

“Late night at the office.” You said. “I should probably tell you, I am a journalist so…I expect full scoop if we do pass sirens.”

“Daily Planet?”

You looked at him, surprised. “How did you-”

“Your badge,” Superman pointed out. 

On your hip, you had your Daily Planet ID badge on view. 

“Right. Duh.” You chuckled. 

“I don’t recognise you. Are you new to the Planet?”

“Yeah. Well, sorta. I’ve been there six months so far.”

“Enjoying it?”

You nodded, lifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “Actually, yeah. Perry’s a good boss, coffee’s better, people are nice.”

“What’s your latest scoop?”

“I’ve heard you’re good friends with Clark Kent,” you said. “Figured you’d already know.”

“Uhh, well, Clark doesn’t tell me much about his work.”

“Really?”

“He…he did tell me he had a new partner, though. Is that meant to be you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Sorta. I-I kinda blew up at him over it.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I kinda have a history with work partners and Perry knew that. He knows why, too. But, when Clark asked him to partner up with me, he jumped at the chance.”

“Mind me asking about your history with your partner?”

You sighed, debating whether or not to tell him. “It’s kinda complicated. Or, feels that way, at least. I had this story and…just before publication, my trusted partner of almost ten years took it to our editor and said it was his. The story ran front page and everything. I wasn’t even a footnote.”

“But it was your story?”

You nodded. “Every word of it. Had the evidence and everything. All the copies, edit notes – everything. Took it to my editor and he just shrugged. Said free press was a competition. Since I didn’t bring it to him first, it wasn’t my story.”

Clark felt sick to his gut. He hadn’t meant to pry this much, but he had wanted to know more about you. But, the second you opened up to him, he felt like he was really going to be sick. 

Because now he knew. 

But he wasn’t Clark. 

“I’m so sorry they did that to you.”

“Not much I can do about it, now,” you said. “But, he got his just deserts.”

“He did?”

“Not long after the story ran, his wife divorced him. Molly – his wife – we’re good friends. I’m also godmother to their two beautiful and funny little girls.”

Clark couldn’t help but smile as you did. Without your guard up, you felt safe to talk some more. And he couldn’t help but admire the way your eyes lit up when you told him random side stories about your goddaughters. 

He’d only met them for twenty minutes but the stories you told, and how you told them, he could totally see it. Jane practised for her recital at school – which was apparently why you disappeared from work early two weeks ago (though Perry seemed to know). Iris running rings around her neighbours. 

It was the first time in six months Clark had heard you laugh. Truly laugh. Not one that barked at him out of sarcasm. 

“Well, this is me.” You said, pointing at your apartment building. “Thank you, for walking me home.”

“Anytime, Y/n.”

Just before you walked into your apartment building, you turned back around. “Hey.”

“Yes?”

You smiled at him. “Thank you for listening. I know it probably sounded boring but…thank you.”

“It didn’t sound boring. And, you’re welcome.” Clark was about to fly away when he turned back around to you. “The reporters at the Planet…they’re good people. It might be worth getting to know them?”

For a moment, you remained fixed in your spot. Then you nodded. “I might just try that.”

And you did. 

By the time your and Clark’s story ran in the paper – landing you both on the front page – you had allowed yourself to trust Clark enough to save Jimmy the job of splicing your articles together. 

You worked together and stayed late at the bullpen in order to write the article together. You shared your casefile with him, and he showed you the information he had found from his research. 

Whilst writing, although some things overlapped, other pieces of information were like two jigsaw pieces finally fitting together. 

You also got to know Lois and Cat some more. Cat had the scoop on your old job, including some other reporters that had transferred to other newspapers after you left. Lois and yourself shared the odd comment that still kept Clark humble. 

“What do you say, Y/n?” Jimmy asked. “Celebrations calls for drinks?”

You looked at the clock on your screen. “Oh, uh, actually…I’m needed elsewhere.”

“What? No,” Cat pouted. “Can’t you do one drink? It is yours and Clark’s names on the front page?”

You smiled a little, with a nervous chuckle. “I know, and I’m sorry. But have one for me, yeah?”

Cat sighed. “Fine. But I’m ordering my brand. I love you, but your choice of drink is appalling.”

Jimmy scoffed. “Why not mine?”

As they bickered about choices of celebratory drinks, Clark leaned into you. 

“Sure you can’t come?”

You nodded, nervously. “I’m sure. I promise Iris and Jane a movie night.”

“Which movie?”

You shrugged. “Dunno yet. They get two picks each and we put on a random generator. See you on Monday?”

Clark nodded, letting you go. But, as he watched you leave the building, he couldn’t help but wonder what you were really up to. 

Since your conversation with Superman, you’d disclosed the same information to Clark and the others, so he was no longer in ‘questionable ethics’ territory. But, on top of that information that Clark knew, he also knew Molly had taken the girls away for the weekend to visit her parents. 

So, you were home alone. 

As far as he was aware, you didn’t have a story that required a late night meet up with a lead. You, as Cat had gracefully pointed out when Jimmy suggested they go out for drinks, had a non-existent love life. 

So, what were you doing?

“Should I be worried you’re stalking me?”

You’d spotted the familiar floating red cape outside your fire exit five minutes ago. When he didn’t knock, you decided to throw the window open and check where he was. 

“I just wanted to check in.”

“Didn’t think to ring the doorbell?”

“Sorry,” he said, landing on the platform. “Force of habit.”

“You make a habit of landing on people’s fire escapes?”

“Well…”

You chuckled. “Relax, Superman. I’m only messing.”

He chuckled. “I saw Clark and the others not too long ago. I also read your article. Front page, congrats.”

You tipped your imaginary hat. “Thank you.”

“Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”

“I am.” You shrugged, “In my own way.”

“And that way is?”

“Enjoying my quiet apartment while I have it.” You nodded to the open window you had climbed through in order to sit on the steps of the fire escape. “I love my goddaughters, but sometimes I like the sound of silence.”

Superman chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the barrier. “Noisy?”

“In the best way, but yes.” As you looked back at Superman, you couldn’t help but study him for a moment. He seemed to have something on his mind. 

“Something on your mind?”

“What?”

“You seem worried about something.”

“I do?”

You nodded. “I’m off the clock, so this will all be off the record. Superman is usually Clark Kent’s domain, anyway. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Superman sighed. “I don’t know if there is.”

“The man who helps save people daily doesn’t have anything to worry about?”

He sighed. “I guess…this is off the record?”

You nodded. “Completely.”

“Okay. Well, I have this…friend. Not ‘friend’. They’re more like a–”

“Situationship?”

“No.” He seemed genuinely disgusted by the term. “No, nothing like that. Just…we work together.”

“Another superhero?”

“No. This is…at work. Away from…me.”

“Okay.”

“You see, I don’t think she likes me very much. Or, maybe she didn’t, but now she does? It’s…It’s hard to tell. She’s the lone wolf type. Doesn’t like working with others, independent almost to a fault.”

You nodded. She sounded familiar. 

“Everytime I think I’m getting close to her, she…pulls away.”

“Well, how long have you known her?”

“A…short while.”

“And how long is a short while?”

“Almost eight months.”

You nodded. “Well, the best advice I can give you is…take your time. It takes time. And effort. I know a thing or two about emotional wall building and,” you chuckled. “I can tell ya, it’s not an easy thing to tear down. Especially when you’re afraid…”

“Afraid of what?” Superman asked, when you didn’t continue. 

“Especially when, even if you don’t get hurt again, you’re afraid you’ll trip on the rubble and hurt yourself anyway.” You looked at him. “Or that another person will mistake your rubble for fresh building blocks and accuse you of building the emotional wall, again.”

Superman seemed to take a breath, unsure of what to say next as your words washed over him. 

“A little kindness, and a safe space, can go a long way,” you told him with a light smile. “I know that first hand. Show her reasons to trust you. Even if she doesn’t believe you right now, keep showing her. Hopefully, it’ll be worth the wait.”

“Who showed you?”

“You did,” you said. “And Clark. I-I don’t know what, or if, he’s told you anything but…I spent a long time fighting him because of my experience with others. After my conversation with you, I thought if Clark hadn’t proven me right yet, then I shouldn’t be trying to find evidence to prove he was going to.”

You and Superman spoke for another twenty minutes before the sound of sirens wailing across the city were calling for him. 

Over the following months, as you got to know and became a close friend to the others at the Planet, you also got to know Superman. 

“There’s something familiar about you,” you blurted out one November evening, whilst sitting out on your fire escape. 

Clark shifted on his feet, trying to keep his ‘cool’ facade up. “There is?”

Your eyes narrowed at him, but not in malice or hate. It was in genuine curiosity. Like there was something different on his face and you couldn’t work out what it was. 

“Yeah,” you said, your voice distant. “I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while, to be honest.”

“Why not mention it before?”

You shrugged, wrapping your arms around you tighter. “Guess I just thought it was because I’ve talked to you more than I ever thought I would. Even as a reporter.”

Superman chuckled with you. 

“But…I don’t think that’s it. Have…” You bit your lip a little, debating whether or not to ask. “Have we met before…outside of you being Superman? I know you have a normal job- well. A semi-normal life outside of being a superhero.”

Superman nodded, folding his arms, trying to hide his smile. 

There had been numerous conversations over the last few months that let you know more about Superman than you suspected anyone else did. Aside from Clark. And maybe Lois. 

“A coffee shop?” You shook your head. “No, that’s not it. On the metro? I know you can fly and all but even normal, everyday Superman has to find a way around the city, right?”

“How often are you on the metro?”

You hummed. “Right.”

You sighed, still focusing your gaze on him. You knew him. You knew you knew him. You just didn’t know from where. 

“You’re not a reporter, are you?” You half joked. 

Clark felt his entire body heat up. He chuckled, trying to keep his nerves at bay. Looking at his feet for a moment, he shook his head. “No. No, I'm not a reporter.”

You sighed. “Just as well. You’d probably get all the scoop on yourself, anyway.”

“Wouldn’t that be considered unethical?”

You nodded. “You don’t seem like the unethical type.”

“Thank you?”

You laughed a little before feeling the chill. 

“Cold?”

“I’m fine,” you shrugged. 

Superman smiled at you, walking closer. “Here. Give me your hands.”

Holding them up, a little confused, he clasped them together before covering his own around both of yours. Within seconds, you were able to feel your fingertips again, and it was quickly spreading throughout your body. 

“Is that a part of your superpower?”

He chuckled, again. “No. I just run hot.”

Your eyes remained on his for a beat too long to be considered casual. Thankfully, as you darted your gaze away, you saw what you’d been waiting for. 

“It’s snowing,” you said. 

Clark couldn’t help but admire you as you looked out to the darkened city as the snow started falling. There was something softly magical about it all. You included. 

Sadly, the feeling of your hands in his as you both looked out to the rest of the city didn’t last long. Crime stopped for no one. 

“I better go.”

You nodded, a little sad. “Be careful.”

“Goodnight, Y/n.”

“Night, Superman.”

Gently, he squeezed your hand a little before floating and flying off across the city. You were used to him going to save the city, but something was still bothering you. 

Who was he? And why was he so familiar?

Your answer came a month later, just before Christmas. 

The city was knee-deep in snow. It was all anyone could talk about. Aside from whatever Superman was doing – saving children from ice-skating on a deep lake, helping a family of squirrels find suitable hibernation. 

It was three days before Christmas and Perry had assigned you and Clark to cover the Mayor’s speech for the day. They were meant to be discussing what they would be doing to help those who couldn’t spend seven hundred dollars at Costco to bulk-buy for the winter, when the streets would be cleared of snow to make it safe to walk, and anything else that needed aid. 

“It’s freezing. How are you not shivering?” You asked, clapping your double gloved hands to try and get some feeling back into them again. “We’ve been standing out here for ages.”

“It’s been twenty minutes,” Clark pointed out. “The Mayor should be out soon.”

You scoffed. “They’re probably still inside, keeping warm.”

“Y/n.”

“What?” You rolled your eyes. “I get grouchy when I’m too cold.”

Clark playfully rolled his eyes, pulling his hands from his pockets. “Give me your hand.”

“I’m not holding your hand.”

“Yes or no: can you, currently, feel your fingers?”

You paused for a moment, before sighing in defeat. Pulling your gloves off your hand, you held it out to Clark who clasped it in his own. 

“How are you so warm?”

Clark shrugged. “I run hot.”

You sighed with a grumble. “Lucky bastard.”

Clark just laughed, pulling you closer to him. Even in his winter clothes, he was almost like a furnace. 

Thankfully, the Mayor finally made their appearance and started their talk. You were half-way through taking notes when you felt Clark’s thumb rub absentmindedly over your knuckles as he kept his hand, and your own, inside his coat pocket. 

It was a split second thought. Your brain forgot where you were and who you were with. The Mayor’s voice muffled into the background as you looked up. 

Where your brain expected Superman to be, you saw Clark. 

Clark!

You did a double take. 

“Everything okay?” Clark asked you, quietly. 

Taking a breath, you nodded. “Fine. Everything’s fine.”

Looking down at your notepad, you pretended to read over your notes as a smile started to spread across your face. 

Over the next hour and a half, you went through a wave of different emotions. The car ride to your lunch stop, you’d been quiet. Pretending to listen to the Christmas music floating out of the radio, your mind raced over everything. 

You had opened up to Superman before you had opened up to Clark. Superman had talked to you about work. You were co-workers. He read your article. He knew your friends. He’d lied to you. But he also told you his truths. 

He was your friend. 

Superman was Clark. 

Clark was Superman.

“What?” Clark asked you as he picked at his fries. 

You’d been sitting across him in the booth for ten minutes, unable to take your eyes off him. 

You had grounds to be mad at him. But…you weren’t. Instead, you were pleased. Grateful. Happy. 

“What? You keep staring at me. Do I have something on my face?”

You shook your head. “No. Sorry, no.” You smiled as you shifted in your seat, folding your arms on the table. “It’s…it’s nothing. Uh, anyway, are you heading home for Christmas?”

Clark nodded. “Yeah. I’m gonna drive down on Christmas Eve. What about you?”

“Molly and the girls have invited me for Christmas at their new place.”

Clark smiled. “How are they liking the suburbs?”

You nodded. “They’re really enjoying it. Molly had joined a local divorce book club.”

“Divorce book club?”

“They’re basically divorced and free women who can drink as much wine as they like for a Friday evening and compare fictional men to their shitty ex-husbands.”

“Sounds fun.”

You laughed. “She seems to be enjoying it. Iris is living next door to her new best friend, and Jane has been volunteering at the library. She wants to start a book club of her own.”

Clark smiled. “They sound like they’re thriving.”

“They definitely are.”

It wasn’t long before your article was being written and sent into Perry for editing. And, by the time you were done, and had started to finish off the last of your Christmas wrapping, you heard a gentle tapping coming from your window. 

If you hadn’t figured it out earlier, seeing Clark Kent crouching on your fire escape, wiping the snow from his glasses – that would have done it. 

“Clark?”

“Hey,” he chuckled, nervously. “I tried your buzzer but it wasn’t working. Pretty sure it’s frozen. I saw the light on so I thought-”

“You’d climb up eighty feet of icy fire-escape steps?”

“I’ve got sensible shoes on.”

You let out a laugh and stepped back from your window. “Well, come in then. Before you fall.”

“Thanks.”

“Why are you here, exactly?”

“Uh, well, I wanted to give you this.” From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper. 

“What’s this?”

“It’s– just read it.”

“Okay.” Opening up the letter, you unfurled the three-way fold and read it. “Oh, my god. Is this real?”

Clark was almost beaming. “Congratulations!”

You had been nominated for a journalism award for your article that reported on the misdeeds of a local laboratory. Perry had made you front page news for a week. You’d celebrated by having a newly stocked Pumpkin Spice Latte, at the time. 

Beaming, you hugged Clark in excitement. “This is insane!”

“Well, you earned it, Y/n.”

“Can you stay for a while? I’ll make us some drinks. How did you know?”

“Perry got a call,” he told you as you stepped back. “He told me and asked me to bring this to you before tomorrow.”

“Hot cocoa?”

“Sounds great. You’re still wrapping?”

“Oh, yeah.” You poured some milk into a pan on the stove to heat it up. “We’ve been so busy, I kinda lagged behind.”

“Want some help?”

You popped your head around the edge of your kitchen door. “How well do you wrap presents?”

“I’ve not won any awards or anything, but Ma always has me help her.”

You hummed and nodded. “Fair enough. Just, uh, I should have labelled the piles.”

Clark nodded, calling back to you. “You have.”

A few minutes later, you came through with two mugs of hot cocoa with the toppings. 

“Cheers.”

“To your nomination.”

You smiled. “To my nomination.”

Clark helped you finish wrapping the presents you had bought, whilst you re-watched (but mostly talked through) It’s A Wonderful Life. 

Long after the movie had finished, and all the presents were wrapped, you and Clark were in stitches with laughter. 

Trying to breathe through your stitch, you couldn’t look at Clark without laughing. 

“Oh, no, no, no. Stop. I can’t breathe.”

Both of you tried to catch your breath. “I can’t believe you did that.”

Clark nodded. “Believe it. It haunts me enough at 3 am.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Collapsing back against the sofa, the laughter started to settle and it was just you and Clark, left alone in your living room, with whatever hallmark christmas tunes were floating around the room. 

“You’re staring again,” Clark said after a few minutes. “Got something you’d like to share?”

“No.” You replied, a coy look in your eyes. 

“Really?” Clark sat up, and you copied him. “Because you’ve got that look in your eye.”

“What look?”

“That one. That one that says I know something you don’t.”

You shrugged, acting innocent. “Hmm, who knows? Maybe I do? Maybe I don’t.”

Clark’s gaze narrowed at you. “Spill.”

You shook your head. “Nu-uh.”

“Oh, come on! I shared my 3 am nightmare.”

You smiled. “But mine isn’t a nightmare.”

“Y/n.”

You grinned, leaning closer as he had done. “Clark.”

Clark sighed, “You’re a tough case to crack.”

You nodded, proudly. “That I am, Kent. That I am.”

He glared a little longer, hoping it might work. “What secret are you hiding?”

“What secret are you hiding?” You countered. “Often it’s the guilty who see guilt in others.”

“And what am I meant to be guilty of?”

You hummed. “Secretly being a really good Christmas wrapper. If I’d known you were this good, I would have found some way to guilt trip you into doing the rest.”

“Well, if it helps, I would have helped if you’d just asked.”

“That does seem like you. You’re very helpful, Clark.”

“Thank you.”

“Reminds me of someone else I know.”

Clark swallowed. “Really?”

You hummed with a nod. “Someone you know, too. Really well.”

Clark’s head tilted. “Who are we talking about?”

“I don’t know. You looked in the mirror lately? He might be closer than we think.”

You watched as Clark’s eyes flicked over your own and the penny finally dropped. 

“Y/n.”

You smiled, gently. “I haven’t told anyone, Clark. And I don’t plan on doing so.”

“I’m not-” Clark was about to deny it, but you just talked over him. 

“Wanna know when I figured it out? It was earlier, at the Mayor’s speech. You were holding my hand and, for a split second, I forgot where I was. I thought it was you. And it was. It just wasn’t the you I was expecting.”

Clark’s shoulders dropped and he leaned back against your sofa, feeling on edge. So, you shuffled closer, laying a hand on his arm. “Clark?”

He lowered the hand from his face and looked at you, a little hopeful, a little defeated. 

“You have my word. No-one will hear it from me. Ever. Unless you told me otherwise.”

“Really?”

You nodded. “Really.”

“And you’re not mad?”

You shook your head. “No. Believe me, I was surprised, too. But, no. I’m not mad. Rather, I’m glad it’s you.”

Clark sat up. “You are?”

You nodded, a light smile on your face once again. “Yeah,” you said, your voice quiet. “I am.”

Gently, Clark took your hand in his, his thumbs once again running back and forth over your knuckles. 

“Does anyone else know?”

He shook his head. “No. Not yet. Ma and Pa know, obviously. But…if you mean work…no.”

You highly doubted that was completely true. Everyone had their own guesses as to the real identity of Superman. But you believed him. 

“I’m guessing you’ve got a lot of questions-”

You held onto his hand, firmly. “They can wait. Tell me whenever you want.”

“Ask me, and I’ll tell you.” Clark said, his focus on you. “Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

“Like…right now?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“Oh, okay. Uhh, okay. Let me think.” 

You looked away for a second. You had fully meant it when you said your questions could wait. But being told you could ask. Now. Suddenly, every question you had ever had (and not even for Superman) had disappeared from your brain.

“Oh, okay.” You turned back to him. “When you’re late to work, is that on purpose?”

Clark laughed a little. “All the questions you could ask?”

“I wanna know! Is it a tactic or do you just have poor time management?”

Clark leaned back into your sofa, his gaze softly focusing on you whilst he kept your hand in his. “I wish I could say it’s the former, but some mornings I just press my snooze button one too many times.”

“Does caffeine have any effect on you?”

“No. But, I like the taste.”

“Have you ever been sick? Like, when you were a kid? Were your…abilities less powerful then?”

“Nope,” Clark shook his head. “It took me a while to learn how to fly but in terms of being sick, no.”

“Not once? Not even after being exposed to kryptonite?”

Clark shook his head. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

You asked Clark every random, and not so random, question you could think of. Before you knew it, the conversation had leaned away from Superman and had delved into Clark’s childhood. 

Despite his abilities, he was still the ‘nerdy’ kid the popular ones picked on. Whenever he was on the farm, he usually used his abilities to help his Pa paint the barn or fix the roof. 

On the whole, he lived a pretty normal life.

“I should go, it’s getting late.” 

“You sure? You can take the spare room. Saves you driving back to your apartment in the snow.”

Clark looked out your window. The snow in the city had practically doubled in the space of a couple hours. 

“Well…”

With your blanket trailing behind you like its own tired version of the dramatic Disney cape sweep, you headed towards your spare bedroom. “You can stay. Pretty sure I’ve got some pjs that should fit you.”

Clark did a double take back to you. “You do?”

Clark appeared in your doorway as you rummaged through your linen closet. “Yeah. I placed an order for pajamas online. They ended up sending the wrong package but they said just to keep the package.”

“Didn’t you want a refund?”

“Oh, they gave me the refund. Yeah- oh, here they are.” Holding them up, you judged them against Clark’s frame. “They should fit.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. There’s spare toothpaste, brush, washing stuff – all in the cupboard under the sink. Use what you want.”

A few minutes later, as you had finished with your shortened night routine since you were seconds from falling asleep whilst standing, you said goodnight to Clark. 

Clark replied the same back, and as he finally laid down in bed, smiling as he thought back on the whole day whilst being surrounded by the smell of your laundry detergent. He ignored the fact he could have easily flown home.

It was still dark when you woke up. 

You would have stayed in bed, huddled in the warmth of your bed, if you hadn’t been intrigued by the smell of fresh breakfast coming from your kitchen. 

Clark was standing in your kitchen, in a world of his own, when he turned to see you standing in the doorway. Huddled in a thick blanket, your hair loose, one word flashed across his mind. 

Beautiful. 

“Are you making breakfast?”

Clark shrugged, a quiet smile on his face as you shuffled inside and planted yourself at your table. 

“Thought it was the least I could do since you let me stay.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after seven,” Clark said, reading the clock on your kitchen window cill. 

“What’s the snow like?” You asked in a yawn. 

Nodding over to the window near your fire escape, Clark said, “Take a look for yourself.”

“Oh.”

Against the window, the snow had piled up. If you were to open your window, your apartment floor would end up covered, too. 

Looking around your kitchen, you spotted your radio on the side. As the bacon started to sizzle in the pan, you stood from the kitchen chair and reached for it. 

The voice of the radio crackled through your kitchen as they gave out the reports. Most roads were closed, everyone was being advised to stay indoors, more snow was to come…

“I’ll do a sweep,” Clark said. “Make sure nobody’s stuck.”

You nodded. “I’ll call Molly and make sure she’s okay with the girls. Think you’ll still make it home?”

Clark shook his head, turning off the stove. “Not if people need me here.”

As Clark got the plates and cutlery ready, you pressed start on your percolator to start coffee. 

Suddenly, the ringing of your telephone rattled through your apartment. 

“You have a landline?”

Dropping the blanket off your shoulders, you rushed over to the beam of your doorway between the kitchen and the rest of your apartment. “It’s mostly for emergencies.” 

Lifting the receiver, you placed it against your ear. “Hello?”

It was Molly. “Hey, happy Christmas Eve.”

“Is everything okay?”

Clark leaned against the other side of the phone, his bicep braced against the beam. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just wanted to let you know that our wifi has cut out. The entire block is the same way. The company- they’re meant to be coming out to fix it but we don’t know when. I heard the city’s blocked.”

You nodded, despite the fact she couldn’t see you. “Yeah. We’re basically snowed in here.”

“We?” 

You stalled and Clark just smirked but looked away. “Uhh. Yeah. Uh, me and Clark.”

“Clark’s there?” Molly sounded hopeful. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, he is. I didn’t think it was safe for him to drive back last night so I asked him to stay.”

“Well.” You could hear the smile in Molly’s voice. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Molly.”

“The girls aren’t awake yet. I’ll let them call you later? You know, when you’re not….busy.”

Molly was trying to hold back her suggestive laughter. 

Trying to remain cool and normal, despite the fact pajama-clad Clark Kent, with slightly messy hair and glasses, was leaning against the doorframe barely four inches from you, you tried to keep the conversation on track. 

“Keep me updated, yeah?”

“Course,” Molly said. “If it keeps snowing, maybe we can push Christmas Day?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll let you go. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Bye, Molly.” You said in a panic before quickly hanging up the phone. 

Clark looked at you, an amused expression on his face. “Everything okay?”

You nodded. “Everything’s fine. Breakfast?”

You heard Clark chuckle behind you, but he moved to plate up breakfast as you poured the coffee. 

Throughout the day, as Clark zipped around the city to help those who needed it, you checked on your neighbours. Some had braved the storm to pick up their shopping, others were hunkering down with a film and hot chocolate. 

By the time you were back inside your apartment, showered and dressed in pajamas once again, Clark knocked on your front door. 

“Did you bring all the snow in the city with you?” You asked, dusting him off as he stepped inside. “Let me get you a towel.”

Heading towards your dryer, you pulled out a towel and passed it to him as you took the coat from his hands and lifted it over the hook beside your door. 

“It’s not just the city,” he told you. “It’s basically the entire state. Mr Terrific, and the others, are helping where they can. But it’s getting dangerous, even for me. Clouds are thick, so is the snow.”

You nodded. “Go and take a shower,” you said. “I know you don’t get ill but, still. Any chance you saw where the storm will break?”

“It looks like we’ve got it for a while. Maybe by New Years, it’ll be clear enough to safely go out. But, until then?”

You swore under your breath. “Tell me you brought some stuff with you? Even Jimmy is staying with Lois.”

“Out in the hall!” Clark called from your bathroom. 

“Thank god,” you sighed under your breath. Opening the door, you found a navy blue dufflebag, decorated in old patches. 

Smallville High, Uni of Metropolis, Kent’s Dairy Farm – they were all used to cover up holes or tears in the fabric. 

Leaving his bag in your spare room, you made sure the drawers were clear of crap and there were fresh towels. 

You knocked twice on the bathroom door. “I’m not coming in,” you called out. “Just gonna leave the towels on the sink.”

“Okay!”

Cracking the door open just enough, you tossed the folded towels inside before closing the door once more. 

Halfway through cooking dinner, you turned down the hallway towards your bedrooms and bathroom. You hadn’t been expecting Clark – naked Clark – to be stepping out of the bathroom at the same time. 

But, when you did, you turned back quickly. 

One saving grace was the fact he had a towel wrapped around his waist, but that didn’t stop you from seeing anything else. Not that you were complaining at seeing it. 

But you were freaking out. 

Holy crap. 

Practically saved by the bell, your phone started ringing. 

“H-hello?”

“Not interrupting, am I?”

You turned away from where you were staring down your hallway. “N-no.”

“Y/n.”

Clearing your throat, you shook your head in order to try and clear the mental picture. “I’m fine.”

You could already picture Molly’s face on the other end of the telephone. A coy smile, her eyes silently curious and wanting to know every detail. 

“Are you?”

You chuckled. “I’m fine. Seriously, Mol. What’s up?”

“The girls wanted to speak to you.”

Bless your goddaughters for providing an adequate distraction from the 6’4, steaming hot, wet, seriously good looking…god. 

But even that didn’t last very long, because five minutes into Iris’ retelling of her snowman competition, Clark appeared again. 

“Washing machine?” He mouthed. 

You pointed down the hallway towards the hidden pantry at the back of your kitchen. 

His glasses were folded and laying on the kitchen table, meanwhile he stood in your laundry room, unloading the current washing (that you were yet to move) into the empty dryer. After pressing start, he loaded his own washing with detergent and softener before choosing the right setting and pressing start.

His damp hair was starting to curl and you were…staring. 

“Y/n!”

“S-sorry, honey. Say that again.”

“Mom says we can do Christmas after Christmas.”

You smiled, “Yeah. She told me. Isn’t it great? You know, Santa’s got a lot of presents to deliver tonight and with this storm, well, you gotta be in bed early for your mom, right?”

“I know. Do you think he’ll see our house, though?”

“Well, luckily for us, Santa has been doing his job a lot longer than the rest of us. I’m sure he and his reindeer know what they’re doing.”

“Rudolph can guide him with her nose!”

You smiled, again. “Exactly right.”

In the background, you could hear Molly hurrying Iris up for her bath. They all said goodbye to you quickly before the receiver went dead. 

“Molly and the girls?” Clark asked. 

“Yeah. They’re all okay. I was just about to make some dinner.”

“Want some help?”

“Sure.”

It was one of the first times in your life you didn’t want to kick someone out of the kitchen. Clark knew what he was doing and didn’t need constant instructions – even if it was just a simple shrimp-pasta dish. 

As you sat together, eating dinner, he caught you up on things happening around the city and asked you about the others in the building. By the time the dishes were cleaned and put away, you and Clark collapsed onto the sofa to watch a movie. 

“You called your folks yet?”

Clark nodded. “I called them before I came here. They’ve got this storm, too. Thankfully, it’s not as deep.”

“They know you’re staying with me?”

Clark chuckled. “Yes. So, if you kill me in my sleep, they know who suspect number one is.”

You laughed, putting your feet up. “Oh, please. Wouldn’t want to take the top spot from Luthor.”

“You can come a close second.”

You nodded, “I’ll take it.”

“So, what are we watching?”

You sighed, sinking further into your sofa. “You pick. I think I’ve watched every film twice by now.”

Eventually, Clark found one and somewhere between the baritone voice of Bing Crosby singing White Christmas and Count Your Blessings you felt yourself drift off to sleep. 

You just didn’t realise it was on Clark. 

Over the next few days, you and Clark celebrated Christmas together. You ate, you drank, you reminisced. With the wifi still down, the girls called you three times a day. You and Clark laughed as you heard Iris ask her mom if “this is what it was like living in the olden days”. 

It was New Year’s Eve by the time enough snow had cleared to ensure Clark could go home. Neither of you spoke about the fact that he could have left two days earlier. But, when you met him on the doorstep of your apartment building, dressed for a joint Christmas-Quiet New Years Celebration dinner at Molly’s, he did seem happy he got to see you again. 

“You look…wow.”

“Never thought Clark Kent would be lost for words,” you teased, taking his outstretched hand. 

After Molly had triple confirmed Clark could also be coming, per her (and the girls) invite, Clark managed to finally get you to agree to drive you. 

“Well, he is. I am.” Clark panicked for a moment. “I am lost for words.”

You chuckled, stepping closer to him in order to fix his tie. 

“Thank you.”

“Shall we go?”

Opening your door, Clark helped you slip into the passenger seat before he securely closed your door and got into the driver’s seat. The drive was a little under an hour, and by the time Clark was pulling up outside of Molly’s, you could see the girls dancing around the Christmas tree, screaming some form of lyrics. 

“Ready?” You asked Clark, but he just beamed back at you.

“Of course.”

Everything was going…as chaotically smooth as it could. The girls pestered Clark with questions, all of which he answered. Wrapping paper was everywhere. At one point, Clark reached up, gently, to pull a small stripe of green and white wrapping from your hair. 

The action didn’t go unnoticed by Molly, or Jane. 

Dinner was delicious, Clark helped Molly with the clean up whilst you kept the girls – mostly Iris – occupied outside in the snow. 

“So,” Molly started as she dried a plate Clark handed her. “How long have you had feelings for my girl?”

Clark nearly dropped the plate he was washing. “I-I’m sorry?”

Molly just moved, casually, turning herself to lean her back against the counter. “Clark. I might be distracted with two girls invoking chaos around this place 24/7, but I’m not blind.”

Clark admitted defeat pretty quickly. “What gave it away?”

Molly smiled to herself. “The way you act with her. Y/n’s convinced you’re like that with everyone, which I can believe. But…I know the difference. The way you look at her – like she is your entire galaxy, right in front of your eyes.”

Clark’s gaze drifted out of the window and into the backyard where you, Jane and Iris were building a snowman family. 

“She looks at you the same way, you know.” Molly pointed out. 

Clark shook his head, averting his gaze bashfully. “We’re- we’re just friends.”

“I know,” Molly nodded, placing a fist on his hip. “But you could be more. Just saying…you do her good.”

Clark looked at Molly with a curious gaze. So, Molly explained. 

“Y/n…she’s been through a lot.”

“You all have.”

Molly nodded. “But I saw mine coming. She didn’t. I don’t like talking about him, but that…asshole.” Molly struggled to find a nicer word. “He blindsided her. Pulled the rug, right from under her. In the later months, I didn’t see Y/n be..Y/n. Not like she was in the beginning. She trusted his judgement and he tried to make her tougher. Y/n was already tough, but never in the wrong way. She still had emotions. Empathy. She was never…cold. Or ruthless.”

Molly sighed. “Her entire world was knocked off its axis. I helped where I could but…she had herself convinced that she had to fix it. Alone. That she couldn’t trust anyone else. But…after she met you….” 

Molly smiled at Clark. “I know she fought with you, probably drove you crazy, but I saw her spark starting to come back. First the fire in her belly, to become a great reporter. Then…she started smiling again. She panicked less. Trusted her judgement more. You gave her a safe space, Clark. And as her closest friend, thank you.” 

Molly laid a hand over her heart as she spoke. “Thank you for helping bring back the girl I knew.”

Clark smiled, unsure of what to do. So, he nodded, gently. 

“I don’t know the kind of effect she’s had on your life, but from the way you look at her, I’m gonna guess it was a good one.”

Clark nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Yes, it was.”

“Then, I guess what I’m trying to say is…it could be better. Don’t be afraid. Y/n feels the same way, even if she doesn’t know it yet. It might take her a while to accept it, if she hasn’t already. Just…don’t be afraid.”

Molly’s words settled into Clark’s bones the same way yours had done all those months ago. A little kindness…and a safe space.

Suddenly, a snow ball hit the window. 

“Mommy! Mr Kent! Come on!” Iris yelled before she ran away. 

Outside, as a lighter snow started to fall, a snowball fight broke out. You and Iris, against Jane and Clark. Once Molly had stepped outside, all sides got switched. 

Iris left you for her mom, Jane joined you – eventually, it was everyone for themselves. 

You had gotten a couple points for hitting Clark, but very quickly realised his aim was a lot better. Especially when, after tag-teaming with Iris, he snuck up on your and took you down into a pile of snow. 

Laughter broke out from everyone. It was daughters versus mom on the other side of the garden whilst you tried to escape Clark’s snow covered grip. 

But, just as you and Clark stalled for a moment, breathless in each other's arms. Clark’s fingers reached up and brushed some snow from your face, whilst your own fingertips gently pressed into his chest, wrapping the wool of his jumper to pull him a little closer…

You both got hit with three snowballs. 

“Hey!”

You and Clark scrambled to your feet in laughter, gathering snow to defend your position. 

It was just before midnight when Iris and Jane fell asleep on the sofa, bone-tired from the snowball fight and dancing around the house to music. 

Molly woke Jane up long enough to get her up to bed, meanwhile Clark carried Iris to bed, your hand gently resting between his shoulder blades as you showed him the way to her room. 

“Moll, we’ll get out of your hair,” you told her. “We’ve gotta be back at work tomorrow.”

Molly nodded, secretly thankful that she got a sort-of early night. But, she did send you and Clark home with left-overs. 

“See you guys next year,” she called out from the front door. 

You chuckled, nearly slipping in the snow as you turned on your heels to see her and wave goodbye. Clark managed to catch you. 

“Night, Mol!”

“Take care of her, Clark.”

“I will! And thank you.”

As Molly closed the front door behind her, you and Clark stood beside his car, leaving the left overs on the roof, as he fished for the keys. 

In the distance, fireworks started to go off in the distance. So, pulling your phone out of your pocket, you flashed your lock screen (a picture of the girls at the Christmas Tree Farm) to show him the time. 

“It’s midnight. Happy New Year, Clark.”

“Happy New Year, Y/n.”

You didn’t kiss Clark. You wanted to, but you didn’t. 

Clark didn’t kiss you. He wanted to, but he didn’t. 

But you both thought about the entire drive home. 

As he opened your passenger door. As he started the engine of the car, letting the front window defrost. At the red light, just before entering the city. At every red light after that. When Clark finally pulled up outside your apartment. When you told him he didn’t have to walk you up. When he got out of the car anyway. 

And when you finally got to your door. 

“I guess this is good-”

You cut Clark off, reaching up and putting a hand on the back of his neck to pull him closer to you. He took no time in kissing you back, or having you leaning against the beam of your front door. 

“We should have done that sooner,” Clark said, breathlessly. 

“I agree.”

And yet, for all his control, Theodore Nott never saw her coming.

You were the opposite of him in every imaginable way. Where Theo was ice, you were fire. Where he was all razor edges and restraint, you were charisma wrapped in silk-light on your feet, quick with a smile, and clever enough to make people believe it was all effortless. Manhattan adored women like you, the kind who could waltz into a cocktail party and leave everyone wondering if you were a rising starlet, a diplomat’s daughter, or simply someone too magnetic to ignore.

But under the charm was something sharper. Cunning. A wit you wore like perfume, invisible until it lingered too long. You’d learned early in your career that journalism wasn’t just about telling stories-it was about manipulating them, bending them, making people say more than they meant to.

And right now, you had a story to write.

How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.

It wasn’t what you wanted. You’d studied politics and history, cut your teeth on local corruption pieces that never made it past the third page of the Metro section. But your editor at The Manhattan Herald thought you had “a gift” for lifestyle writing-quirky, conversational, deceptively sharp. So instead of unearthing scandals on Capitol Hill, you were assigned to play social scientist in stilettos.

Ten days. Ten dating sins. One poor man who’d never see it coming.

Theo wasn’t supposed to be that man. Not by design. Not by fate. You were supposed to find someone forgettable, someone easy. But New York had a way of throwing people together at the wrong time, in the wrong place, under the wrong skyline. And when your paths crossed-your laughter cutting through the clink of cocktail glasses, his eyes catching yours with unnerving steadiness-the countdown began.

Neither of you knew the other’s game. He thought he was in control, as always. You thought you were, too.

Ten days. One bet. One byline.

And in a city that never slept, it was only a matter of time before the rules unraveled.

Chapters: 

The Assignment

Day One 

Day Two 

Day Three 

Day Four 

Day Five 

Day Six 

Day Seven 

Day Eight 

Day Nine 

Day Ten 

Love in Print 

The Story After 

You needed to interview soldiers for a newspaper article. Steve and Bucky volunteered to be the two soldiers for the newspaper. The whole time you were interviewing them, Bucky was flirting with you. He smirks to himself, loving how flustered you get when he’s flirting with you and complimenting you. He was biting his bottom lip in a flirtatious way and gives you “fuck me” eyes. It’s like he was trying to undress you with his eyes. That made you even more flustered than you already are.

“Thank- Thank you guys so much for- for taking time out of your busy day to let me interview you.” You say with stutters.

“It’s our pleasure, doll face.” Bucky says flirtatiously.

Bucky smirks as he watches blush creep up on your cheeks.

“I hope to see you really soon, doll. Really soon.” Bucky says flirtatiously, but also a sultry tone as he walks out of the room with Steve.

You watched him leave the room, your gaze wandering a few seconds longer than it should have. You cleared your throat before packing your notebook and pen away in your bag. As you were walking down the hallway, you yelped when a hand grabs your arm and pulls you into a storage room. You were about to fight back when you realized it was just Bucky.

“Oh- Oh- Sergeant Barnes.” You stuttered.

“Call me Bucky, doll.” Bucky almost whispers.

Bucky pins you against a shelf. Your heart began to race. You stared deeply in his blue eyes as he gently cups your cheek with one hand while the other hand was on the shelf next to your head.

“I’m going to show you what I can do.” He says softly.

“O-Ok.” You stuttered.

Bucky kisses you, softly at first and then it gets heated by the second. Your bag falls out of your hand and you grasp on to the jacket of his Army uniform, pulling him closer to you if it’s even possible. Bucky moves his lips down to your neck, marking you up before sinking down to his knees. He moves your dress up above your hips, revealing your panties to him. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and pulls them down your legs and puts them in his pocket.

“Spread your legs for me, gorgeous.” Bucky says softly.

You spread your legs just enough for Bucky to get in between them. He places soft kisses on your inner thighs as he works his way up to your pussy. A shiver went through your body when you felt his breath on your slick pussy.

“Is all of this for me?” He asks softly.

You opened your mouth to answer him, but a moan left your lips when his fingers rubs your clit in a few slow circles.

“Yes!” You finally say.

Bucky puts one of your legs on his shoulder and began to eat you out like a starved man. One of your hands held onto the shelf to keep yourself from falling and your other hand was covering your mouth to muffle your moans.

“Let me hear those pretty moans.” Bucky says.

You took your hand off of your mouth, moaning out for Bucky. The sound of your moans went straight to his cock.

“You taste as sweet as you look.” He says, almost moaning against your pussy.

You reached your free hand down to grab onto his soft dark brown hair, tugging on the strands as he ate you out. Bucky moans against you the more you tug on his hair.

“You like that, don’t you, babydoll? Oh, I know you do.” Bucky says in a soft cooing voice.

“Yes!” You moaned.

Blush crept up on your cheeks when you moaned out loud, but at the same time, you don’t care that anyone outside of the room hears what you and Bucky are doing. Bucky doesn’t care if anyone hears you two either. He wants them to hear you. He wants them to know who’s making you feel this good.

That’s when Bucky did something that caught you off guard. He slides two fingers in your pussy, fucking you with them as his tongue flicked at your clit. Your fingers tighten their grip on his hair. Your hips bucked against his face when he curls his fingers, hitting that one spot inside of you.

“Ah fuck!” You moaned in a whiny voice.

“Did I find your little spot, doll face?” Bucky asks softly.

“Mhmm, yes!” You moaned and nodded.

Bucky’s fingers continue to hit that one spot inside of you each time he curls his fingers. His tongue never stops licking at your clit in a motion. Between his fingers fucking your pussy and his tongue working its magic on your clit, you’re going to cum pretty soon. Pretty soon as in any second. You’re just about there. You can feel it. Bucky could sense it by the way your pussy was squeezing his fingers.

“You gonna cum for me, babydoll?” He asks in a cooing voice.

“Yes! I- fuck! Please!” You moaned.

“Cum for me, gorgeous. Make a mess on my face.” He says huskily.

You leaned your head back against one of the shelves, your mouth falling agape as a moan tore from your mouth. Bucky’s fingers and tongue never stopped their movements as you came, soaking his face. Then he finally removes his fingers from your pussy and gave your pussy one last lick before standing up and kissing you hungrily. You moaned against his lips as you tasted yourself on his lips.

Bucky’s hands quickly got to work on unbuckling his belt, along with unbuttoning and unzipping his uniform pants. He pulls his pants down just enough for his hard cock to spring out. He grasps onto the backs of your thighs and picks you up, pinning you against the shelf once again and wrapping your legs around his waist. You moaned when his cock touches your pussy.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me, doll face?” Bucky asks softly as he lines his cock at your entrance.

“Y-Yes.” You stuttered shyly.

Bucky pushes his cock inside of you. Your mouth fell agape and you leaned your head back against the shelf when you felt how big he is. His tip alone stretched your pussy. It stings, but at the same time, it feels good.

“You’re so big!” You blurted out.

Your face turned red and you covered your mouth with your hand right after you said that. You felt yourself becoming even more shy than you were when you met him this morning.

“I want to hear those pretty noise you make for me.” Bucky says, taking your hand off of your mouth.

Your mouth fell agape, soft moans leaving your lips as his cock slides deep inside of you. You leaned your head back against the shelf.

“There we go.” He praises when he’s balls deep inside of you. “I’m going to make you feel so good, doll face.” He says.

Bucky wraps one arm around your waist firmly while his free hand is placed on your thigh. You put your hands on Bucky’s shoulders. His thrusts started off slow and then sped up within seconds. His thrusts are relentless and deep. The shelf hit the wall with each thrust. People who are on the outside of the room you and Bucky are fucking in looked at the locked door with an eyebrow raised as they heard moans and the shelf hitting the wall as they walked by.

“B-Bucky, they can hear us.” You stuttered and moaned.

“I don’t care. Let them hear what a dirty girl you are for me.” Bucky says.

You gasped at his words, but at the same time, it made you want more.

“More please! More!” You begged.

It’s like all of the shyness left your body in that moment as you were begging for more.

“You want more, huh? What happened to the shy girl who was interviewing me and Steve earlier, huh?” Bucky asks with a cocky smirk on his face.

You whined, all of the shyness returning. Bucky chuckles as blush creeps up on your face.

“There she is. There’s my shy girl.” He coos.

You hide your face against his shoulder, but he gently pulls your head up so you’re making eye contact with him.

“Eyes on me, babydoll.” He says.

Bucky watches as your eyes looked at his lips. He took that as a sign that you wanted him to kiss you. The kiss was a mixture of hunger and heat. Your hands found their way to his head, carding your fingers through his soft dark brown hair. You occasionally tugged on his hair, which made him moan against your lips.

Then one of Bucky’s hands found its way to your clit, giving it a flick with his thumb. You gasped and arched yourself against him. Bucky chuckles deeply at your reaction. His finger began rubbing your clit in a fast circular motion.

“B-Bucky!” You squeaked out a moan.

“Yea, you like this, don’t you, doll? You like it when I play with your little clit?” Bucky says dirtily.

“Y-Yes! Oh god, yes!” You moaned.

Bucky’s dirty words got to you and made you want him even more. His fingers rubbing your clit made your orgasm build up a bit quicker than your first one. Bucky felt your legs shaking against his sides. That told him that you’re going to cum soon.

“You gonna cum, babydoll?” Bucky asks in a cooing voice.

“Mhmm, y-yes.” You replied.

“Cum for me, gorgeous. I’m right there too.” He says softly in your ear.

Your mouth fell agape, a pornographic moan of his name leaving your mouth. Your head fell back against the shelf and your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came on his cock.

“God damn. You’re fucking soaked.” Bucky says lowly, referring to how hard you came on his cock.

Bucky’s thrusts never faltered for a second. After a few more thrusts, he cums inside of you, stilling his hips against you.

“Fuck…” Bucky breathes.

You two stayed in that position for a moment before he pulls his softened cock out of your cum filled pussy and gently puts you down on your feet. You pulled your dress back down. Bucky pulls his pants back up while you stood there, waiting for him to give your panties back to you.

“Sergeant Barnes, can I have my panties back?” You asked shyly.

“Nope.” Bucky answers, popping the P. “You’re going to walk out of here with my cum dripping out of your pretty pussy.” He says dirtily.

Blush crept up on your cheeks at the thought of Bucky’s cum dripping out of your pussy.

“Don’t get all shy on me now, doll face. You weren’t shy when I had my cock in your pussy.” He says with a smirk.

Your breath hitches. Then you bent down to pick up your bag. Bucky gives your ass a smack, making you gasp. He grabs your arm and pulls you back to him as you reached for the doorknob, giving you a filthy kiss that left you wanting more.

“Come find me when you publish that article so we can celebrate.” Bucky says softly.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes.” You almost whispered.

You opened the door and walked out of the room, looking down at the floor to avoid everyone’s gaze on you and Bucky. Bucky, on the other hand, had a smug smirk plastered on his face.

“You didn’t.” Steve says as he walks over to him.

“Oh, but I did and it’s not going to be the last time.” Bucky says with that same smug smirk on his face.

You should’ve listened to Clark.

You know that, like it’s muscle memory. The same way you know the back stairwell at the Daily Planet creaks on the fourth step, or that Lois is still stealing your pens and lying about it. You knew it before the glass cut your arm, before the alarm tripped. Before the first guard called for backup and you realized again, you’d pushed too far, gone in too deep, and now you’re facing it alone.

Waiting has never been your strong suit.

“I’ll be quick,” you’d told yourself. You always say that. LexCorp was practically dead after hours, just the hum from the lower floors and a lazy security rotation. You had a tip, a burner phone, and a fake ID clipped to your jacket. But you didn’t have a plan for what to do if someone spotted you.

Now there’s a gash on your upper arm from broken glass, your phone’s somewhere between the lab and the elevator shaft, and two armed guards are looking for you, while you’re crouched in the shadows, behind a desk.

You press your palm to the bleeding wound. It’s not deep, not lethal, but enough to sting like hell and remind you that Clark is going to kill you for this.

Or worse, look at you like a kicked puppy.

That soft, hollowed-out expression. Like he’s not angry, just scared. Like he’s already seeing the headline: “Local Journalist Killed in Break-In Gone Wrong”. And honestly, you’re starting to see it too, but nothing can satiate your curiosity.

There’s a metallic click somewhere in the distance, then heavy footsteps.

You try to move, but your shoe snags on the wiring from whatever prototype Lex was hiding back here, and the noise echoes louder than you thought it would. Someone’s yelling now. A flashlight beams through the dark room, thankfully not on you. You curse under your breath and get to your feet, stumbling down a hallway with no plan other than to run.

When you’re almost to the door a voice shouts, “She’s over here!”—the air pressure changes in a way you’re all too familiar with.

And then, across the room— Crash.

One of the side walls collapses in on itself, sending the a few guards flying backwards. You stay hidden behind the desk just as a red cape swirls into view.

Clark.

His eyes are glowing faintly with heat, not firing, but threatening. His whole body hums with restraint, like he’s one breath from tearing the place down.

You hurt?” he calls, not turning his head, not taking his eyes off some of the guards as they scramble to flee.

You rise slowly. “Just a scratch.”

He turns, when he sees the blood that faint glow in his eyes fades instantly.

His voice drops. “Jesus.”

You force a smile, trying to play it off. “Took you long enough.”

His head whips toward you, sharp. You regret the joke before you’ve finished saying it.

“I was in Alaska,” he says, not yelling, but a little exasperated. “You didn’t even call.”

“I was going to,” you say quickly. “I thought I had more time.”

Clark’s already crossing the room, eyes on your arm. “You always think that.”

His hand wraps gently around your wrist. His thumb brushes the skin just above the band of your watch. His fingers are warm and strong.

“I had it under control,” you say, quieter now.

He meets your eyes. “No,” he says. “You didn’t.”

You open your mouth to argue, but there’s no fight in you tonight. Not with the way he’s looking at you.

He shrugs off his cape and drapes it over your shoulders without a word. Smooths it into place like he’s done it before.

“You said you’d wait for me,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“You promised.”

You nod, jaw tight. “I know.”

And when you finally look at him, he doesn’t look like Superman. He looks like Clark. The one who leaves handwritten notes on your desk when he knows you’re having a bad week. The one who folds your laundry wrong but insists on doing it anyway. The one who proof reads your writing three times before print, even when he’s running on no sleep and six hours behind on his own work.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” you say. “I figured I’d be in and out.”

He swallows hard. “I’d rather take a bullet than get that call.”

You blink. “Clark—”

“I mean it.” His voice doesn’t crack, but it’s close. “You don’t get it. Every time you run off without telling me, every time I hear a siren and don’t know where you are, I have to pretend I’m not already imagining the worst.”

You want to say something, but you don’t know what.

He reaches out and brushes a thumb gently over your cheekbone. “Why do you keep doing this?”

You exhale. “Because if I don’t, who will? The people need to know what Lex is doing down here. And I don’t have heat vision, Clark. I don’t have super-hearing or a team of intergalactic allies. I’ve got a notepad and a byline and a little bit of nerve. That’s it.”

His brows draw in, not angry, almost heartbroken.

“You’re braver than me.” he murmurs.

You snort, dry. “You literally just busted through a concrete wall.”

“I did that with backup, with powers. You do this alone, with nothing.”

“That’s not true,” you say, barely audible. “I’ve got you.”

Clark stares at you, like you’ve just said something painful.

Then he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping tight around you, tucking your head under his chin. His heart beats steady and solid against your ear.

You don’t say anything for a while.

Then, “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too,” he says, quiet and certain. “But if you sneak into LexCorp again, I’m welding the fire escape shut.”

You snort. “Bet you say that to all the girls you pull out of near-death situations.”

He leans back just far enough to look at you, deadpan. “Only you.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He flies you home just before sunrise, and when he sets you down on the fire escape outside your apartment. Your blood is still dried on your sleeve, making the fabric stick to your arm.

The cape slides off your shoulders the second you finally step inside. You’re still clutching it like a blanket when Clark gently tugs it away and tosses it over the arm of the couch.

“Sit,” he says, already turning toward the hallway.

“Clark, I’m fine—”

“You’re bleeding,” he calls back. “And limping. Don’t make me carry you.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” you mutter, sitting on the couch anyway.

He reappears a few seconds later, first-aid kit tucked under his arm, sleeves rolled up, and a very specific look on his face: half “concerned boyfriend,” half “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You lift your arm as he kneels in front of you and carefully pushes the fabric of your sleeve back. His fingers hesitate for a second before they touch you, like he’s scared he might hurt you.

You break the silence first. “You’re mad at me.”

He doesn’t look up. “No, I’m—” He exhales. “I’m worried about you. I hate being late.”

“You weren’t late. You showed up exactly when I needed you.”

He peels the gauze open, voice soft but edged with something strained. “You were supposed to wait.”

That makes you frown, even if it hurts a little. “You do realize I wasn’t trying to get caught.”

He glances up at you now, eyebrows lifted. “You broke into a restricted research wing of LexCorp by yourself. What did you think was gonna happen? They’d give you a guided tour?”

“I thought I’d be in and out before anyone noticed,” you mumble, wincing as he dabs at the cut.

Clark gives you a look. “You thought Lex Luthor wouldn’t have cameras.”

You don’t answer.

“Clark,” you sigh, quieter. “You know I have to chase the story.”

“You don’t have to chase it straight into a security lockdown,” he says, voice low. “You’re brilliant. You’re stubborn. You find leads no one else does. But if something had happened to you tonight—if I hadn’t gotten there in time…”

You don’t say anything. Because you don’t like the way he says “hadn’t gotten there in time.” Like it was close, like the idea really did sit heavy in his chest until he got you home safe.

He clears his throat. “There’s only so much you can hide behind jokes and adrenaline, you know.”

“Is that your subtle way of calling me emotionally avoidant?”

“I’m saying I love you,” he says, like it’s that simple, it always is with him.

You frown, guilt weighing heavy on your chest. “Clark.”

“I know who you are. I know you’re going to keep doing this. I’m not asking you to stop.” He wraps the gauze around your arm slowly, carefully. “I just need you to trust me enough to call next time, or to wait for me.”

Your voice drops to something raw. “What if you’re in another country again?”

“Then tell me and i’ll come back.” His hands still on your arm, steady and warm.

You study his face, how tired he looks up close. Not physically, but something else. The weight of caring about you too much.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, softly.

“You didn’t,” he says automatically, then shakes his head. “You did. Of course you did. But you also… you always scare me. That’s what loving you is like.”

You swallow thickly. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” he says gently.

“I’m not,” you agree. “But I will let you finish playing nurse if it’ll make you feel better.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath. “You think this makes me feel better?”

“You love fussing over me.”

“I do,” he says again, more firmly this time. “Bandages and all.”

When he’s done, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. He just kneels there, thumb brushing across your knuckles. That look in his eyes again, like he’s memorizing you, just in case.

You squeeze his hand. “You staying tonight?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You lean forward and press your forehead to his, letting your eyes fall closed. “You’re the only reason I’m still breathing, you know that?”

“No,” he says softly. “You are.”

You let the moment stretch out. Long and quiet. The kind of silence that only exists when two people trust each other not to break it.

Then, eventually, Clark gets up and scoops you into his arms like it’s second nature, which it is. You pretend to protest, but your head falls onto his shoulder anyway, and your fingers curl into the back of his shirt.

“Bed,” he says firmly. “Then sleep. Then tomorrow, you’re giving me every detail of that LexCorp tip.”

You smile into his neck. “What happened to ‘never doing that again’?”

“I know better,” he mutters, brushing his lips against your temple. “You’ll never stop chasing danger.”

“And you’ll never stop saving me.”

“That’s the deal.”

The Cruciatus curse tore through your body in your memory just as vividly as it had that night. White-hot agony flooding your veins, seizing every nerve, forcing screams from your throat until your voice had broken into something hoarse and unrecognizable. It had felt as though your bones were splintering from the inside out, as though your own body had turned against you.

Even now, your wrists throbbed with phantom pain where the ropes had bitten into your skin. They burned, as if the fibers were still digging into them.

Your scalp stung too—raw, tender—where Bellatrix had grabbed fistfuls of your hair and yanked your head back with violent delight. You could almost feel her breath near your ear again, hear the madness laced through her voice.

It wasn’t a dream.

It was a reliving.

Every sound. Every scream. Every unbearable second.

Your mind replayed it with ruthless clarity, forcing you to feel it all over again.

Something inside you had shattered in that dungeon. You were certain of it. As if someone had reached into your chest and torn out a piece of your soul, leaving behind a hollow ache you couldn’t explain, couldn’t fill, couldn’t escape.

Everything hurt.

Your body twisted beneath the blankets, tossing and turning, desperate to outrun the images clawing through your mind. Your breath came quicker. Your fingers clenched in the sheets.

Stop.

Please stop.

But the memories refused to release you.

And suddenly you were awake.

You jolted upright with a gasp, dragging in air like someone who had just been pulled from deep water. Your chest heaved violently as panic flooded your lungs. Sweat clung to your skin, soaked through your clothes, strands of hair plastered against your forehead.

The room was silent.

Dead quiet.

For a moment you didn’t move, your wide eyes darting around the darkness as your heart hammered against your ribs.

Then you heard it.

Soft. Rhythmic.

Theo.

He was asleep on the couch across the room, his breathing deep and even, a faint snore escaping him every now and then. Completely unaware. Safe.

The sight of him should have comforted you.

Instead, your chest tightened painfully. Your gaze lingered on him, and within seconds your vision blurred with tears.

How could you trust him?

The thought cut through you like ice. He had the mark. The Dark Mark. Theo was a Death Eater. Your mind spiraled instantly, feeding the fear that still lived in your bones.

What if everything he’d done for you was a lie?

What if every gentle word, every reassuring look, every act of kindness was nothing more than a carefully crafted performance?

A ruse. A way to earn your trust. To get close enough to learn everything he could about Dumbledore’s Army. About Wizards Anonymous. About the people hiding, fighting, surviving.

Your breathing quickened.

What if this was all a trap?

What if he was waiting for the right moment to drag you back there? Back into that dungeon. Back into their hands.

Your stomach twisted violently.

No.

You couldn’t go back.

You wouldn’t go back.

The thought alone made your chest seize with panic.

You didn’t know Theo anymore. Not really. Two years had passed since you had last seen him. Two years of war. Two years of darkness creeping into every corner of the wizarding world. Two years for someone to change.

What if the boy you once knew was gone?

What if the darkness had swallowed him whole?

You couldn’t risk it. Your fingers trembled as tears slid silently down your pale cheeks and you looked at him one last time. He slept peacefully, completely unaware of the storm raging inside your mind.

Slowly—carefully—you slipped out of the sofa.

The floor felt cold beneath your bare feet as you tiptoed toward the door, every step deliberate, cautious. Your breath came shallow and controlled, as if even breathing too loudly might wake him.

Please don’t be locked. You silently pleaded as you approached the door, your fingers wrapped around the doorknob.

You turned it.

It didn’t move.

Locked.

Your chest tightened instantly.

Panic began creeping in again, clawing up your throat. Your hands shook as you tried to steady your breathing.

Think. Think. Think.

Your wand.

Where is your wand?

Your eyes darted around the dim room.

Of course. They had taken it.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you scanned desperately for anything that could help you open the door.

And then you saw it. Theo’s wand. It rested casually on the coffee table beside the couch where he slept.

Your stomach twisted.

No, you shouldn't.

You hesitated, your breath hitching. But you didn’t have a choice. If you wanted to leave… if you wanted to escape this place before doubt swallowed you whole… you needed it.

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself, before taking a careful step toward the table.

Then another.

And another.

Each movement was painfully slow, deliberate, your body tense with the fear of waking him. You barely breathed, afraid even the smallest sound might stir him.

Your fingers finally closed around the wand. You froze in place.

Theo didn’t move, he was still asleep.

You exhaled shakily and turned toward the door, heart thundering in your chest as you raised the wand.

“Alohomora,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath as you flicked the wand gently.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

Click.

The sound was almost impossibly quiet, but to you it echoed like thunder.

The door was unlocked.

Your hand lingered on the knob for just a second before you glanced back at Theo. He looked peaceful. Vulnerable, even.

Guilt twisted sharply in your chest. An apologetic smile flickered briefly across your face, though tears still blurred your vision.

But you couldn’t trust him. Not anymore.

How could you?

The wand slipped from your fingers and clattered softly against the floor.

You didn’t even care about the noise.

The moment the door opened, you ran, out into the night, without looking back.

The cold hit you the moment you stepped outside. It sliced through the thin fabric of the clothes Theo had lent you, biting into your skin like a thousand tiny needles. A violent shiver ran through your body, your teeth nearly chattering as the early winter air wrapped around you.

But adrenaline soon drowned it out.

Your body moved before your mind could even catch up, feet pounding against the cobblestone as you ran. Faster. Further. Anywhere but there.

Don’t let them catch you.

The thought repeated over and over in your mind like a frantic chant, pushing you forward when your lungs burned and your legs trembled.

Don’t let them catch you.

Your eyes darted wildly around the unfamiliar streets, searching desperately for something—anything—that looked familiar. A building. A sign. A corner you recognized.

But everything looked strange. Wrong. Unfamiliar.

Your heart pounded violently against your ribs as panic threatened to swallow you whole.

You had no idea where you were. None.

The realization made your stomach twist painfully.

But then another thought pushed through the fear.

You weren’t there.

You weren’t in that house.

You weren’t in that dungeon.

You weren’t trapped in that cage anymore.

The realization hit you so suddenly that your vision blurred. Your eyes burned with tears.

You were free.

Tears of pure, overwhelming relief. But you forced them back.

Because you couldn’t stop now, not until you were somewhere safe.

Your breathing came in harsh, ragged pulls, your chest rising and falling violently with every desperate inhale. The cold air scraped painfully down your throat, making your lungs ache.

Your arms had begun to feel numb, your fingers stiff and trembling. Angry red patches bloomed across your knuckles where the cold had bitten into your skin.

Theo’s clothes did almost nothing to protect you from the weather.

The early winter wind cut straight through the fabric, through your skin, sinking deep into your bones.

But you didn’t stop, you couldn’t. Not even if your mind screamed in pain, your legs continued moving restlessly.

Then something caught your eye--a faint flicker of yellow light in the distance. Your steps faltered for a moment as you stared.

A lamp.

Crooked. Leaning awkwardly to one side as if it had been fighting gravity for years and was finally starting to lose.

The metal was dark with rust, the base slightly bent, its frame worn down by time and weather. It looked as though a strong wind might knock it over completely.

But you knew that lamp.

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

It wasn’t just any street lamp.

It was the lamp.

The oldest one in all of Diagon Alley.

The Ministry of Magic had refused to remove it for centuries despite countless complaints about how unstable it looked. According to them, it had stood there for more than three hundred years and was now considered a historical artifact.

You remembered the endless jokes about it.

The late nights behind the bar at the Leaky Cauldron, laughing with your coworkers about how one day the thing would finally collapse and take half the street with it.

Your chest tightened.

It had to be it.

Hope surged through you so suddenly it almost hurt. You stumbled forward again, navigating through the narrow alleyways with renewed urgency. Every turn revealed something more familiar than the last.

A crooked shop sign. A shuttered storefront. A narrow archway you had walked through a hundred times before.

Your pulse raced.

You were close.

You knew you were.

Home.

The word echoed through your mind like a lifeline.

The cold continued to slice through you, the wind tugging at your hair and clothes, but you barely felt it anymore. Your body ached, every muscle screaming from exhaustion, yet you kept running.

You glanced over your shoulder again and again, paranoia gripping you tightly.

Were they following you?

Were there dark figures lurking somewhere in the shadows?

Watching. Waiting.

Your breathing grew even faster, uneven and desperate.

Your body hurt. Your mind hurt even more.

But something deep inside you refused to let you stop.

You can do it.

Just a little further.

You’re almost there.

That single thought kept pushing you forward. One more street. One more turn. And when you turned left into the narrow road, your heart nearly stopped.

There it was.

Your house. Just down the street.

For a moment your legs nearly gave out beneath you.

You stared at it as if it might disappear the moment you blinked.

You couldn’t believe it.

After everything… after those endless hours trapped in that place…

You were actually here.

Something inside you trembled with disbelief, as if you expected the Death Eaters to appear at any second and rip this away from you too.

Your vision blurred again.

Tears burned behind your eyes even before you reached the door.

You were so close.

So close to locking that door behind you.

So close to escaping the nightmare that had consumed the last days of your life.

You sprinted the final few steps and grabbed the doorknob.

You twisted it, but it didn’t move.

Locked.

Of course it was locked. You had locked it yourself the morning you left for work.

Before everything happened. Before they took you.

Panic surged through you again, sharp and suffocating. For a single terrifying second your mind went blank.

But then— the spare key.

Your breath hitched as the memory surfaced through the chaos in your mind. You always kept one hidden beneath one of the flower pots on the porch.

Your hands fumbled desperately through the row of plants, knocking soil loose as you lifted one after another with trembling fingers.

The small metal key gleamed faintly beneath the pot and in a second relief rushed through you so violently your knees nearly buckled.

You grabbed it with shaking hands, nearly dropping it twice before managing to shove it into the lock.

The door clicked open.

You rushed inside and slammed the door shut behind you with a force that echoed through the quiet house. Your hands immediately fumbled for the lock again, twisting it tight as if that thin piece of metal could keep the entire world out.

Only then did your body finally give in. Your back slid slowly down the door until you collapsed onto the floor, hands pressed against your forehead, your body shaking violently.

And that was when everything broke.

The tears came all at once.

Not quiet. Not gentle. Loud. Bouncing off the walls.

They ripped out of you in raw, broken sobs that echoed through the empty house. Your chest heaved violently as you cried, every breath shuddering through you like it hurt to exist.

Your lip trembled uncontrollably as you struggled to inhale between the sobs, but the sounds wouldn’t stop escaping you.

All the fear. The pain. The pure agony.

All the terror you had forced yourself to hold back.

It poured out of you all at once, filling the silent house with the sound of your grief.

You remained there for a long time—long enough that the frantic rhythm of your sobs slowly dissolved into exhausted silence.

Your back stayed pressed firmly against the door as if your body alone could keep the entire world outside. Your knees were pulled tightly against your chest, arms wrapped around them so hard your fingers had begun to ache.

At some point the night had fully settled.

The faint gray light of evening had faded into darkness, leaving your house wrapped in a quiet so deep it almost rang in your ears.

Once your crying finally stopped, the world outside crept back in.

The gentle humming of crickets filled the air like a soft, endless song. Somewhere nearby, leaves rustled quietly in the breeze. Most of them had already fallen with the turning season, but a few stubborn brown ones still clung to their branches, trembling whenever the wind passed through.

It should have been peaceful.

It should have felt safe.

But peace never reached you.

Your body remained tense, every muscle pulled tight like a wire ready to snap. Even the smallest unfamiliar sound made your shoulders jerk.

A distant footstep. The creak of wood. The faint scrape of something shifting outside.

Each noise sent a spike of panic through you.

Your head would snap toward the door instantly, heart pounding, breath caught halfway in your throat.

Your mind never allowed simple explanations.

Those weren’t neighbors walking home. They weren’t late-night wanderers crossing the street.

They were Death Eaters. They were coming for you again.

Any second now the door would burst open. Any second masked figures would drag you back into the dark.

Your eyes drifted toward the kitchen without meaning to, already imagining the knife drawer. The thought came automatically now—grab something, anything, to defend yourself.

Your hands curled tighter around your legs. You didn’t even have your wand. The realization made your stomach twist violently.

You were wandless. Completely defenseless.

And the worst part was you knew you couldn’t replace it anytime soon. Wands weren’t cheap, not by a long shot, and right now simply surviving felt expensive enough.

Walking through the wizarding world during a war without a wand was practically a death sentence.

Especially after what had already happened to you.

Your breathing began to grow uneven again, panic creeping slowly back into your chest.

You forced yourself to take a shaky breath.

Then another.

Your hands drifted down to your wrists, fingers brushing gently over the dark bruises still staining the skin there. The marks were angry shades of purple and red, reminders of the ropes that had once dug into them.

You rubbed the tender skin slowly, trying to ease the dull ache that still lingered beneath the surface.

Your fingers trembled.

Only then did you really notice it.

The fabric.

You were still wearing Theo’s clothes.

The realization settled over you slowly, and with it came something even more dangerous.

The faint scent of him still clung to the material.

Warm. Familiar.

Safe.

Your fingers instinctively tightened in the fabric of the sleeve, pulling it slightly closer around yourself.

Merlin help you… you didn’t want to take it off.

Because it smelled like him.

Because wrapped inside it, for a fleeting moment, the chaos inside your mind seemed to quiet just a little.

Like an anchor thrown into stormy water.

And you hated that.

You hated how your chest tightened when you thought about him.

Hated how your mind kept drifting back to the image of him asleep on that couch, peaceful and unaware.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him.

Not like this.

Your thoughts twisted painfully.

Maybe you shouldn’t have left.

The idea slipped in quietly, like a whisper you hadn’t meant to hear.

Maybe you should have stayed, talked to him, asked him where he had been all these years. Asked him what had happened to him during the war. Asked him why he had helped you.

Your chest ached with the memory of his voice, the way he had looked at you, the strange gentleness that had been there.

You swallowed hard.

Maybe you should have trusted him.

Maybe—

“No.”

The word left your lips in a hoarse whisper. You shook your head quickly, as if physically pushing the thought away. That was stupid. Dangerously stupid.

Theo had the Dark Mark burned into his skin. He was a Death Eater.

Your fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeve, grip tightening almost painfully. The people who carried that same mark were the ones who had done this to you.

The ones who had left bruises on your wrists. Who had dragged endless screams from your throat. The ones who had carved scars into your body and mind that would probably never truly fade.

He was one of them.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly. You needed to stop questioning yourself, stop wondering if you had made the wrong decision.

Leaving had been the only safe choice-the only logical one.

You had done the right thing.

You had to believe that.

That night, sleep remained something distant, something unreachable, as though the simple act of resting had been taken from you along with so many other things. You lay in your bed long after the house had gone still, your body curled beneath the blankets, yet every muscle remained tense, rigid, as if even the softness of the mattress could not convince your body that it was safe to relax. The room was familiar—every piece of furniture, every creak in the floorboards, every faint outline of shadows on the walls belonged to a place you had once called your sanctuary—but your mind refused to believe it.

The darkness pressed in around you, thick and heavy, and you found yourself staring at the ceiling for hours, afraid that if you allowed your eyes to close for more than a moment something terrible would happen.

At first it was just the wind brushing against the trees outside, the quiet whisper of dry leaves scraping against one another, but even that was enough to send your heart racing violently. The moment the sound reached your ears, your body reacted before your mind had time to reason with it—you shot upright in bed, breath catching sharply in your throat as panic rushed through you like lightning. Your eyes darted immediately toward the window, wide and searching, as if you expected to see masked figures standing there in the dark, waiting for the right moment to break in.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly while you listened.

Was it the wind?

Or footsteps?

Your mind never gave you the comfort of the simpler answer. Instead, it fed your fear relentlessly, twisting every harmless noise into something sinister. The branches scraping against the wall sounded like movement—robes brushing against stone, someone shifting their weight quietly outside. The soft creak of wood somewhere in the house sounded like a door opening, like someone stepping carefully through the hallway.

And the worst part was the feeling that refused to leave you.

The sensation that someone was watching.

You couldn’t see them, you couldn’t hear them clearly, but your mind insisted they were there somewhere in the darkness, just out of sight, patient and silent, waiting to drag you back into the nightmare you had barely escaped.

You threw the blankets aside and climbed out of bed, your feet touching the cold wooden floor as you hurried to the window, your hands trembling slightly as you pulled the curtain aside just enough to glance outside.

Nothing.

The garden sat quietly under the pale glow of the moon. The bushes swayed gently when the wind passed through them, and the branches cast strange shapes across the ground, but there was no one there.

No movement.

No shadows creeping closer.

Just the night.

Still, the unease never left your chest.

Eventually you returned to bed, but sleep remained shallow and fragile. Every time your eyes drifted shut another sound would pull you violently back to consciousness—the distant hoot of an owl, the faint creaking of the house settling, another rustle of wind moving through the dying autumn leaves.

By the time morning arrived, the pale grey light of dawn slowly creeping through your curtains, it felt as though you had barely rested at all.

Your body ached with exhaustion, yet the tension inside you never eased.

Still, you forced yourself out of bed.

Normality felt like the only thing holding you together now, the only fragile thread keeping you from completely unraveling.

Standing in front of the mirror, you examined the damage left behind.

The bruises along your wrists were the worst of it, dark bands of purple and red circling your skin like cruel reminders of the ropes that had bound you. The sight of them made your stomach twist painfully, but you forced yourself to keep looking. With slow, careful movements, you reached for the makeup you kept in the small drawer beside the sink, your fingers trembling as you began to layer concealer over the marks, blending and covering them as best as you could.

Your eyes burned while you worked.

The skin around them was swollen and red from crying, the faint shadows beneath them making you look far more fragile than you wanted anyone to see.

You blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears from returning.

You refused to cry again.

Not here. Not today.

Getting to work proved harder than you expected.

Your usual route felt impossible now--every street corner held the possibility of memory, every familiar turn threatened to drag you back to that moment when everything had gone wrong. When you approached the path you normally took, the realization hit you like a physical blow—that was where they had found you, where they had taken you, where the world had suddenly collapsed around you.

Your chest tightened instantly.

Without even thinking, you turned away from that street and chose another, forcing your feet down unfamiliar paths instead. It took longer this way, weaving through quieter alleys and streets you rarely used, but you couldn’t bring yourself to go near the place where it had happened.

Your hands remained clenched tightly the entire walk, your nails digging deep into the skin of your palms as if the sharp sting might keep you grounded whenever your thoughts began to spiral again.

Eventually, the familiar sign of the Leaky Cauldron appeared ahead of you.

Your steps slowed.

For a moment you simply stood there, staring at the building as if you weren’t quite sure you were ready to step inside again.

Then you forced yourself forward. Pulling your keys from your pocket, you unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The small bell above the entrance rang immediately, the soft chime echoing through the café in a way that felt painfully normal. The smell of fresh coffee and warm bread drifted through the air, mingling with the quiet sounds of morning preparations.

For a brief moment, it felt like stepping back into another version of your life—one where nothing terrible had happened, where the world still made sense.

Then your coworker noticed you.

“YN!” She rushed toward you instantly, relief and concern written clearly across her face. “Oh thank Merlin! What happened? You’ve been gone for four days!”

Four days.

The words echoed through your mind like a distant sound.

Four days since you had been taken.

Four days since the nightmare began.

Four days since everything inside you had been ripped apart.

And yet somehow the world had kept moving.

Your chest tightened painfully.

How could it have only been four days?

It felt like an eternity.

It felt like you had lived through years of fear and pain inside that dungeon, every moment stretching endlessly as they pushed you further and further past the limits of what you thought you could survive.

Your wrists still burned.

Your body still remembered the ropes digging into your skin.

Your mind still echoed with the sound of your own screams.

Your heart felt hollow now, like something essential had been torn out and never returned.

How were you supposed to explain that to someone?

How could you possibly put that kind of horror into words?

Especially when the only thing you truly wanted was to forget it had ever happened at all.

Your vision blurred before you even realized you were crying.

Tears filled your eyes instantly, spilling down your cheeks as your lip trembled uncontrollably.

Your coworker noticed right away.

“YN?” she asked softly.

But that gentle tone was all it took for the fragile control you had been clinging to break completely.

A sob escaped you before you could stop it, your voice cracking as you tried to apologize through the sudden wave of emotion.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered weakly, your voice trembling with the fear and exhaustion you had tried so hard to bury.

Her arms wrapped around you almost immediately, holding you in a careful, comforting embrace as one of her hands moved slowly across your back.

“What happened?” she asked gently.

The question sat heavily in your chest.

You swallowed hard before forcing out the only answer you could manage. “Death Eaters.”

The moment the words left your lips, your arms tightened around her instinctively, clinging to her as if letting go might cause the world to collapse again.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes widening in shock as she stared at you.

“What?” she breathed.

Her hands moved to your shoulders as she looked at your tear-streaked face.

“They took you?”

You couldn’t say the word. You couldn’t bring yourself to form the simple affirmative answer. So you nodded instead, quickly and desperately, your lips pressed tightly together to keep yourself from sobbing again.

Shame burned through you immediately.

You felt pathetic.

Standing there crying in front of your coworker like this.

You hated it.

Hated how weak you looked.

Hated how helpless you felt.

Like something inside you had been shattered and put back together wrong.

You couldn’t keep falling apart like this.

You needed it to stop.

You wiped your tears away quickly with both hands, dragging in a deep breath in a desperate attempt to steady yourself before forcing a small smile onto your face.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you said quickly, your hands moving nervously as you spoke, gesturing in a way you normally never did. “I just… want everything to go back to normal.”

You tried to sound casual.

Tried to make it seem like the past four days had been nothing more than a bad memory that would fade if you ignored it long enough.

Your coworker watched you for a moment before nodding slowly.

“Yes… of course.”

Then she added quietly, “I told Margaret the owner you were out sick.”

Relief softened your expression slightly.“Thank you,” you murmured, offering her a grateful smile.

And just like that, you clocked in for your shift.

You moved through the café as you always had—taking orders, carrying trays, greeting customers with polite smiles—but everything felt wrong.

Every loud noise made your skin crawl.

When someone shouted across the room, your shoulders jerked before you could stop yourself.

When a chair scraped harshly across the floor, your heart jumped painfully in your chest.

Still, you forced yourself to keep smiling.

To keep moving.

To be the friendly waitress everyone expected you to be.

But the bruises on your wrists lingered beneath the fading makeup, the purple marks slowly reappearing as the hours passed, reminders of the cruelty you had endured.

And somewhere deep inside you, the echo of Crucio still lived on, like a ghost of pain moving through your veins, flooding you with fear every time something unexpected happened.

By the time your shift ended, your head throbbed and your nerves felt completely frayed.

You clocked out quickly before the next shift arrived.

You didn’t want to see their worried expressions.

You didn’t want to answer their questions.

And most of all, you didn’t want to lie and pretend that everything was alright when you felt like you were barely holding yourself together.

☆*:・ﾟ

Coming back home did not bring the relief you had hoped for.

The moment the door closed behind you and the quiet settled once again around the house, the fragile sense of control you had been forcing yourself to maintain all day began to crack. The walk home had been exhausting enough—every step tense, every shadow suspicious—but inside your house the silence felt heavier, thicker, like something pressing down on your lungs.

You barely made it past the doorway before exhaustion hit you.

Your hands moved automatically, almost mechanically, as you changed into something more comfortable. The clothes from work felt suffocating on your skin, like they still carried the weight of every glance, every forced smile, every moment you had pretended to be fine. You peeled them off slowly, your fingers trembling as you pulled on a loose shirt and soft trousers.

You walked into the kitchen, a warm cup of tea could help your roaring nerves for sure. But the energy that had carried you through the day vanished completely.

It was as if your body suddenly remembered everything it had been trying to ignore.

Your legs felt weak.

Your chest tightened.

And before you could even make it out of the kitchen, your body sank to the floor.

You didn’t choose the corner deliberately, but some instinct pulled you there—the narrow space between the counter and the cabinet, where the drawer with the knives sat only inches away.

You folded in on yourself immediately, drawing your knees tightly against your chest, arms wrapping around them until your body became as small as possible. Your back pressed into the corner, shoulders curled inward, head lowered.

Small.

If you were small, maybe nothing would notice you.

Your eyes flicked once toward the drawer where the knives were kept.

You needed to stay close to them.

Just in case.

Just in case someone came through that door again.

The house was completely silent.

No voices.

No footsteps.

No movement.

And that silence began to suffocate you, because silence left too much room for your mind. In an instant, the memories slipped in slowly, like shadows creeping through cracks.

Then they came all at once. Their weight crashing on your lungs, your entire body.

The masks.

The way they stared at you from behind dark eyeholes that showed no humanity, no hesitation, only amusement.

The ropes biting into your wrists.

The rough hands gripping your arms.

The nails digging into your skin when they forced you down.

The kicks that knocked the breath from your lungs.

The laughter. That taunting sound every time you begged for mercy in a merciless world.

Your breathing began to quicken without you realizing it.

Each memory pulled another one behind it, dragging you deeper back into the darkness, the coldness of the dungeon.

You could almost smell it again—the damp stone, the stale air.

Your chest tightened violently.

Your breath came faster.

Too fast.

The feeling crept back in. The one that had haunted you all night. That someone was watching.

That someone was right outside the door.

Or standing behind you.

Or hiding somewhere in the house.

Your eyes darted around the kitchen wildly, your body tensing as if you expected to see them appear at any moment.

But the house remained empty.

Still.

And somewhere beneath the rising panic, another thought surfaced.

Theo.

Your chest tightened painfully.

The image of him sleeping on the sofa returned to your mind so suddenly it almost felt real—the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the soft sound of his breathing, the calm that had filled the room before you ran.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

You wished things were different.

You begged that his heart wasn’t as tainted as the mark burned into his forearm.

You wished you didn’t have to question every moment you had shared with him, every memory that had once meant something.

You wished you weren’t afraid of him now.

Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your sleeves.

You wished you had stayed in that small house—that quiet room with him sleeping on the sofa.

The thought slipped through your mind before you could stop it.

Maybe you could have talked, you could have asked him why—why did he help you? Why did he risk everything for you?

Maybe things wouldn’t feel so broken now.

You wished the war had never started.

Never torn apart the fragile pieces of the life you once had.

Never taken from your grasp the people who had anchored you, the small moments that had once made you smile without effort.

Theo had been part of that.

Part of your life.

He was your entire world.

And now everything about him felt uncertain.

At least he’s alive, you thought weakly. That thought alone made your chest ache.

Your gaze dropped slowly to your trembling hands resting in your lap.

Your pulse throbbed violently against your temples, each beat echoing loudly in your skull. Your vision began to blur at the edges, the kitchen fading in and out of focus as your breathing spiraled into something erratic and uncontrolled.

Until you felt unbearable, indescribable pain.

It happened suddenly, vividly.

Your shoulder blades burned as if someone had grabbed your arms again and wrenched them painfully behind your back. The memory crashed into you with such force that your body jerked forward, a strangled sound leaving your throat.

You could feel it.

The pressure of the rope, the pointless twisting to get away from it. The numbness of your arms forced backwards until it felt like they might tear from their sockets. The pain that spread across your chest like fire.

Your own voice echoed faintly in your ears, distant and desperate.

“Take it off!”

Your eyes snapped down to your hands, once again.

The faint scratch marks across your skin suddenly stood out more clearly. Evidence of how you clawed at your own wrists when the ropes tightened too much, your nails digging into your skin in a frantic attempt to free yourself.

“Please! It hurts!”

Your chest heaved violently as the memory consumed you.

Your clothes suddenly felt unbearably heavy, like they were pressing down on you, restricting your breathing, just like the kicks on your stomach felt.

You couldn’t get enough air.

You couldn’t move properly.

Your throat tightened.

“No! Please!”

Your hands flew up suddenly, gripping the sides of your neck as if you could anchor yourself back into the present.

But the memories wouldn’t stop.

“Stop! Please! It hurts!”

You felt your knees burning, as if you were forced into a kneeling position again.

Your hands dropped to your chest, striking against it weakly as if you could physically force the panic away.

Your lips parted, desperate for air, but only broken gasps escaped.

Tears streamed freely down your face now, hot and unstoppable.

“I don’t know anything!”

You nearly collapsed fully onto the floor, your body sliding down until the cold kitchen tiles pressed against your overheated skin.

Cold. Just like the floor in the Dungeon.

“Please! I can’t—don’t hurt me”

Your hands flew to your head, gripping your hair tightly, your nails digging painfully into your scalp as if you could somehow contain the chaos inside your mind.

You couldn’t stop this.

You couldn’t make it stop.

Then the sound finally tore its way out of your chest.

A raw, broken sob.

It was loud enough to echo through the empty house, shaking your entire body as it left past your lips. Your voice cracked painfully with the force of it, the sound burning against your throat, your lips dry and trembling.

Another sob followed.

Then another.

"No—Please! Please stop!"

Soon you were crying uncontrollably, your entire body trembling as the sounds poured out of you without restraint.

Your hands tugged at your clothes, gripping the fabric tightly, trying desperately to hold onto something—anything—that might ground you again.

But nothing stopped the memories.

Nothing stopped the fear.

And the sobs kept coming, louder and more desperate, filling the empty house as if the walls themselves were forced to witness the pain you could no longer hold inside.

The Met carpet is chaos disguised as glamour. The event handlers are always a bit too rough when moving people up the stairs, it's always loud and fast-paced and you have to be ready for anything at any given moment. Somewhere between the flashbulbs and the screaming fans, there’s you; balancing charm, wit, and five-inch heels that may or may not be slowly ending your life. But none of that matters right now. Not when he steps into frame.

Drew Starkey. In black-on-black tailoring that hugs his shoulders like it was sewn onto him in the dark. His hair’s a little undone, his walk a little lazy, and the second he sees you, it happens again.

He stares. And not in a regular way. He really stares. Watches you, up and down with a grin on his face that feels like it says; We meet again?

You smile, the camera catching just enough teeth to make it look effortless. “Well, well. Look who managed to clean up again.”

He grins, slower this time. His eyes trace over you with that infuriating kind of calm, like he’s studying something meant only for him. “Do you always look like this, or is it just when I’m around?”

You tilt your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would,” he says, without missing a beat.

You pretend not to hear that. Your expression doesn’t shift, but something in your stomach does. You gesture to the mark on the carpet. “Step into the light for me.”

He does. Effortlessly. Like he was born in it. But his gaze doesn’t waver. He stays looking at you like he forgot there are cameras, producers, and an entire internet waiting for content. Like it’s just the two of you.

You try to steady yourself, even as you ask, “Tell me a little about what you’re wearing tonight?”

“I’m wearing...” he begins, voice low. His eyes are still locked on yours for a second longer before they drop slowly, deliberately, sweeping down the line of your body like gravity has a hold on him.

You’re live. You know you’re live. You’re aware of every second that passes. Every camera lens pointed toward you. Every production assistant whispering behind their clipboards. Every viewer watching from home.

You’re just not sure he knows.

You’re just not sure he knows. Or worse, he knows exactly what he’s doing. And doesn’t care.

“Eyes up,” you say, forcing a smile to veil the heat creeping into your skin. “Focus.”

“I am focused.” His voice doesn’t waver. He’s still looking at you.

“On the camera,” you clarify, raising a brow.

He smiles, that slow, lazy grin that feels dangerous when paired with the look in his eyes. “Sure.”

“Liar.”

"I’ll be whatever you want me to be."

You raise a brow, surprised he said it out loud, and he just shrugs a little, amused with himself like he’s already gotten away with something.

“Did you just come out of the womb a flirt?” you ask, partly to keep the banter going and partly to collect yourself, to put some distance between the heat of his gaze and your wildly unprofessional response to it.

He shakes his head, slow and deliberate. “This is just for you.”

There’s a beat. A crackle of electricity just under the surface.

You inhale through your nose and shift your weight, grounding yourself again. The laugh that bubbles up gets caught in your throat. You tilt the mic a little closer to your chest, the movement more of a distraction than anything else.

“Are you sure?” you ask now, but it’s not for the audience, not even for the content. This is just for you. A quiet attempt to untangle the threads. To figure out if this whole flirty routine is calculated. Something his publicist cooked up after realizing you two had good on-camera chemistry. Or if this is real. Him, standing there, saying things he doesn’t have to say, looking at you like he doesn’t want to look anywhere else.

You’ve worked this job long enough to know how much of Hollywood is staged. Glamorous, polished, controlled. What you think is real is often the exact opposite. Carefully curated, rehearsed, and micromanaged for maximum effect.

He watches you. There’s a flicker in his expression, something unspoken but not subtle.

“You don’t trust me?” he asks with a grin, light but not dismissive. His tone suggests he already knows the answer, but wants to hear you say it anyway.

You purse your lips to stop from smiling and shake your head, half-laughing now, flustered in spite of yourself. “We’re done talking about this. We’re talking about this suit now, which is absolutely gorgeous. You look great in blue.”

But he cuts in, voice still smooth. “Hold on, I—”

You shake your head, waving him off, the corners of your mouth betraying you again. “Nope. I have bullet points to get through.”

He leans in slightly, “Wouldn’t want to fuck up the bullet points,” he murmurs, chuckling under his breath.

You give him a sharp look despite the smile on your face. “Language.”

“Sorry,” he says, eyes glinting. Then, turning briefly to the camera, he repeats the apology, a bit more performative this time, but still charming. “Sorry.”

Your media training kicks in, smooth as silk before he can veer you off track again. You lift your chin. “Who are you wearing?”

“Loewe dressed me tonight,” he answers, the rhythm of his voice a little easier now. “Wanted me to look like I belong here.”

You hum, letting your eyes drop to the lapels, the tailoring, the navy fabric that somehow makes his shoulders look broader than ever. “Well. Tell Jonathan he succeeded. You look expensive.”

He leans a fraction closer, just enough to narrow the space between you. His voice dips. “You’d be the expert.”

You tap your mic once. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” he says. His eyes are on you again. They haven’t really left, but now they’re softer. Sincere.

And maybe you imagined it, but his fingers twitch slightly where his hand rests against his thigh, like they’re aching to reach out. He doesn’t. Not quite.

You try to keep your composure, to stay in the frame of the job, but it’s hard. He’s looking at you like he’s seeing something he wasn’t prepared for.

His gaze drops again, but not far. Not greedy. Just enough to catch the sheen of your lip gloss when the light hits it. It lingers there, caught in the space between curiosity and something else entirely.

You don’t mention it.

“Alright,” you say, angling the mic ever so slightly toward him, voice steady despite the heat rising to your face. “First thing you’re doing once you get inside?”

“Find the exhibit,” he says, to your surprise. “There’s a suit I want to see.”

You raise your brows, fighting the tug of a smile. “I think you forgot how an interview works, Starkey. I ask, you answer.”

He tilts his head slightly, one brow lifting, all amused arrogance. “Is that the rule?”

“That’s the rule.”

There’s a second of silence between you. The kind that stretches without feeling awkward. Then he says it, soft and low, the edges of the words just a little rough like velvet against skin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You blink. The air shifts. Somewhere behind the camera, Gracie let out a quiet breath that sounds suspiciously like oh, fuck me.

Your heart stutters. Just once. You recover quickly. “You’re trouble.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“So,” you continue, trying to stay professional. “What’s your Met hot take?”

He thinks for a second. “Too many people pretending they like caviar.”

You laugh—loud and unfiltered. “That’s the one.”

Your camera guy gives you a subtle throat-cutting motion. You hold up a single finger like one more minute. Drew notices and barely reacts. He just keeps watching you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“I’ll see you in there?” he asks.

“Only if you’re not causing too much trouble.”

He starts walking backward again with both hands held up like okay okay. “I’ll behave.”

You laugh under your breath. “Doubtful.”

He’s halfway gone when you call after him, just loud enough for the mic to still catch it. “Hey, Starkey!”

He stops, turns. That crooked smile is back in an instant. “Yeah?”

“You know what would really redeem you?”

“What’s that?”

You tilt your head, a little smug now. “A Chicken Shop Date.”

His face lights up. Eyes crinkling, grin slow and full of interest. “Are you asking?”

You give a half-shrug, teasing. “I’m floating the idea.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Float it a little closer. I’ll be there.”

You raise your mic like you’re ending the segment, but your smile says otherwise. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep now.”

Drew points at you one last time, backing away, laughing now. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

And he’s gone.

But the camera’s still rolling. And you’re still standing there, smiling like maybe you just started something you can’t quite stop.